Chapter 1: Broken Trust, New Bonds
Chapter Text
“Stolas.”
Across the table, the regal owl glanced up from his steaming teacup with a single eye. Red as rubies, three eyes sat upon his face; two above, one below. The left eye was covered by a black eyepatch that vanished into the feathers atop his head and hid further beneath the brim of his top hat. Thin hands delicately pinched the ceramic handle of the cup and lifted, and a gentle sip hissed throughout the air. It was only when a clink of the cup followed, did Stolas provide a response.
“Blitz.”
Imp and Goetia sat on opposite sides of a small, round table. Metal chairs kept them off the cobblestone, and an ornate teapot sat between them to keep them apart. Of two different minds, hearts, and bodies, the assassin and the prince turned their eyes from one another to gaze upon the fiery vista below. Bathed in a sea of orange and red, the sky loomed above Imp City, its heat accented by the lack of wind and the degradation of everything below it.
“How’s your daughter?”
“Fine. Yours?”
“Fine. She bites.”
Silence followed, and as the lack of sound weighed upon their minds, the air warmed around them.
“She still blames you; you know.”
“Yeah…yeah, I blame me too.”
The gentle ping of metal tapped out; a talon to a chair foot or a tail tip to the seat.
“How’s the business?”
“Same as before. The crystal helped.”
Blitzo broke the joined stare and turned his attention back across the table. All he saw was a dour nobleman. Folded hands, lanky neck, proud shoulders draped in a spotted, white fur cloak…it was too rigid for his liking. No color, save the deep blues and blacks that complimented every other piece of fabric the owl wore. It made those three glowing red eyes even more brilliant.
“Have you encountered that little cowboy imp, ever since?”
A pause. A sigh. A confession. “No.”
“When you do, let me know.”
Wind whimpered between them and made the teapot whistle, if only for a moment before everything went silent again.
“Is, uhh…is your wife sti—”
“She’s gone.” Two eyes, one above and one directly below it, glanced in Blitz’s direction for the first time in minutes. Daggers of pure ruby, if not two burning stars amongst the sky, set to hold the imp in place. “She’s finally gone, for good this time.” Stolas reached out and grasped his teacup for another sip; one hand below to support the bottom, and a set of fingers to grip and hoist the handle yet again. Monotony: programmed into his blood.
“Cool; I mean—!”
“Via was devastated. Even rid of that vile harpy, I can draw no joy from my daughter’s emotional anguish. Yet, it had to be done.”
“I thought you said she was fine.”
“She is. She is simply fine. Not excellent, not outstanding, not thriving; simply…fine.” Stolas sat the cup down upon the table and crossed a lengthy, talon-capped leg over his knee. “How could she be anything but, knowing what she knows; the sins of her mother upon her father? I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at me: guilt, horror, fear. All I wanted was to make her happy, and my mere existence pushes that goal further and further away.”
Heavy silence fell atop Blitz, and his mouth couldn’t form any words of apology. Even if he could, they’d be pointless; the damage was done, the damage he’d caused.
“Do you hate me, Stolas?”
The owl’s head turned fully, but the rest of his body remained still. Features that he once adored felt faded in the hellish atmosphere. Bright white burn marks dirtied, weary eyes, once vibrant and rigid horns left to droop. What shoulder structure the imp previously had appeared deflated, limp, and weakened. Whether that was true or not didn’t matter; beauty was in the eye of the beholder. Where there was once love, burning love so powerful that he upended his life in pursuit of it, had left a faded, hollow hole in Stolas’ heart. “I don’t know.”
A melodic, digital chime interrupted; it was Blitz’s phone. He fished it from his pocket, looked at the screen, and tapped it with his thumb before holding it to his ear. “Loonie?” Aside from the incomprehensible sound that came from the imp’s hellhound daughter, the particulars were a mystery. He gave a few nods, then turned his shoulder inward to curl away from Stolas to whisper into the phone. “Look, I’m in a meeting with Stolas right now. I’ll get back as soon as I can, just—Okay, okay; tell the client I’ll be there in like…ten fucking minutes or something. Alright…love you.”
Those two simple words managed to drive a searing heat into the owl’s chest: love you. Words he’d never been told, yet they tumbled from the imp’s lips with ease. He knew it wasn’t the same type of love that he once craved, but it ignited jealousy within him all the same.
“Hey, sorry, but I gotta cut this short, Loona—”
“Say no more. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that our daughters took priority.”
Blitz winced and brushed a hand down the back of his neck. “Yeah…fuck. When will I see you again?”
Stolas turned his head back towards the fiery horizon. “Does it really matter?” His resignation must have been far too apparent, as he heard boots touch the ground and walk along the cobblestones; growing increasingly distant until he was left all alone. With a wave of his hand, glimmering shades of blue magic lifted Blitz’s teacup from across the table. Stolas held the rim to his beak and took a sip.
It was cold.
Piano keys danced vibrantly to a toe-tapping tune, within the bright lights of the Devil’s Tap. Imps of all shades and shapes clicked their boots to the wooden floor in a choreographed dance. None of them had practiced together a day in their lives, but they all knew the motions and instinctually felt the time to shift from one dance move to the next. A hoot and a holler cried out above the piano and an accompanying fiddle to encourage tiny feet to create a mighty chorus of timed stomps and turns. Outside, Wrath’s sky was dark with the curtain of night, and every tolerance for alcohol filled every table in droves. Farmers, miners, bikers, ranch hands; all hard working, callous-toting folk with nothing on their minds save a belly full of beer and a hangover in the morning.
So busy with their joyous reverie, they paid no mind to the saloon doors as they swung open. A towering figure strode into the building; dark of dress, tall of stature, and nature far beyond that of an imp. Talons tapped against the dusty wooden floor, as fabrics worth more than the entirety of the Wrath Ring collected dirt along his robe’s hem. A few heads turned, those that were not too deep in their cups or wrapped up in dancing, only to lock onto the cloaked figure. A Goetian Prince; the very same that hosted the Harvest Moon Festival every year, strode toward the bar. It’s tender bowed, despite being the largest imp in the establishment and gifted with rough country features. “Prince Stolas, what an honor. What brings you to my door?”
Nearby patrons moved an entire seat over, without a word, then dipped their eyes and heads back toward their drinks. “You already know.”
The bartender sighed and sat down a polished glass, then procured a heart-shaped bottle of deep jade from beneath the table. Absinthe; its potent and purifying stink singed the air as it poured into the cup. Poison of a different sort, but it was apt for his related business. “Right, the local rumor mill. Crops are plentiful, thanks to your blessed curse. Longsquall’s cow had about four calves this week, had a dustbowl kick up near the mesas the other day and unbury some old campsites…” A cautious, but heavy sigh sank the imp’s shoulders. “…but I suppose you ain’t here to hear ‘bout all that. You wanna know if we’ve seen him.” Three ice cubes dropped into the liquid with a satisfying sequence of plops. Glass on wood produced a gratifying drag as the cup slid into the Goetia’s waiting claws. “We ain’t seen nothing.”
As if a horse to water, Stolas’ beak dipped over the rim of his glass and into the absinthe. Soft, slow sips turned into composed and ravenous gulps; the distinct burn and chemical cloud that followed scorched his brain and throat in equal measure. Its odor sank into his breath yet didn’t affect his composure. His three good eyes never left the bartender.
“Honest, your Highness, he hasn’t shown his face in town for months.”
“Clive, was it?” Stolas inquired, his wrist softly stirring the ice with slow rotations.
“Yeah?”
“Do you appreciate my yearly gift, Clive? To the Wrath Ring, to everyone in it, to you?”
“I…yes, your Highness; without it we’d be—”
“Good, then allow me to be as transparent as possible.” The piano music dimmed as the shadow of an owl stretched menacingly over the bar top, its length so vast that it even coated the shelves behind the imp who manned it. “I understand my reputation within this ring. For all I know, you are sheltering him beneath my very feet. However, I will not hold it against you and provide everyone with one final chance to do the right thing. You all have until the end of the month to find him. If you fail, I shall consider the Wrath Ring unworthy of my time.”
“Prince Stolas, please, without the Harvest Moon—”
“If the consequences are apparent, then your choice is clear. One month, and that is me being overly generous.” All absinthe drained of his glass, it tapped to wood a final time.
“You can’t do that.” The voice was new, formerly unspoken, and unrecognizable. Stolas turned his head to look over his shoulder. Dirty white shirt, big leather boots, tattered jeans, and a bandanna tied around one arm; a working imp, a rancher. Male, white hair, short horns, big yellow eyes; not old, but not old enough. “We give him to you; who’s gonna stand up for the little guy? Striker helps this ring more than any blueblood, and he doesn’t just show up once a year!”
All dancing had stopped, as had the music. Tension filled the air as every other imp held their breath. None were brave enough to step forward and add their voice or reason with the younger demon, but they all watched in anticipation to witness his fate.
“He’s a hero!”
Stolas’ glowing red eyes narrowed, a sharp glare of light slicing across the room that made everyone wince and step back. He was unsure whether the youth had simply consumed too much alcohol or was simply ignorant, but such an opinion was exactly the type of sedition he suspected. “Would you bet your life on it?”
“…huh?”
Cloth billowed as the owl whipped to the side and raised a palm towards the ceiling, talons extended and wreathed in a malevolent cloud of red and black. The rebellious imp was lifted from the floor, held mid-air by the swirling, swarming magic. Onlookers gasped and muttered fearfully, some even pushing their chairs back with loud scrapes to add to the panic. The blue-collar imp tried to flail his arms and legs, but found them all immobile and outstretched, as if he were a scarecrow.
“Prince Stolas, please, he’s just a boy! He don’t know no better!”
Concerned shouts came from the occupants of the saloon, all melting into a single drone of dismay as one of their own was hoisted by powerful occult magics. His jaw tightened and his brow furrowed, veins bulging against his red and dirty skin as the tendons and muscles in his limbs began to stretch! Panic surged in the boy’s eyes, and it translated into a groan that incited the crowd to further bouts of fearful rumbling.
“Your Highness, I beg of you, stop! For the love of Satan, stop!”
Muscles tightened and stretched to their limit, and a single, harsh pop echoed through the saloon with shocking, explosive power. The young imp cried out in pain; his shoulder dislocated from its socket. Stolas glanced around the room at the horrified onlookers yet did not find who he was seeking. “Where’s your hero? Isn’t it a hero’s job to protect the innocent? Perhaps he needs more incentive to swoop to your rescue; he is a hired gun.” The other shoulder popped, and the youth cried out in agony as the crowd erupted in horrified cries of their own.
“We’ll find him! We’ll find him before month’s end! We’ll do whatever you want, just stop!” Clive ran around the back of the bar and threw himself at the Goetia’s feet, pleading eyes matched with a rugged and weary face. With a wave of a hand, the magic ceased, and the injured imp fell to the floor with a light crash. Multiple imps rushed to his side, all kneeling to examine his injuries; some even fast at work to prepare the limbs for resetting.
“Congratulations Clive, the boy is lucky to have you; would that all imps had your strength of character to be there for those that they love.” Stolas turned on his heel and made for the saloon doors. He did not need to repeat his request; the message was more than clear.
Red and black feathers, bathed in ancient magic, swarmed through the sky in a blob of paint. From below, if any could see it within the darkness of night, it might be mistaken for a colony of hornets. Spiraling through the air, discarded feathers drifted gracefully to the ground, then immediately disintegrated with a soft crackle. Hardly one to enjoy the walkways of the city since that day, Stolas took to his business in the air, mostly at night. The natural camouflage of his true demonic form aided in staying discreet, but it couldn’t avoid detection entirely. To make up for it, his speed was drastically increased; enough to whisk away to safety at the first whiff of danger. Alone in the skies of Pride, he flew towards his intended destination; a lavish casino.
Hellhounds to guard the doors, enough shining lights to deter theft, and a large gaudy billboard were all enough to attract demons from across the ring. The billboard took the shape of a top hat and a cat’s paw holding a full hand of exposed cards, all lined with lights of alternating color. Gold and green; gluttony and greed surely awaited all those who stepped inside. Stolas landed in the shadows just short of the entrance, and his form reverted to his public persona with a congealing of darkness; like ink or oil being sucked upwards by gravity to stand on two feet. Both guards, clad in suits and shades, their massive arms strained against the sleeves of their jackets, didn’t so much as flinch. Stolas strode right past them and pushed the doors open with a wave of his hand.
To the uninitiated, stepping into the casino would appear as a lost city of gold. Most surfaces were constructed out of it, or a mockery in its place, but a well-done illusion was meant to be convincing. An endless sea of slot machines, black and red diamond patterned carpet, and a sea of clattering and clinking coins assaulted the senses. Alcohol, tobacco, cooked meat; all muddled the air in equal measure to subdue the thoughtful and conscious mind. It was a clarion call of indulgence, of contentment, and a well-fabricated one at that. As Stolas walked past the slot machines, card tables, roulette wheels, and Craps tables, he paid them no heed. His goal lay beyond them. It lay at the office of their owner and operator; an upstart master of chance who had risen to the title of Overlord. Such things were common in the Pride Ring, where all the Sinners suffered for their transgressions in life; left to bicker and squabble amongst each other to eke out some sort of suitable existence in the pits of Hell. Such conflict was prone to create resilient souls, and the higher they climbed, the more power they acquired. Power meant influence, connections, resources, and a network of information that could be leveraged at the right price. However, each Overlord was unique, overly so, to the point that no one thing could satisfy them all. Appeal to the sin, thus appeal to the sinner, and bend their ear.
At the opposite end of the casino sat a heavily guarded staircase, and as Stolas drew close enough to sense the hesitation in its furry guardians, a figure stepped into his path. Bright white fur and vibrant pink markings covered what a tight, glittering dress of deep red could not. The demon was tall, but not at eye level, and four arms jutted from his torso. Two crossed underneath a bountiful chest of fluff, pushed upwards into a brazier-shaped hem of the dress to represent makeshift cleavage, and another two rested upon slender hips. “Prince Stolas, we weren’t expecting you tonight.” There was an accent in the spider demon’s voice and a curious gleam in his mismatched eyes; one pitch black with a single red dot, and the other a faded yellow with a red eye to match. A single golden tooth peered out amongst a saw of upper teeth, and it gleamed in greeting as a hand rose to slick back a jutting canopy of hair.
“When would you otherwise expect me?” Stolas gave the spider demon a moment to establish a rapport, then began to walk towards the stairs again...only to have that same demon step in his way once more.
“Husk is in a meeting.”
“Entertainment or business?”
“Our business is entertainment.”
“And you wear the authority that your station gives you with pride; clearly.” He attempted to step forward again, but the living obstacle didn’t budge. “Do we have a problem, Angel?”
“Look, your Highness, we love having you here; fucking honestly, we do, but he’s not available to talk to anyone right now, alright?”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, it must be highly important if it can hold a Goetia Prince at bay.” Both hands folded behind his back, Stolas invoked a silent incantation. From within his own shadow, power swelled, and the dark reflection slithered and snaked along the carpeted floor. Gnarled branches sprouted from his shadow’s arms and pierced one of the slot machines. Blaring horns and blinding lights erupted in a dazzling display as the word JACKPOT filled the digital screen, and gold coins poured forth like raging water. The demon who happened to be sitting at said machine threw up her hands, positively elated.
“I won? I won! I WON!”
“What the fuck, that machine isn’t supposed to pay out!” Angel Dust slipped by Stolas to handle the spiraling scene, as more onlookers turned to see what good fortune had befallen some lucky demon. With the second in command summarily distracted, nothing stopped Stolas from approaching the stairway. As one of the hellhound guards raised a hand to try and halt him, Stolas pursed his beak and blew two trails of glimmering, red stardust directly into their faces. Their eyes fluttered, their knees weakened, and both hounds leaned back against the wall and fell into a deep slumber, their powerful arms left hanging limp at their sides.
“Take five, boys; you’re working too hard.” Now, to see what this supposed ‘meeting’ was all about.
*CLICK*
“OH FUCK!” a blindfolded Baphomet goat demon yelped out, arms bound with rope behind his back and his ankles tied to the legs of a chair. Sweat oozed down his furry face, the flaming candle affixed atop his head flickering weakly as he trembled. “FUCK!” An indignant jump of his body against the rope, muscles tensed but proved useless as he remained stuck in place. “You’re a fucking psycho!”
Husk pulled the revolver away from the demon’s head, his yellow eyes tracing over the barrels. Custom made; cased in gold, spades, and diamonds of red and black peppered each chamber, and a smooth leather grip. The feline demon flicked both of his ears, then chuckled through his teeth and cocked the lever. “Now your odds are one in five.” He propped a foot atop the shuddering demon’s knee, then rolled his eyes as the goat’s lap became a helluva lot darker in a hot second. “Oh, come on, don’t piss yourself, it’s undignified!” The barrel of the gun pleasantly tapped against the demon’s cheek, and that flame trembled. “The longer you keep secrets from me, the worse your odds get.”
“I don’t know what to tell you! I don’t know what happened to your shipment, I—glk!”
The cold, thick, golden barrel eased its way into the goat’s blabbering mouth and pushed down on his tongue; shutting him up as multiple shushes chittered from Husk’s whiskered face. “No lies, lying only makes the wheel spin automatically.”
*CLICK*
“One in four.” Panicked moaning pathetically vibrated against the cast barrel, and Husk withdrew it just to hear those whimpers more clearly. He leaned in close and lowered his voice, but kept it to a sultry, warm, warning tone. “You saw me load this thing, you saw me put that bullet in, so you know what happens when your luck runs out.” Sharp, white fingers grabbed a messy bun of straw-blonde hair and yanked the head back, then the gun barrel pressed to that furry forehead.
“WAIT!”
*CLICK*
“STOP! I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING, I SWEAR! YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG GUY!”
A hiss of annoyance slipped through clenched teeth, and Husk gently tapped the butt of his gun to the very same forehead he threatened to put a hole in just a second ago. “You drove the truck. You loaded it up in Envy, crossed five rings worth of customs, and by the time it got to me, everything was gone.”
“I checked the cargo every time I stopped! I swear, it was all there!”
Husk shoved the goat’s head back and stepped off his leg, then began to pace. Ruffled red and black wings shuddered and flexed, then snapped back to his body. Who could’ve known it was his truck? It was unmarked, he made sure of that for every shipment. Was it simply a spot of ill-fortune; had some sneak thieves somehow unloaded one hundred crates of casino chips under the driver’s nose? Deep in his thoughts, an instinct tickled his attention, and his firearm snapped upward, quick as lightning. Something lurked in the shadows, something so hidden that even his superior feline night vision couldn’t make it out. Had the paranoia already sunk too deep?
“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Husk spun around; gun still raised in the direction of the posh, Victorian accent. An amorphous pillar of blackness wavered within the darkest corner of his office...and a large, taloned foot emerged. Deep blue hues and pitch satin blacks revealed themselves as a robe, and by the time that a spotted pelt of white fur slid into view, Husk lowered his weapon. Three menacing eyes of transcendent red pierced the darkness, and Stolas Goetia stepped forth. “Prince Stolas...how did you get in here?”
“A touch of misdirection...and a dash of charm.” Despite the connotations, the royal’s tone was hard as stone and dead as marble.
Yellow eyes shot towards the door; how’d he slip by both guards and Angel? For a millisecond, a spark of fear caused his heart to skip, but reason seized it and wrung it dry just as fast. “While I appreciate the offer, this sort of thing is far below your concern...your Highness.”
“Do you think me incapable of dirtying my hands?”
“If I’ve insulted you, I apologize.” Husk ran a hand through the top of his gray-streaked head fur to slick it back. “I just prefer my business to remain just that, mine and mine alone.”
“I see. Far be it for me to intrude upon a man’s convictions, but as a word of friendly advice...” In a motion that was far too fast for Husk to register, the owl slid forward in a rush of foreboding purple and grasped both sides of the restrained captive’s head. Thick talons edged near his covered eyes, threatened to slip into his mouth, and drummed away like the legs of a hungry insect. “...it never hurts to have friends in high places.” An arc of red energy shot between those fingers, and static electricity began to corrupt the air around them. “Cooperation benefits us all; I do a little something for you, and you do a little something for me in return.”
“Y-y-y-your highness, p-p-p-ple—”
“Shhh. No one is coming to save you. If you know something, you will tell him.” his tone, barely a whisper, snaked into the demon's ear.
“What would you want from me?” Husk interjected.
“Information, at the time of its acquisition.”
“That’s it? That’s all you want?”
Stolas lazily eyed the candle atop that furry head and curled a finger, then casually flicked it into the distance. “Is that so surprising? You seek the very same; we share a desire, so why not collaborate? Just say the word, and you shall know what happened to your shipment, when it happened, and who carried out the deed.”
“So, this shithead does know something!”
“I don’t! I don’t know anything! I—” Head mashed between two massive hands; the goat’s pleas of innocence strained to a standstill in his throat as the pressure against his temples increased.
Husk huffed, and one of his ears flicked as he quickly mulled over the offer. Couldn’t hurt, being in bed with a prince; all that magic, those connections to high society. Who knew what potential that kind of partnership truly had? There was no ceiling, just a vast and empty sky of possibilities. A single fang pinched his bottom lip…and then he nodded. “Do it.”
Stolas slipped a talon into the top of the lesser demon’s blindfold and tugged it open. Wide, horrified, tear-stained eyes of orange locked onto Husk; their iris malformed from imply being goat-like in nature. Magic sparked to life, and a cold light illuminated the hollow space within that furry neck. Veins, not of the creature itself, but borne of a magical enchantment spread along his face like the roots of a great tree. They sank into his eyes, and slowly, they began to blacken.
Then, the screams began.
Pungent shadows poured from the demon’s eyes like smoke, as his jaw went slack enough to appear broken! A primal, guttural scream of terror squealed from the deepest depths of his throat, and his body began to convulse. The entire chair jumped, scraped along the ground, and shook with the power of bodily tremors. All the smoke that poured from his eyes coalesced into an orb that floated between Stolas and Husk. With a final groan of agony, the demon’s shoulders slumped, and Stolas released his head to watch it flop forward like a fresh corpse. Gingerly, he grasped the shadowy orb from below with the tips of his talons, like the stand of a precious and fragile egg.
“You shall find the information you desire within this orb. Simply lay your touch upon it, and all his relevant memories shall become yours, as if you lived through them firsthand.”
As Husk reached out for the orb, the doors to his office flew open, and there stood Angel Dust. “Husk, I heard screaming, what the hell is—” His gaze narrowed in Stolas’ direction, then shot to the orb, then the body in the chair, and finally to Husk. Those mismatched eyes held confusion, fear, and counsel in someone they trusted wholeheartedly.
“I appear to have overstayed my welcome, as of present. We shall be in touch, Husk.” Stolas released the ball of shadow, and it stayed suspended mid-air, waiting to be claimed. Without another word, the Goetia was enveloped in darkness and sank through the floor, leaving only Angel and Husk left in the room…along with a body.
Angel rushed forward, concern rampant on his face, “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? I swear, one second, he was right in front of me, then a machine went off and--"
"Anthony, Anthony, I’m fine.” A touch to the spider’s lowermost set of arms was enough to calm his fears, that was, until the stench of something neither of them had ever experienced before entered their nostrils. Pungent, acidic, smoky, and…wrong. It was coming from the demon in the chair. “Can’t say the same for this poor bastard, though.”
“Is he alive?” The question prompted investigation, and two fingers pressed to the side of the goat’s neck. A dull pulse, barely present, responded weakly. “Fuck me, what happened to him?”
“Magic, Anthony, fucking magic.” Revolver still in hand, Husk took aim directly at the skull. It was a mercy, given the sight before him that churned the lining of his stomach. He’d seen some terrible things in his time in Hell, but this one was a first.
*…BANG! *
Centered within the candle-lit foyer of a dark manor, Stolas materialized in a geyser of inky shadow. A weary sigh left him, as he removed his top hat and ran his talons through a slightly sweaty plume of feathers. Silence greeted his resigned utterance; the night too deep for anyone to still be wandering the manor halls. So, Stolas took to those halls himself with a solitary stride. Fields of stars hovered above in a dazzling canopy of beauty, draped in cosmic purples and sanguine streaks. Candles made of blue wax levitated just below, their flames of a similar hue. Despite the illumination, a pervasive loneliness filled the air around him, and it only grew stronger as he reached the end of the hallway and entered his study.
A vacant hearth greeted him toothlessly from across the room, flanked by lavish chairs and a small standing table. Shelves of books coated the walls, and where their presence didn’t stretch, photographs, paintings, and trophies resided. The owl pressed his fingers together, and a tiny ball of flame spawned forth, which he flicked into the fireplace. In an instant, warm light embraced half of the room, and the crackle of burning wood greeted him. He sat his top hat upon the vacant standing table before weary talons unhooked the clasp around his fur cloak. With a second wave of his hand, blue hues of starlight surrounded the garment and whisked it away to a close so that it may hang. The prince’s black robe followed, which left him in matching black trousers and a militaristic chest piece; strung along the front with golden rope and buttons.
In that moment, for a reason he couldn’t surmise, thoughts of Blitz emerged in his mind. Red skin, splotched with white scars in beautiful splashes of purity that once invigorated the owl’s heart. Mischievous yellow eyes, reptilian spikes upon his back, a cheeky forked tongue, and lips of pure silk; all those features washed over Stolas’ mind as a tide of memories. Touch, flavor, scent…the warmth of his smaller body, nicotine shared between an afterglow cigarette, and the sharp spike of sweat in his nostrils…They were happy memories, were they not? An illusion, a fantasy to be enjoyed as it immersed the owl’s concept of reality, if only for but a moment. A hand rose, and two talons gingerly slid across the leather eyepatch that protected his left eye.
Memories soured. Reality re-emerged. Stolas sank into a chair and slid a protective hand over his brow; his tired posture surrendered up to the embrace of his right arm. Weariness returned, come bearing the weight of the day’s actions and a germinated seed of dismay. For what felt like twenty minutes, the prince sat still and allowed his consciousness to drift between alertness and slumber; all within the comfort of his hand. All the while, the fire crackled to him in an odd lullaby. Half-dreams of the imp he had loved, the same imp who had let him down all those months past, coated every waking moment. Stolas lifted his head from its shelter, “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be…”
In the opposite chair, a constellation formed into the shape of his mind’s desire. Aside from a face, it was the perfect likeness to Blitz, and its movements matched the prince’s as he stood from his seat. Melancholy surged into his heart to join the deadened wall of strength he had fortified it with, in response to the trauma he had endured. Hand in hand with the stars, Stolas shifted his leg into the first of many sidesteps to begin a slow dance. Water sprinkled at the corner of his remaining eyes as they slowly spun together, his arms held down to engage with their vast height difference. Unlike the actual imps’ hands, the conjuration’s were cold as the night sky. “I miss your warm hands…”
Despite knowing that his creation couldn’t speak, he spoke to it regardless. “I miss the sound of your laughter…I miss the light of your eyes…I miss you; the whole of you.” His arm raised, and the mimic’s arms followed to twirl on its toe tips. “But I cannot trust you…so, how could I ever love you?” Their dance continued, a gentle sway within the dim glow of the fireplace; shadows joined together in cast light. “Take it back, this poison you’ve left me, this…hollow weight of absence…”
“Dad?”
The stars faded into oblivion, and their dust drifted into the flames to shift its hue for but a moment. Stolas turned his head towards the door, and there stood Octavia, his daughter, in her pajamas. One baggy band shirt and bright pajama pants. Her eyes bathed in the light of the fire yet remained locked onto her father.
“Are you okay? Who are you talking to?”
A sad smile formed on Stolas’ beak. “No one dear, just my first and only friend.”
“I haven’t seen you all day.” With a single step into the study, Stolas saw the plate that was held between her hands. “I…made you some dinner.” Upon the plate sat a thick sandwich, loaded with slices of meat, a piece of lettuce, a tomato slice, and an unidentifiable sauce. The bread had been toasted; its odor signifying the promise honey wheat. He approached and placed a hand upon her shoulder.
“Thank you, Via, it’s lovely. Come, let's go to the kitchen and you can tell me all about your day.”
As he guided his daughter out of his study, Stolas closed the door behind him. Reservations, sins, and machinations were all left for another time, for another moment, for another day. For the remainder of the night, until he drifted off to sleep, nothing else in the world mattered but Octavia.
Chapter Text
“Thank you so much for coming all this way, your Highness.” Small, pattering footsteps skittered along the concrete sidewalk to accompany the high-pitched voice. “We would’ve called someone with less experience, but after one of our employees was nearly bit in half…” A tiny imp, hair done up in a bun, glasses upon her eyes and clad in a red dress clenched her clipboard with gingerly care.
In the short distance, a massive, cube-shaped building cast in chrome reflected rays of light in venomous fashion. Not a single window adorned its walls, nor did any amount of character beyond that of cold industrialism and corporate penny pinching. All that marked the structure as unique was the rotating glass door at its front, which shifted the lighting from a glare to a dulcet glow as Stolas stepped through. A lengthy desk sat against the left wall of a singular hallway that ended in a pair of elevators. No guards, but plenty of cameras and a handful of front desk attendants. Each of them paused in their respective tasks as the prince walked by, his head turning to look at everyone in turn.
“You said that this is a first occurrence?”
“Yes! Benji is typically so well-behaved; we almost didn’t believe the claims until a floor manager witnessed it themselves.” Worry ran rampant in her tone as she hopped up and stabbed a downward pointing button that sat between both elevators. “We reviewed the video footage leading up to the incident but couldn’t find anything of note. No one cut anything they weren’t supposed to, he’s being watered properly; has all the sunlight required for his breed...”
“Despite the apparent lack of one, there is always a cause to every effect.”
“That’s what the horticulturists said, but they’re stumped!”
Light vanished from the button, a ding chimed out immediately after, and one of the elevators opened. Stolas followed the imp inside, and she hopped again to hit the correct button; one of the lowest on the tower. Manufactured air chilled his feathers to an unpleasant degree; not painful, but simply an annoyance from a subjective level. Artificial air was, for lack of a better term, crude. The wind on one’s face was far more soothing than anything frozen in a box and pushed through blinds. At the rate that gravity pulled them down, the elevator was moving rather swiftly, and it wasn’t long before an identical ding rang out like before. The door slid to one side, and Stolas stepped out into a laboratory.
Vials and beakers of mysterious liquid lined rows of wide tables, each separated by a deep sink at the center of each platform. Microscopes, flint lighters, and test racks occupied what space was left to take. Goggles and laboratory coats hung on wall racks just past the elevator doors, as did thick, rubbery gloves that stretched past the elbow. Despite all the equipment, and the lived in state of the laboratory, not a soul could be seen. “I apologize for the mess, but our staff has been asked to expedite the latest formula for testing.” The laboratory’s second half was taken up by a towering partition that touched the ceiling. From the outside, it appeared to be a greenhouse. “They can’t do much when our golden goose refuses to lay any eggs, so we appreciate your promptness and discretion. Benji is right through here.” The tiny imp hopped up for a third time to swipe a keycard that hung from a lanyard around her neck, and the door buzzed open.
Clogging heat assaulted Stolas, as he stepped inside. A verifiable jungle of fauna stretched out before him, their vines and roots arching high along the steel walls and glass windows. Shades of green, yellow, orange, and even purple blanketed the floor; bringing with them the earthy stench of nature and the anticipation of insects. Nestled within the overgrowth was a massive, bulbous fly trap; its teardrop-shaped appearance betrayed by its milky white discoloration. Gargantuan leaf fronds cradled the plant at its base, and vines as thick as tree roots extended out from beneath them. Stolas’ good eyes traced along the specimen in all of its majesty; just like his own plants back home, except big enough to be their matriarch. So entrapped in admiration, the owl took an extra step past his guide, and a massive, vertical eye stretched open to stare at him. Rings of maddening orange stretched wide in his direction, accompanied by a rumbling gurgle and the ruffle of leaves.
With an outstretched hand, the prince closed his eyes and opened his mind to the creature, his consciousness reaching out as an extension to connect with another. He could feel psychic tendrils of emotion cautiously unfurl; it had never known speech with anything other than its own kind. Their silent communication was less about words and more about emotions. Gratitude, curiosity, surprise, and agitation; all poured into Stolas like a tumbling stream of fallen branches. Hand still raised as a silent proclamation of passivity, he began to step forward, allowing minutes to pass before another was even attempted. Without the creature’s consent, no movement was made, and such a thing was only momentarily given between each exchange of emotion. What he offered back towards Benji; peace, generosity, and a desire to fully understand his situation, was more than enough to allow the prince free passage; if albeit slow.
“Your Highness, please be careful.”
“Do not fret, he shall not hurt me.” It wasn’t long before the company’ cash cow towered above him, and with permission, Stolas planted his palm against the plant’s body. Flaps at its peak, lips to a closed, toothy, and acidic mouth, curled open at the warm contact. Silently, a gentle thread of psychic power passed through Benji in search of his woes, and once found, Stolas slowly pulled back his hand. “Who tends to him?”
Confusion crept into each syllable of the female imp’s voice. “Many of our employees do, but if you’re asking who’s in charge of his care, that would be—”
“Bring them here.”
A slow, hard blink scrunched the imp’s face into a tight, momentary ball. Either the dead tone in his voice had caught her off guard, or his request was simply too vague. “Which—”
“All of them. Everyone who has watered, trimmed, fed, and monitored this plant that still work here.”
“Everyone, your Highness?”
The towering royal turned and stared down at the lesser demon for a moment, then slowly bent down until he could count the stress wrinkles beneath her eyes. Not even the rattling of her clipboard could move his steely gaze. “Yes, everyone.”
“But they are at lunch, and company policy—”
“I do not care.” Menace veiled the contempt and venom that fueled his lowered tone. It was not a normal voice to use; such sincerity reinforced with a threatening aura of potential punishment and finality. There was no room to argue, no room to persuade; simply a metaphorical planted flag to signal unshakable willpower.
Without another word, the little imp practically sprinted on her heels out of the greenhouse. Just as the sound of the elevator echoed from beyond the door, a vibration rumbled against Stolas’ thigh. Someone was calling him. In one smooth motion, he dipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out his phone, held it to his ear, and pressed the ‘accept call’ button on the screen.
“Speak.”
A husky, deep voice sounded from the other end. “Prince Stolas, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” It was a familiar voice, one that he had heard a mere three days ago.
“Not particularly. How did you get this number?”
“I’m resourceful. Listen, I’m just calling to thank you; that orb you gave me was a big help.”
“I take it you found everything accounted for, then?”
“Every last fucking dime. I owe you one.”
“You recall the details of our little arrangement?”
“Yeah, information for information; what’d you want to know?”
“What do you know about an imp named Striker?”
Stolas could hear Husk shift positions through the phone. “Rings a bell, but the sound quality blows.”
“How unfortunate. He was last spotted within the Wrath Ring, six months ago. Ever since, he’s been a ghost. I’d like to check your security footage to see if he’s made an appearance at your establishment.”
“That’s a tall order; asking to peek at a man’s private video collection.”
“You can hover over my shoulder, if you’d like.”
“I’ll need to talk it over with my right-hand man, first.”
Stolas glanced back towards the door, as the sound of elevators and the drone of footsteps echoed dully in the distance. “How does an expansion into Wrath sound, just to bloat the pot?”
“…you’re serious?”
“Deadly; think on it, I have to go.”
Sharp as a tack, the owl tapped the ‘end call’ button and pocketed the phone. Twenty demons filed through the door one at a time. Some of them slowed to a nervous waddle as they laid their eyes upon the massive owl. Others, invigorated with awe at the presence of the prince quickened their steps. As always, there was, of course, a small number who frowned at the sight, but no matter what the reaction they all stood in a line before him. The imp from earlier, who had acted as his guide, was the last through the door.
“This is all of them, Prince Stolas.”
Hellhounds, imp, and incubi all stood silently, dressed in protective lab coats, overalls, thick rubber boots, and other necessary attire for their work environment. Stolas looked down at his gloves and pulled one of them tight by the hem. The creak of leather was quickly overshadowed by his words. “You have all been summoned here, because you are in charge of the wellbeing of the specimen behind me: Benji.” His gaze rose, locked onto the leftmost demon; a limp-eared dalmatian of a hellhound, and began to slide towards the right. “Benji and I have just had a little conversation, and he tells me that one of you is a malicious little shit.”
A low murmur swept through the line, demons of all sizes, color, and patterns looking at one another. Smirks, furrowed brows, and folded ears were abundant; all due to the accusation and the manner in which it was delivered. Stolas pressed two talons together, and a violent snap immediately muted their collective noise.
“What percentage of this company's assets are put towards this particular department?” His eyes remained locked on the employees, but his voice struck the little imp, who he surmised to be their floor manager, directly.
“Sixty-eight percent, your Highness.”
“And Benji,” he began, a single finger pointed backwards with a tilt of the wrist and lift of the elbow. “Is where all of that funding goes, correct?”
“Correct, your Highness.”
“So, without Benji, your department would collapse.”
“…Yes.”
“A verifiable golden goose, whose life is entirely in the hands of those who loved him enough to name him. You water him, trim him, feed him, ensure his habitat is comfortable, all in the hope that he will continue to provide for you all, to give you something in exchange for your love, so that you all may prosper.” As he reached the final demon in line, a balding imp with a thick moustache and liver spots atop his head, Stolas clicked his beak. “Yet, it would seem that when he needed you, something stole away your attention; something far more important than your financial lifeline. As a result, the trust that once existed between you and him has been severed.”
“Bullshit, plants don’t have feelings, dude.” Drawn to the voice, everyone looked at a blue-skinned incubus; sharp ears, sharp fangs, snakebite piercings, and white hair pulled back while shaven on the sides created quite a youthful and striking figure. Taller than most of his coworkers, save the hellhounds, the lust-borne demon crossed his arms in defiance. “Are you all seriously listening to this? This is just the suits upstairs sending a big, scary royal to whip us back into line; because of the union talks, you know?” He glanced to his fellows, then back at Stolas. “They probably slid a fat stack of cash to this guy under the table, then told him to come down and fabricate some fucking nonsense, just to they can lay us all off!”
“Quite the leap in logic, considering that only one of you is to blame for Benji’s state of duress.”
“Duress?! It’s a fucking plant! We only named it as a joke; it can’t hear us, it doesn’t give a fuck what we do to it or for it, because it’s not a person. ‘Benji’ is a thing.”
Heavy silence filled the air, and no one made a move. No one spoke, blinked, or even inhaled for several seconds. Stolas could sense the plant’s distress at the shouting, at the harsh declassification of its sentience, and it allowed his stare to hold. There was a smugness in the incubus’ facial features, only made worse by the clear rush of indignation in his eyes; as if he had won an argument in a single pointless outburst. His head tilted, and he stepped out of line, then threw his chin upwards at Stolas.
“What, got nothing to say? Big bad bird bitch can’t handle some back talk? Why don’t you fly back to that overgrown cage you bought with your daddy’s fucking money, and—”
A portal opened up beneath the demon’s feet and swallowed him whole, in the blink of an eye, and silence once again descended upon the room. Everyone gawked at the space where their coworker had stood moments ago, and it took over a minute for someone to find their voice. “Where’d he…go?”
Stolas tilted his head to one side, as if to say ‘look over there’. High above the ground, mere inches from the ceiling, a portal opened. From it, that same blue incubus tumbled down in freefall, only to vanish into another portal just below. Stuck in an infinite loop, the sight repeated itself, and the demon’s distant screams soon followed. “Now that all of the reasonable minds are present, we can speak in earnest.”
The dalmatian from earlier pointed towards the constantly falling incubus. “Is he going to be, okay?”
“He; do you mean…?” Stolas turned his torso and casually pointed back at the portals, as if he had just noticed them. “…that thing caught in permanent free fall? I daresay, it depends, but since I don’t consider it a person, why should I care?”
“That’s not a thing, that’s Ty!”
“Oh, how cute, you gave it a name to amuse yourselves; utterly charming. Quick side tangent; a bit of a science lesson if you will, to somewhat answer your question. Physical beings can only fall so fast, as once they reach a certain velocity, the speed at which they descend levels out. However, if that gravity were to increase…” Glowing blue magic surged to life around Stolas’ gloved hand, and in the distance, the incubus began to pick up speed. “…the maximum, allowable velocity would change with it. Now, you’re all smart individuals; what do you think would happen if the loop ended at this exact moment?”
Horror struck the demon’s faces one by one, as they began to realize what they were witnessing. The click of heels stamped against the ground, and the smallest imp spoke up, “Prince Stolas, this is—”
“—the result of a heartless mentality being turned back on its enabler. Notice how powerless it is, utterly dependent on my moral compass to survive. I could snuff out its life with ease at any moment, and it could do nothing to stop me. What sort of fear do you think it would experience, if it were worthy enough to possess emotions worth your pity?”
Loud screams distorted and warbled as the demon’s speed increased yet again. Too fast to fly, his form began to represent a smear of blue paint amongst a canvas of jungle green and autumn hues. The onlookers began to shift in place, their nerves frayed at the display.
“By all accounts, it can simply be replaced, as things often are. When there is no symbiosis, no fundamental understanding of empathy…everything is simply that; an object. No different than a vase, a piece of clothing, or by the viewpoint spouted here, a plant.” The bottom portal snapped from reality, and as the incubus shot down from the remaining portal, everyone in line gasped.
“TY!”
“OH FUCK!”
“NO NO NO NO!”
“Someone catch him!”
“He’s gonna die!”
Fast as a bullet train, that blue-skinned body shot towards the hard ground; a howling scream its comet trail. Just as the incubus was due to splatter on impact, he came to an abrupt halt; surrounded by a field of form-fitting magic. His nose was a mere inch away from the floor, eyes wide as his chest pumped in hyperventilation. Hair a mess, body quivering, tail curled and pathetic, the incubus collapsed harmlessly as the magic dissipated. He immediately curled into a ball to protect himself, and a feral, child-like yell leapt from his terrified face as Stolas stepped over his head. Massive talons caged the demon’s mind, like prison bars that stabbed deep into Hell’s crust, and malicious red eyes peered through them. Bent in half, as if to greedily conceal a fresh kill, the owl’s body hovered close above.
“What a pathetic little thing you are…” Talons withdrew from the ground like steel bars, drawing up soil and rock with minor explosive force. Stolas then stood at his natural height and stared down at each and every demon in the room. “If any of you even consider shirking your duties as horticulturists again, remember this moment. Hell is my garden, and you are all my darling little plants.”
No one raised a finger as they watched the owl’s own shadow wrap around his body entirely, then sink into the floor and vanish from view.
Blitzo stared at his ceiling, a half-smoked joint hanging loosely between his lips. Pungent cannabis filled the room, but his half-baked sense of smell couldn’t detect just how strong he stank. The tips of his horns bumped the side of his old, scratched up couch, and his stiletto heel brushed over the opposite ankle as he crossed his legs. Things were quiet; not a peep from the neighbors or the street life outside his small window. Despite the sickly rays of sunlight that peeped through drawn blinds, he had no desire to go outside. The imp closed his eyes and sucked down that sweet, sweet smoke, then trapped it within himself. One…two…three…four…five…six…blow.
A paused video tape stared at him from his television. Pink and purple skies on a backdrop of Pepto-Bismol and hard vitamin dust hovered behind some bitch with a microphone. Blitz sighed, and a rush of melancholy washed out his high; the crackle in his chest vanished. He stared at the screen.
*click*
“—here, reporting live from Narco-Q, where Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia has just been rushed inside. He appeared to be heavily injured, and at the time of this report, unresponsive. Was this a political incident or something far more insidious?”
Blitz hit the pause button on the remote and sat up. Blunt in hand, he allowed an elbow to collapse onto a knee and prop up his head; the memories came flooding back. The IMP van pulling up, the medics rushing out and practically trampling him with the gurney, Stolas’ tail feathers rushing by above him. A groan slipped free, and Blitzo languidly dug into his temples.
He can get hurt, he can get hurt, he can get hurt.
The mantra grew louder, and not even another deep dose of long-held pot could quiet it down.
He can get hurt, he can get hurt, he can get hurt.
It’s strength, its’ vitriol, its’ condemnation pounded against his brain, and Blitz dug his knuckles against his temples to smother it into silence.
You hurt him. You walked away.
“Shut up…” he groaned, a vein pulsing against his bones.
Thankfully, his inner voice quieted, as if frightened away by his outer voice. Guilt washed over him in one massive tidal wave, and an unsettling sensation spawned in the pit of his gut, trailed into his chest, and sank to the bottom of his chin. Ever since that abduction, everything had gone to shit. Stolas took back his grimoire and gave Blitz a fancy crystal, their Full Moon get-togethers stopped, and whenever they did meet up at random times in random places they barely talked. Even the owl’s usual horny, jubilant self had been replaced by a solemn, stone-wall personality. They hadn’t fucked in months.
“I gotta fix this.”
Upon the highest balcony of Stolas’ mansion, a light breeze blew through Hell. With it came the hybrid scent of fresh flowers and a hint of acid from the fumes of Imp City. Luckily, due to the distance from the city to the mansion proper, the more unpleasant odors were completely filtered out.
“Stolas, I’m beginning to worry about you.”
Drawn from his momentary lapse in attention, the prince turned his head back across the tiny table he found himself sitting at. Across from him sat a bright red parrot, clad in crimson attire worthy of a royal; a star shaped clasp to keep his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and a high collar to accent his long neck. A pair of golden, V-shaped shades sat upon a backdrop of white that was flanked by beautiful red feathers. At the back of the bird’s head rested a cluster of black and gold feathers; sharp as box cutters.
“Then stop, Vassago.”
The fellow prince sighed. “I could not, in good conscience anyway. There are rumors milling about concerning your…recent activities.”
“You always were such a gossip monger; can’t help but parrot those around you, hm?”
“You call it mongering, I call it paying attention. Do you know what the commoners have to say about you these days?”
“I’m sure it’s all glowing praise.”
“They say you threatened to abandon the Wrath Ring, that you’ve been seen cavorting with Overlords in Pride; that is not princely behavior.” Metal shifted and gently scraped along the balcony floor. “Not to mention the expulsion of your recently divorced wife has ruffled no small number of feathers amongst those of high esteem.” Stolas turned his gaze away from Vassago to stare at a towering tree in his backyard; a massive oak that he loved to sit under as a child and read away the hours. “At least provide an explanation as to what’s caused this…abrupt paradigm shift, so I can tell the council something.”
For a moment longer, the owl stared at the trunk of that great tree until specters of the past danced together beneath its boughs. Young demons, hearts filled with wonder and minds with possibility, drive, dreams…and love. What emotions it wrought within his heart lowered his tone and kept it weighed: sunken. “Is that why you came, to demand answers where you, nor the council, deserve any? The gall, Vassago, the utter gall.”
“We are simply worried.”
“About yourselves, perhaps. You were all content to sit back as I suffered through an abusive marriage. Where was your concern then?”
“It was not my place to—”
“When an attempt was made on my life, and I sat at the bottom of a mine while a blade scraped out my eye, where were you? When I suffered through recovery, you were all more than eager to send flowers, but no one visited, no one offered to mend my eye or aid in tracking down the assassin. All you gave were hollow displays to feign compassion, all because there were cameras present.” Stolas' head turned. Vassago remained silent, his face like stone. “I bled alone. I wept alone. I grieved alone, and then after all was said and done it was back to work, as usual; and now you have the audacity to walk into my home, disguised as an ally, and judge the manner in which I fulfill my royal duties?"
"Stolas--"
"Do not insult me with fake displays of pity and regret, Vassago.”
“You can’t just go around terrorizing people because you had a single bad incident!”
“I will not sit here and be talked down to and lectured by those who haven’t experienced my pain!” Vassago’s rage dissipated at Stolas’ outburst; the first elevation he had heard from the owl in many moons. “You have no right to judge me; none of you do! I was the one who was kidnapped. I was the one who was tortured and maimed and abandoned by everyone who I trusted to be there for me! I sat bound in a dirty hole, at the hands of a psychopath, and he had his way with me.” Tensed talons grabbed the eyepatch that rested over the left side of his face and tore it away with a snap. Emotion rose in the prince’s voice, fury draped every syllable, and a croaking sadness began to pollute his words. “Look at me! Look at the mark that I bear, that I’m forced to shoulder, because I dared to believe others gave a damn about me!” Out of breath, Stolas was forced to inhale, and his chest shuddered at the effort. “It is the utmost betrayal…and yet you dare stand there and pretend to care while I am permanently stained by your collective sin!”
Vassago’s face twisted in terror at what lay beneath the eyepatch, and that outpouring of emotion rocked him to his core. “Brother, I…”
“GET OUT!” Stolas’ hand sliced through the air, and Vassago was enveloped by a portal to be whisked away to parts unknown. Only the light whistle of wind remained, as did the dark fury that pounded and burned away in his chest. Unstoppable tears welled at the corner of his remaining eyes, but they were miniscule droplets that could barely moisten his feathery cheeks. With a sniffle, Stolas left the balcony and walked back inside. He was well and truly alone.
As he wiped the tears from his eyes, a distant knocking echoed upwards from the lobby; someone was at the door. Stolas wrangled his emotions and mentally tucked them down, getting out the last ragged breaths he needed to compose himself, then made doubly sure his face wasn’t stained and his eyes were clear. “In a moment!” he called out, midway down the stairs. Who could it have been at this hour, and where was his butler? Perhaps it didn’t matter; so long as it was concluded swiftly so that he may retire in peace. Without asking who was there, Stolas gripped the door handle and pulled…only to see a familiar red imp on his doorstep, a bouquet of flowers in hand.
“Stolas, I—” Blitz paused, face frozen in shock. It took the owl a moment to realize what caused it; his eyepatch was still off! A whirlwind of shame, fear, anger, and already tender emotional state caused the prince to react on reflex. One hand flew up to cover his face while the other slammed the door with all his might!
With a physical barrier between him and Blitz, his mind raced; what was happening?! Why was he here, why did he have flowers; he had seen! Just as his chest teetered on the edge of another hyperventilation attack, the imp’s voice carried through the door.
“Stolas…can I come in? Can we talk?”
There was no bravado, no sass, no roleplaying; ‘twas a sound he had never heard from the imp before. It sounded like…sincerity.
“Alright, that’s fair, I deserve that; probably worse, actually. I…” He could feel the imp’s face clench on the other side of the door. “…I fucked up…and I miss you.”
His heart rate calmed, but his mind remained in cautious awe of what he was hearing. Was this a confession?
“If you hate me…I can’t blame you, but I at least wanted to man up and apologize. I should’ve…” Another pause, another stab of emotional pain, as if the imp couldn’t seem to force the words out. Even without knowing his mind, the inflection was enough. “…I should’ve been there. I shouldn’t have let M&M do it by themselves…” A shudder passed through the door, and a gentle thump rumbled against the wood. “I didn’t know you could be hurt…but that’s no excuse; I still should’ve been there when you needed me.” The ruffle and crinkle of paper touched Stolas’ ears. “Because you trusted me and look what I let happen…For what it’s worth, I still think you’re beautiful.”
The single sound of a footstep spurred Stolas to action, and he opened the door. At his step was that bouquet of brilliant purple flowers; draped in thorns and brandishing a high petal count. These hadn’t been plucked from some random garden in passing; they were expertly wrapped and marked with a professional signature on their wrapping. As Stolas took a knee to pick up the flowers, Blitz turned at the sound, and their eyes met. “You…really think that about me?”
Blitz gripped his hands into fists, and his spiked tail gave a little flick. “I do.”
A single laugh hopped from the owl’s beak, and with it came the expulsion of abundant negative energy. Like a cancer that had grown in his heart was just ejected, Stolas’ entire being felt that much lighter, and a small smile crept onto his face. “I…I must say, I’m surprised.”
“…”
“I adore you…Blitz…” he began, a talon brushing tenderly along one of those many flower petals. “…but I cannot trust you.” Surprise crossed the owl’s face as the imp closed the distance between them both. He didn’t bow his head or turn on his heel, but drew close, and once he did, he reached into his pocket...and pulled out the Asmodean Crystal; the very item that allowed him to access the mortal plane. The topaz gleamed in the evening light, as it rested in Blitz’s palm.
“Then you can have this back until you do.”
“But, without it, your business will--”
“I’ve got bigger things to focus on right now, Stolas: take it.”
Hesitation seized the owl’s much larger hand, but eventually, Stolas’ fingers graced the magical jewel and took it from Blitz. Confusion, awe, and astonishment roiled in equal measure within his mind, which he silenced with a slow inhale and exhalation. For a moment, he saw only the darkness behind his eyelids, but when he opened them and saw that Blitz hadn’t vanished, a small measure of happiness touched his heart. “So, what happens now?”
“...I’m gonna find Striker.”
Notes:
I wrote this on a total seven hours of sleep over the course of two-ish days.
Chapter 3: Owl's Garden
Summary:
Stolas seals a deal.
I.M.P. mobilizes.
Chapter Text
In the light of dawn’s rays, an Asmodean Crystal spun atop a stone table. Gorgeous, precious stone spun and spun, glimmering in the daylight, and soon fell to a stop. Stolas placed his fingers against the stone, propped it up, and spun it again. He was nestled deep within a hedge maze; his only company was a moss-coated fountain whose clear water was graced with lily pads galore. A subdued chorus of croaking frogs danced with an equally low buzz of insects. The prince withdrew a pocket watch from his vest and clicked it open with the mere press of a button. It was five minutes past the hour; they were late.
Right as his anger was about to be incited, footsteps and the shuffle of trimmed foliage reached around the entrance to his pocket of nature. Two pairs of feet; one heavy, one nimble. Stolas closed his watch and tucked it away, and just as he did, a familiar feline rounded the corner.
“Husk.” The owl’s head canted as another sinner rounded the corner. “Angel.”
The winged overlord wore a pair of sharp yellow shades, suspenders attached to black dress pants, and a navy-blue button up. Fluffy, white fur poured from the topmost buttons, which remained open; likely to combat the humidity. The spider wore a pair of pink shades, thin golden chains that hung around his neck, and a faded denim jacket that reached no lower than his ribs. A tightly fitted black skirt and lengthy black boots filled out his bottom half. As both demons pulled out their seats; old fashioned metal in design with thin cushions and plenty of tetanus, Angel was the first to speak.
“Mind telling us why the fuck we’re meeting in the middle of a literal fucking maze?” Agitation infected his tone, vitriol and spittle fresh on his lips with every prolonged snag of fangs against lip.
“Angel, chill. I’m sure he’d still answer, even if you asked him nicely.”
“It’s like one-oh-nine out here.”
“It’s Hell.”
“You’re Hell.”
“Ahem.” Stolas interjected by clearing his throat, then picked up the Asmodean Crystal and kept it nestled within his closed hand. “It’s private here, no one shall interrupt our business. I understand that novelties such as…air-conditioning and security cameras are a common luxury to men of your esteem, but I shall make their absence abundantly worthwhile. Granted, the heat makes animals of us all; outbursts caused by discomfort shall be forgiven…momentarily.”
Husk narrowed his eyes at Angel, then stretched them wide and strained his jaw, as if to punctuate the necessity not to run his mouth again. “A casino is a far cry from a garden. Was this…about the conversation we had the other day; you want us to expand?”
“Yes. Tell me what you both know of the Wrath Ring.”
“Can’t leave Pride; why would we know anything about Wrath?” Angel scoffed and planted his elbows atop the table, wrists loose and lined with jewelry; thin bands of gold.
“Pride and Wrath are common bedfellows, at least symbolically.”
“Well, that’s cute and all, but we can’t exactly leave Pride, so again, why the—”
“Angel.” Husk’s prominent eyebrows arched menacingly, as if to indicate it was his final, polite warning. Yellow shades were plucked from Husk’s eyes and left to dangle between two fingers, his natural gaze looking at the prince head on. “It’s a dustbowl; ranches, farms, full of outlaws and hard lives.”
“Indeed; it is also the birthplace of the imp population that spans every ring of Hell. While most migrate to cities in order to pursue better lives, others are more than keen to eke out an honest living amongst the dusty mesas and wind-sheared crags of the desert. Some, however, are drawn to a more dishonest lifestyle. Now…” Stolas shifted in his seat, hands clasped together and his thumbs tip to tip. “…lucrative businessmen such as yourselves know that there are two sorts of gamblers; those with too much money, and those in great need of money. Both sorts would easily be drawn to your front door, and I can assure you that Wrath is rich in both.”
Husk and Angel exchanged a glance, ears fully tuned in attention to Stolas’ words.
“I can facilitate its construction with a generous donation, so long as we can agree to certain…conditions upon its completion.”
“We’re listening.”
“No local hires, any and all information that is gained from its existence shall be immediately funneled to me, and I desire ten percent of all earnings.”
“All that for a ten percent kickback?” Angel scoffed, golden fang gleaming in the sunlight. “The fuck you need money for; you’re already rich.” The spider sniffed, then ran the face of his thumb against the side of where his nostril would sit and swiped to one side, never breaking eye contact with Stolas. “You want us…to let you build a casino in the backend of bumfucking nowhere, with our name attached to it, just so you can be a voyeur? I ain’t buying it.”
While innately annoying, there was a particular calculated brazenness in the spider’s speech. Devoid of all ignorance, it demanded answers. Stolas could circumvent the need to reveal his underlying intentions; all it would take was a spell. However, there was a cooperative energy between them, and thus removing one could only create breakdowns in negotiation. “An astute observation, but what exactly do you fear?”
“I ain’t afraid, I just know to trust my gut when something’s too good to be true. You think we haven’t had people come knocking on our door to try and cut a slice of the business out for themselves? Con-artists, silver tongued devils, every low life punk fresh off the streets, but you’re the first ever prince; that’s a red flag.”
Stolas smirked and his eyes shifted onto Husk. “Your partner is a rather paranoid sort.”
“He’s just being careful, it is a great deal, but it’s…so sudden. You’ve been a great help to us already, but you’re the only royal to even look our way, let alone want to help.”
“We spent a long ass time grinding and scraping to build our casino; too long to let anyone just waltz on in and take over with a few empty promises and a sack full of cash.” Angel leaned forward and stabbed the tabletop with a finger. “I ain’t consenting to shit until you sit straight with us.”
Long, black talons clacked against stone as they danced in sequence, like piano keys in a practiced song. Stolas let that ultimatum brew, a dark weight atop his brow. His hesitation aimed to allow tempers to cool, but to also allow the conversation to breathe; too much confrontation, no matter how tame, always lead to a ruffled mind. In the heat of the moment, mistakes were commonplace, after all. “What is it that you think I do, as a profession, Angel?”
“…is that a trick question? You’re a prince; you…” A stutter silently parted those white furred lips, and the tiniest flare of agitation flared in the gleam of his golden fang. “…I don’t know, but whatever you do, it ain’t anything like what we do.” he said, motioning between himself and Husk.
“I manage resources.” Stolas removed his hat from atop his head to reveal slicked back feathers marred with a gray streak, then sat it upon the table. “Every Harvest Moon, I bequeath the Wrath Ring with my cursed blessing. Their crops are plentiful, their livestock are healthy, and their blood remains hot and hearty. Every single commoner who resides within Wrath does so at my behest. Can you possibly fathom how much energy, knowledge, skill, and money go into blessing a moon?”
“No…your Highness.” Husk caught a look from Angel over the honorific moniker.
“I also manage, maintain, and monitor all flora within Hell; from the tiniest dandelion to the tallest tree. Have you ever partaken in gardening, Angel?”
“No.”
“Of course you haven’t; it’s a rather…” Stolas paused and tensed his beak, then uttered a series of clicks like he was thinking of what to say next. “…meditative experience. Hard choices must be made. Which branches do you prune, has this plant gifted its last seed, should I graft this tree to save its life; on and on, in an unending cycle of maintenance. You wake up every day, put on your gloves and sunhat, water the plants, pull the weeds, swipe away the parasites; all in the hope that you can create something beneficial and beautiful.” Silence fell across the table as Stolas let the other two demons absorb his words. “Yet, some plants have thorns, some are poisonous, some will even attempt to eat you alive and melt your bones down to the marrow. Those particular plants have three choices.” To indicate, he raised three fingers. “Domestication.” A finger curled downwards and hugged his palm. “Neutralization.” A second finger curled down, same as the first. “Extinction.” The final finger curled down, the owl’s wrist turned, and his fingers popped outwards in a flourish. “My job is to decide which option to take.”
Husk’s ears flicked, his eye downcast as the prince’s words weighed atop the processing center of his mind. Expensive shades clicked, as the feline’s wrist bounced to accompany the rapid speed of his deduction. “So, you want us to put a casino in Wrath, because you think it will be good for it?”
“A passive blessing, if you will imagine. The poor get to chase the allure of vast wealth, the greedy can try their hand at more illegal activities and end up as food for the buzzards, and a little bit of class is added to the vagrant wasteland. Everyone stands to benefit.”
Angel rolled his tongue inside of his cheek, then ground it past the sharp points of his teeth, eyes upturned. A sharp click of the tongue to the roof of his mouth caught everyone’s attention, but Stolas’ was the only one he needed. “You expect me to believe that after what you did to that poor bastard three days ago, that you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”
Three red eyes snapped to attention and homed in on the spider, a newfound sharpness in their pupil-absent stare. At first, a bird of prey glared directly into those mismatched eyes and the miniscule extras that slept beneath them. Shadows stretched along the crest of Stolas’ head and curled around the shoulders of his spotted cloak. “What do you know of my heart, sinner?” His head tilted, and for a moment, any trace that could be mistaken for empathetic humanity vanished from his eyes. The recoil that it produced shifted the atmosphere immediately, so much so that both other demons shifted in their seats; Angel even scooting his chair back and keeping a hand on the table.
“He didn’t mean anything by it, your Highness. Angel just doesn’t have much of a filter; gets in the way of work!”
“Oh, but I do believe he did in fact mean something by it.” At the edges of their private little getaway, the hedges trembled, as if stricken with a light breeze. “Your partner wishes to judge my character based on circumstantial evidence: fine. I shall not deny him the right to his own skepticism.” The rustling grew louder, then branches creaked; something was moving inside of the hedges. “Do you think me cruel, Angel? Do you think me a cold-hearted bastard of royal blood?”
Angel didn’t answer, his body in a momentary state of paralysis from the accusation. His survival instincts gripped the muscles of his legs; run, run you idiot! Yet, he remained rooted to the spot; he wouldn’t leave Husk behind. “…”
“Indecision is a disease of the mind; so, I shall help you make it up.” Muffled groans resonated outwards from behind the two demons, and they each turned as one. A massive hellhound hung upside down, trapped against the hedge by a coil of vines. They dug deep into his arms, chest, waist, and legs; even with his apparent strength, he was stuck. Chocolate brown fur, clean pelt, and fluffy ears were all they could make out of him. His clothing was simple; faded graphic tee beneath a leather vest, scuffed shoes, and cargo shorts. Multiple vines curled around his muzzle to keep it shut, but his eyes were left exposed; red as a blood moon and riddled with fear. At the sight of the demons, a loud, muffled plea beat against those natural bonds.
“Prince Stolas…” Husk began, his tone wary. “…who is that?”
“Angel,” Stolas began, ignoring Husk entirely. “This man’s life is in your hands. You are the gardener; he is your flora. If you refuse the deal, continue to dig into business that lies outside of the offered arrangement, or run your mouth…” An explosive cry of muffled pain rang out, and fresh blood oozed out around newly spawned thorns that staked deep into the hound’s flesh! “…he will perish. However, if you can swallow your pride, smother your paranoia, and accept my generosity, then he shall live.” Gleaming, red beams of light appeared to glare from the owl’s eyes as they rested upon Angel once more. “Domestication or neutralization, what will it be?”
Angel’s wide eyes turned back to Stolas, after his head whipped around. “Is this…some kind of fucking joke? Ha-ha, very—”
“HNNNNNNNNNNNNGH!” More thorns spawned and pierced the helpless hound’s body, and his blood began to flow downwards. Each wound was clear; sharp, red-tipped spikes gouged deep through one of the sturdiest constitutions amongst demons with ease. Terrified, pained eyes widened as the beast tried to shake within his bonds, but only served to push the barbs deeper. A shuddering, anguished, muffled, and desperate cry bounced those broad shoulders; those wide eyes begging to be saved.
Angel shut his mouth, then stared at what was effectively a hostage; a bargaining chip! “…holy shit, you can’t be serious.”
More blood. Another scream of muffled pain. More blood.
“Tick tock, little spider.”
Angel looked at Husk, whose grim expression told all. A life hung in the balance, and it teetered upon his own thread. He couldn’t bear to look in those eyes, but he could feel them burning a panicked hole into him from afar. Claws of helplessness carved through his soul, bringing heat to his face and labor to his chest. This demon was a stranger, but the pleading, the eyes, the sounds. Copper curdled with humid air, and the cries of the wounded joined the chorus of croaking frogs and buzzing insects. Noise on top of noise, layered to the extreme, stole the last bit of breath in Angel’s lungs so that he was forced to refill them with a composure breaking gasp.
“I see the wheels are turning.”
“You can’t do this!”
“Everyone who has uttered those exact words before you once thought that to be true, but now they understand.” Stolas’ fingers curled into a fist, and a cloud of dark, red hued magic enveloped it. “I am a Goetian Prince. My attention could make you two some of the most influential mortal souls, and yet you turn your nose at my exceedingly generous offer. I offer you my hand, and you spit in it, like the ungrateful lout you are.” His fist clenched, and the hellhound screamed again, causing Angel to slap two hands over his ears. “I had hoped to form this mutually beneficial alliance with words, but all you commoners wish to do is bark...” One clench. A scream. Blood spurted in thick streaks upon the grass. “...and bark...” Two clenches. A whimper. The pattering of what sounded like rain against ornamental garden stone. “...and bark.”
Right before Stolas could clench his fist again, Husk threw out a hand, “Wait! Your Highness, please...just...wait a moment!” Cat and bird exchanged a look, and Stolas peered deep into the intentions that lay behind wide, yellow eyes. With a tilt of the head, he beckoned the sharp-dressed feline onward; a true, royal blessing. Husk stood from his chair and hunched in front of Angel, both hands atop his to pull them from his ears. Volume no higher than a whisper, “ Anthony, baby, look at me! Say yes, agree to the deal and we can go home.”
“I can’t...I can’t; he’s gonna kill the dream, our baby, I can’t!”
“You don’t know that!”
“I feel it! Something’s wrong, something’s rotten; he’s rotten, Husk! What’s he gonna do to us once he’s done?! He’s gonna wring us dry and leave us to hang; food for the fucking vultures! We can’t fight that! I don’t want that! I don’t want it!”
“Anthony.” That trembling face was given a little shake, Husk’s own mere inches away as they fervently hissed and whispered to one another, in the hope that the prince wouldn’t hear. “ As long as I have you, it doesn’t matter what happens to the casino.” Husk released Angel’s face and stood back to his true height; wings outstretched as he turned towards the table...and extended his arm for a handshake. “We accept, it’s a deal!”
An explosive slap, followed by an outpouring of red and black arcane power, muted every other sound in the area. Arcs of black lightning crackled and surged between joined arms, and Husk hissed and groaned as his palm began to burn! Smoke billowed between their hands, Stolas’ grip unyielding and crushing as he sealed the deal with a sigil; the symbol of his very name. Satisfaction bloomed within him as the pact was made, and he released his grip to watch the overlord clutch at his wrist, face scrunched in pain at the new brand inscribed over his usual heart-mark.
“I like you, Husk; you understand the way of things.” Stolas bent low, his shadow casting over both sinners, but his beak only whispered into Husk’s ear. “It is such a shame that you now bear the weight of another’s failures, as I have. It is not a fate I wish on anyone, but you threw yourself headlong into it. I will not mock your sacrifice, nor your pain, but know that you do your love no favors. If it truly ran deep and true, he would’ve let the man die to protect you from me, at cost to himself.”
Clenched fangs and teeth mashed together, bared directly at the prince. Whether in pain or in anger was unclear, but it likely saved his hide. The shadow lifted, and Husk immediately felt Angel’s touch upon his shoulders and arm to inspect the wound. As they both watched powerful talons stride across the grass, barely hidden beneath the hem of a lengthy robe, Husk groaned, “You promised to let him go.”
Stolas turned his head to the upturned prisoner; wounds oozing with life essence like sap from a tree. A swift snap of the fingers caused the thorny vines to recoil and release the hellhound, and the demon dropped to the ground with a whimper. Before he could even be told to ‘get’, a trail of blood vanished into the many paths of the hedge maze. “It would be a shame if, in his adrenaline-fueled flight, he bled out.” Stolas gently picked his hat up from the table and placed it back atop his head. “It’s not as if I’m forcing him to run, after all.”
With one final nod, a joyless smile filled the bird’s beak. “Gentlemen.” In a blink, he teleported away in a swarm of dark feathers, and left nothing but blood, charred flesh, burnt fur, and an everlasting memory.
“Damnit Moxxie, move your chewable ass over; I can smell Millie on you.”
“...Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you feel my heel against your ass?”
“Are you coming onto me?”
Blitz twitched and yelped as a swift heel kick to the rear stabbed into what was essentially months' worth of squats. Smashed together in an office vent, the two imps were tangled; legs trapped under knees, arms trapped against steel walls, a true mess.
“I can’t believe you dragged me into this stupid vent!”
Through winces of pain Blitz wiggled to try and free himself. “Remind me to sign you up for a soccer team if we ever have to kill a ref. Now tilt your elbow, I think I can feel myself moving.”
“You never told me why we’re up here to begin with; care to share?”
“We’re looking for a box.”
“...a box? In the vent?”
“Yeah, stashed it here years ago. I really hope the rats haven’t eaten it...”
“Does it have another crystal inside?”
“No.”
“A way to find Striker?”
“Sorta.”
“Sir, I can feel your...bulge on my hip; could you please wiggle faster?!”
“Don’t let me wiggle too fast Mox, or we’re gonna get even more stuck.”
“BLITZ!”
“Oh, lighten up. We’ve dressed up in drag...been tied up together...you gave me mouth to mouth that one time.”
“I’m beginning to regret that.”
“Listen Mox, when you grow up in the circus, you don’t let a little thing called modesty get in the way of getting shit done!”
“Are you about to tell me that’s been your life motto ever since you left?”
“No, but the circus ain’t too different than theater; that said, I’m half sorry for what I gotta do here.”
“...sir?”
“Hold your breath, Mox!”
Blitz had managed to wiggle onto his side and reach his arms up to grab the vent wall. Now all that was left to do was squeeze past Moxxie. Core engaged, he began to pull himself forward, wedged between his employee and the wall. His strength pulled against the friction that trapped them in place and caused his body to begin sliding forward.
“Blitz, no!”
With one final grunt of exertion, Blitz unstuck himself and Moxxie...at the cost of his groin smacking and dragging directly across the smaller imps’ face!
Revulsion struck, followed by a heave and a rapid sweeping of the face with both hands, just like that of a raccoon or a rat cleaning itself. A gag, then a gasp for air as Moxxie slammed his hands down against the steel tunnel. “You motherfucker!”
“I think you mean princefucker.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Blitz scampered rapidly through the vent, Moxxie literally nipping at his heels! Since the area to move around in was so small, it did two things; one, it didn’t allow Moxxie to lunge and grab his boss’ leg, which was the most logical option. Two, it created a helluva lot of noise! The vent rattled and shook, as feral growls bounced off the walls to the clanging of metal. With enough gusto and rage, Moxxie finally sank his teeth into Blitz’s boot!
“Yeow!”
“Hey, you boys quit fussin’ around up there and find that damn box! We ain’t got all day; the sun’s about down in the Wrath Ring and it’s a long drive to begin with!”
At Millie’s stern, motherly tone, the two imps stopped. Moxxie spit the taste of boot from his tongue; he even scraped it clean with his hand, while Blitz looked down. “Sorry Mills!”
“Sorry honey.”
Both imps crawled further, brushing away cobwebs and dust piles wherever they could. It didn’t help their dark suits any, but it couldn’t be helped, at least not now. At the end, the passageway split in two, and as Blitz peeked his head around the right corner, his tail perked.
“Ah-ha, there it is!” About the size of a shoe box, its lid bumped inward; the object of their search now rested in Blitz’s hands. “Alright Mox, I got it; time to backtrack!” Knees against steel, the imp began to crawl backwards; and he just couldn’t help himself. “Beep, beep, beep!”
“GET YOUR ASS OUTTA MY FACE!”
“What’s the matter Mox, hasn’t Mills--” A loud groan stopped him dead in his tracks, two hands pressed against his ass to try and push it away. “...Moxxie?”
“Yeah?”
“Was that you?”
“...no.” Steel creaked and their dirty, chrome world shook.
“Don’t...move.”
Right behind Blitz’s feet, the ground split open and tilted downward! Moxxie screamed as he slid forward and tumbled out of the vent, and as Blitz tried to grip his own half of the halved vent, he lost his grip and tumbled down after him. Both imps landed in a pile upon the floor, only to have Loona appear and bend over to pick up the box. The hellhound sniffed at the container, then curled her nose, sharp fangs revealed in the lift of her muzzle. Unamused by the scent, she flicked the lid off and blinked. “...it’s a key.”
“A key?” Millie chimed in, stretching up on her tip toes to try and sneak a peek. “How’s a key gonna help us?”
Moxxie steadily untangled himself from Blitz for the second time, then dusted off his suit and popped his lower back. “I went through all of that for a key?!”
“Not just any key, Mox! That key is gonna get us one step closer to Striker. Come on, I’ll fill you in on the way.” Blitz hopped up and outstretched both arms, just to gently dip the box out of Loona’s hands and make for the door.
Millie, Moxxie, and Loona all looked at each other, shrugged, then followed their ‘fearless’ leader. It was time for a road trip to the Wrath Ring! As they all walked to the elevator together, Moxxie sighed, “I still can’t believe he gave back the crystal without asking us first.”
“You know how he gets around Prince Stolas.”
“And it’s better than him being a fucking sad sack all the time.” Loona interjected. “The living room was getting full of bottles.”
“But what if we can’t find Striker again?” Moxxie tapped the down arrow next to the elevator. “I hate to admit it, but he’s probably too smart to go back to places we’ve seen him before; so, I don’t see what going to Wrath will accomplish.”
“Gotta start somewhere, hun.”
“I just wish he would’ve asked us how we felt about it, is all. It’s not just his livelihood at stake, you know.”
“If you want money, just go and rob a bank again.” Loona pushed past Moxxie and Millie, as the elevator opened to get the next button pressed; her muscles starting to twitch at all the waiting around. “I don’t know much about the guy, but you two and Blitz all seem to hate him, so if anything, just take your slice of revenge and quit bitching about it; bitching doesn’t help any of us right now.”
The ride down the elevator was devoid of any further conversation. When the door opened again, Blitz was nowhere to be seen. The trio glanced at one another, and Millie broke the silence. “Maybe he’s just waitin’ in the van?” A collective hurriedness carried them through the lobby in seconds, and the warm sun of Imp City soon glared upon them from above. No engines in the parking lot sounded like they were running, but they could see the I.M.P. company van just a few rows away in the parking lot.
Loona’s brow furrowed as they reached the van and found no one. Blitz wasn’t there. “Blitz?” she called out. As she circled the van, a light sheet of frost caught her eye on the edge of the back doors, “What the hell...it’s not cold out.”
“Maybe he...left the air on?” Doubt filled Moxxie’s words.
Millie rounded the other side of the van, “He’s not inside.”
“Blitz?” Loona called out; her voice rife with concern. “Where are you, shithead?!” She sniffed the air, her sensitive hellhound nose hiked into the air. Her father’s scent trailed filled the air, wrapping and curling all around the van, but then…a different, unknown scent appeared and mingled with it. While Blitz’s scent trail was a deep, shimmering red, the foreign smell was a rich and deep blue, almost like that of the sea. Something solid bumped against her foot and clattered, and as she looked down, her heart sank. Blitz’s flintlock pistol lay upon the ground, with no Blitz in sight. It was then that reality dawned on Loona, “…someone took him.”
“What?” Moxxie trotted forward and picked up the pistol; its heft balanced atop both of his palms. The barrel was cold.
“Someone took my dad.”
Chapter Text
Stolas stared down at a map of the Wrath Ring, eyes scanning every nook and cranny that had been put to paper. Multiple red etchings marked the map at opposite ends. One, a prime location for the new casino to be constructed; halfway between the southern edge of the most populated town and its accompanying government lodging. Another, the last known location of Striker. Vexation muddied the urge for a fresh, clarifying cup of tea; it was an utterly maddening pastime.
A gentle, almost cautious, knock rapped upon his study door. “Dad?”
“Come on in, Octavia.”
The presence of his daughter brought a small smile onto his tired visage, and all three of his eyes softened as she walked towards the table. “Are you busy?”
“For you, my starlight: never. Is something the matter?”
“No, I just wanted to…see if you were doing okay.”
While his mind tightened at the pause in her declaration, his face remained soft. “Just a little tired, my dear; being a royal is no easy picnic, you know.”
“I know, but…” Octavia looked to the side, then back down at the map; her attention seemingly either divided or simply cautious. “…you’ve just seemed a little down, ever since mom left.”
“Have I?” Feigned joy, brought out with a light-hearted and slightly weary chuckle, colored his words, and bounced his shoulders. He couldn’t tell his daughter the truth, it would shatter her heart; yet the necessity in lying caused his stomach to boil. “Perhaps we could remedy that with a little vacation? Just the two of us, like before.”
“Really? You don’t have like…any big royal matters to attend to?” The owl tilted her head towards the map, her fingers outstretched to trace against its faded edges. Hungry and curious eyes flitted across each detail, drinking in as much info as they could. “Aren’t you building a casino?”
“In finance alone; the rest shall be taken care of by my business associates.” Stolas smiled and tapped at the marked location upon the map. “Its construction will take months, so there is ample time for me to correct any mishaps that may occur.”
“So, we could go anywhere we wanted?”
“Of course.”
Octavia leaned one way, then the next, as she shuffled in place. “Could we…leave Hell?”
Stolas paused, and his visible hesitation made his daughter peer in his direction. “What could you possibly want to do up on Earth?”
“Explore it a bit? You never get tired of being stuck down here, even just a little?”
“I do, but we should at least have a destination in mind; not all of Earth is similar, or safe for that matter.”
“Oh, I read about this one place where giant whales will leap out of the ocean! Can we go there?”
The excitement in her voice was infectious, and it filled Stolas’ heart with a happiness that only a father could know. “I suppose we could give it a try. How about this; you research and catalogue all the things on Earth that interest you, and we can start seeing them one by one?”
The nearby rotary phone rang, accented with the repeated hooting of an owl. In silent apology, Stolas raised his hands towards Octavia, as if to say he’d get right back to her after the phone call. With a harsh click, he lifted the receiver and held it to his ear, “Who is this?”
“Hello...blueblood.”
An icy drawl clawed its way into Stolas’ soul, a serpentine hiss and rattle with venomous duplicity and spite. His heart slammed against his sternum, and his grip on the receiver tightened with enough strength to nearly snap it in twain.
“Heard you’ve been looking to schedule another playtime session with me.”
Three red eyes glanced towards Octavia, and his voice lowered to a near whisper. “How did you get this number?”
“It’s my job to get things, just like I got you all those months ago.” The sultry sheen chilled Stolas’ blood, and the mocking gasp that popped into his ear cooked a dark rage within his belly. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten; it was such a magical moment! I even left you a little something to remember me by. You know what they say...”
A rattle chittered through the phone.
“...you always remember your first! Hahaha!”
“Where are you?”
“Leave the quick drawing to me, little birdie. This call ain’t so we can kiss and make up.”
“Then what is it?” His response, nearly a bark, became a quiet seethe instead.
Something on the other end of the line scraped against the floor; sounded like a chair. Then, a rattling of chains echoed in the background. Each detail was lasered into Stolas’ memory for later, even if they were minimal.
“You sent someone looking for me, and I just called to let you know that I found him first.”
Blitz, no; panic thundered inside of his heart. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt for months, and it was akin to ripping open a scab; sharp and gooey. Stolas inhaled as quietly as he could yet could somehow sense that Striker heard it, nonetheless. “Is he dead?”
“Let’s just say...he’s been put on ice. If you want him back before he gets a nasty case of freezer burn, you’ll shut your beak and listen carefully.” When silence lingered over the phone, a low and amused chuckle broke it. “Good; now then, you’re gonna take a little trip to the Greed Ring. Deep south, yer’ gonna find a warehouse on Pier-3 marked with thick red tape. Come alone within five hours and remember to bring your fucking manners, or I’m going to stumble into a surplus of frozen fish food that needs selling!” Striker’s cackle was the last thing Stolas heard before the connection was cut.
“Dad, is everything okay?”
Octavia’s voice straightened his posture, and familiar strength hoisted his heavy shoulders to a proud, regal state. “It’s nothing, my dear; I am simply needed for an urgent appointment.”
“When will you be back?”
“No longer than an hour or two.”
“You promise?” Worry ran rampant in her voice, and the lightness of his daughter’s tone spiced his own with a dash of kindness; the same he used when she was but a small child.
Stolas turned towards his daughter and smiled, “I promise.”
Through the polluted and green skyline of Greed, a comet of crimson shadow traveled at rapid pace. Almost obscured by the smothering coloration, it curved and swirled towards an unknown destination. To any brave or foolish passersby; the sight was simply a wonder to behold. To the initiated, they hurried into their homes.
Far to the south, located on the edge of the ring itself, was where the comet traveled. A tiny town, rich in garbage, stained windows, and abandoned factories stretched towards the ocean; where then everything was swallowed by a churning and bottomless sea. The voracious maw, a close sibling to gluttony, lapped angrily at wooden beams and concrete walls. A briny chill sank against Stolas’ feathers as he landed a few blocks away from Pier-3; his rooftop viewpoint more than enough to scout the immediate area. No bodies, no gates, no cameras…
His gaze narrowed as he perched upon the roof’s edge, slender and tall body wrapped protectively in his dark cloak. Was Blitz really inside that large, seemingly abandoned warehouse, or was it simply a trap; a ploy to draw him into an ambush? What if it was a lie? That was one bluff he couldn’t call…even considering current grievances.
An echo drew his attention; a sharp one, comprised of metal. Magic surged into his fingers beneath the cover of his cloak. Did Striker hire some local help to aid in his ploy? Stolas would capture them and wring all information pertaining to it from their lungs. Loud taps, seconds between them, curled over the opposite edge of the roof, and like a gargoyle, the prince huddled; frozen and ready to pounce.
“Eat less cake, fatty.” A feminine voice chastised; a familiar one.
“I’m sorry, but the sugar helps calm me down!”
“And kills my back. You get any bigger and the only theater job you’re getting is the fat guy who sits around and eats grapes the entire play.”
“Is this really the time?!”
“Up until I don’t have to carry your fat ass, yes.”
Two furry ears poked out, and a luscious, full mane of gray hair followed. Stolas immediately recognized the figure as Blitz’s adopted daughter, and his head tilted in curiosity. Just as her face rose into view, so too did the visage of two imps; Blitz’s employees. They were all quick to notice him, but only one had the courage to speak.
“Prince Stolas?” It was the tiny, female imp with a country drawl. Millie, if he recalled correctly, was her name; one of the two that had been sent to rescue him all those months ago. If his mood could curdle any further, it threatened to at her presence. “What are you doing here?”
“Answering a summons.” Quietly, his prepared magic retreated; they were no threat. He turned his gaze back to the warehouse and listened to Loona hike herself onto the rooftop. “Are you here on business?”
“Someone took Blitz, and we think that warehouse over there is where they’ve got him.”
Stolas raised his head, “So we are here for the same reason. That’s good; I could use extra eyes.” A set of black-gloved talons stretched out to point at a busted window on the west side of the warehouse…and the x-shaped red tape that covered it. “I have it on good authority that his prison is marked with red tape; however, on that same authority, I anticipate a trap. However, I cannot be sure.”
“You don’t have some sort of…x-ray vision spell you can use to see through the walls?”
Stolas slowly turned his head towards Loona, as the inward wince of both Moxxie and Millie crashed against his shoulder; their shame thick in the air. With his three remaining eyes, the prince stared at the hellhound, and her tail flicked with an aversion of her gaze.
“Right, dumb question…”
“Even if I did, there is a magical ward obfuscating the contents of the warehouse. I cannot peer inside with arcane talent alone.” Stolas turned his head back towards the topic at hand and placed a crooked finger against his chin in contemplation. “You three were not told to come here?”
“No, we tracked a scent trail.” Moxxie chimed in. “Took a while, but once the trail ended here, we figured a bird’s eye view would be a good thing to have.”
“Then that makes things rather simple.” From a hunched blob of darkness to a pillar of shadow, Stolas stood, his talons dug deep into the concrete edge. “I shall enter from the front and cause a distraction, while you three sneak around and find an alternative entrance. If you can locate and retrieve Blitz, I can hold off anyone who might be lying in wait. They will not expect you.”
“What if he’s in the same room as everyone else?”
“Surprise will still benefit us; use it as an opportunity to ambush or flank. Whatever you need to do, do it; just refrain from getting in my way.” Stolas brushed back his cloak from the inside, knees bent, and legs poised to take flight from his perch.
“Your Highness!” the higher, nasally tone of the male imp turned the owl’s head. “Where Blitz was kidnapped, we found ice. I don’t know if that will be relevant, but…it could be.”
A shadow fell over Stolas’ expression, and his head slowly turned away once more. “Then you best not dally; find a backdoor, break it down, get Blitz out. If I am right, we will need to be swift.”
“Right about what?”
Without another word, the owl leapt from his perch and shifted into a comet of dark feathers; his trajectory hurtling towards the warehouse below.
“Right about what?! Your Highness! Fuck.” Moxxie, Millie, and Loona all exchanged a look and nodded, then the two imps hopped onto Loona’s back.
“Good thing we thought to bring this grappling hook.” Millie commented, as Loona gripped the rope and braced her feet at the building’s edge.
“Yeah, lucky fucking me.” she groaned.
Heavy, rusted metal creaked and bent inward; screeching and howling into the bowels of the warehouse before being ripped open like a blooming flower. Fish, trash, and acidic chemicals composed the air quality, all which forced the prince to nearly gag as he walked in. Massive pillars supported the towering ceiling above, tarnished with endless sleeves of indecipherable graffiti. Scrap metal littered the floor in piles, stacked high against each of the loading bay doors that covered the warehouse walls. Crude fortification, but still efficient against any who tried to enter normally.
Minimal light shone through dirty windows, and the artificial bulbs above flickered in the final stages of their life. It produced a low buzz that kept Stolas’ ears perked; such drones were often a mask for something more deadly to hide beneath. High above, an office jutted from the wall; meant for an overseer to call home, back when the warehouse was functional. At the mere thought, a lick flicked on within, and a haughty voice boomed out.
“Ah, Stolas, you came!”
Through the glassless window, winter’s rime crawled over the sill and drifted towards the floor in a drape of frost. A majestic figure appeared in the open space, the chill emanating from it; one that Stolas recognized all too well. Plush fur covered a high collar that framed an otherwise thin neck, pale feathers peeked out amongst an ivory beak and two glowing, turquoise eyes. A flowing gown, embroidered with a snowflake upon its center, covered the figure’s body, and a glittering crown of pure ice rested upon his head.
“Andrealphus, what have you done?”
The peacock stepped through the window and levitated down towards the floor; his descent protected by a cloud of cold mist that coated the nearby concrete in a sheet of twinkling frost. “No more than you, ‘brother,’ no more than you.” Brother was said with such disdain that it nearly perked the prince’s brow; the animosity more biting than usual. “Terrorizing the common folk, making threats, strong-arming Overlords; I’m almost proud.”
“Where is he?”
“Where is who? I haven’t the faintest idea of who you’re referring to.” The shit-eating grin that split the Marquis’ beak exposed the lie for what it was; a goading jab. “You seem to run with so many imps these days; it’s so tiresome to keep track of your numerous bedfellows, Stolas. Leave such things to the chambermaids.”
“I know you took him.”
“Ah, you’re speaking of the foul-mouthed burn victim! Vicious little shit that one, but then again…most of them are, even when they grovel. Do not worry, he is safe…for now. So long as you can recall your courtly courtesies, it shall remain that way.” Andrealphus snapped his fingers, and a flash of light filled the air at his side. A large crystal, large enough to house an imp, hovered with a dull hum.
Inside was Blitz, seemingly unconscious.
“If you wish to have him back in one piece, you will—”
Stolas was upon the Marquis in a blink, a monstrous, outstretched claw of pitch and blood stopped a mere inch from making contact. Astonishment settled in those glowing eyes, but they quickly composed themselves.
“Violence was never your forte,’ yet you think to strike me?”
Weight shifted, a swipe followed through, and Andrealphus leapt back. Graceful talons tapped against the ground as he landed, immediately infecting the ground with a patch of ice around them. In one hand, a blade of ice began to form as the peacock bent low in a mocking bow; sneer plastered on his face.
“If your shattered heart yearns for an early grave, allow me to—”
Rubble shot upwards in an inverted hailstorm of rock and concrete. Vicious jungle vines whipped upwards in search of limbs to constrict and crush but were repelled by the frigid sword in Andre’s hand. Despite the rebuttal, the vines were relentless in their pursuit, and compelled him to backpedal. Constant flourishes kept him unrestrained; swings and strikes of winter’s wrath freezing any struck flora in milliseconds.
While his pets distracted Andre, Stolas advanced upon the crystalline prison that housed Blitz; his eyes closed in suspended slumber. Rudimentary enchantments; easy enough for a Prince of his knowledge and caliber to undo, but just as Stolas’ hand reached out, a chill ran up his spine.
He felt it before he saw it; the biting screech of a conjured blade hurtling towards him. His shadow, ever vigilant, shot upwards from the ground and stopped the strike with one hand; its four glowing red eyes draped in malice. Andre’s bitter scoff turned Stolas’ head, just in time to throw up a defensive ward as a cone of cold blasted him backwards. Thick talons gripped the ground to slow him to a halt, their strength clawing the finery of the floor the entire journey.
Andrealphus set upon him in seconds, his strikes rapid and poised with deadly precision. Even as each blow barely missed its mark, a lingering blast of sub-zero air penetrated all barriers. Both Prince and Marquis glared into each other’s eyes; one increasingly angered by the other’s silence and practiced avoidance.
“Such a cold shoulder; nothing to say to your brother-in-law? No thanks to give for your newfound sense of self?” As Andre committed to a deep swing, meant to cleave straight through one’s collarbone, Stolas dipped to the side and stomped onto his foot. Pain flashed in the peacock’s eyes and across his beak, and as it opened to release a cry of anger, a massive talon smothered it. With his grip locked onto Andre’s face, Stolas channeled all his anger into flinging that smug prick against the nearest pillar. Translucent finery billowed as the avian’s body flew backwards, then did so again as a thundering slam arched his back! Vines burst from the architectural support and quickly ensnared their target, then yanked him back and held him down as their master steadily approached.
Frost brimmed around Andre’s body and swiftly killed his restraints, then burst free with a loud grunt. Crystallized plant fibers clattered to the ground, but before their song could conclude, Stolas’ foot slammed into the cryomancer’s body and put him through the pillar! Andre rolled backwards and jutted to his feet; both heels were barely able to stabilize him at the end of the roll. Stolas’ shadow leapt from the ground and slashed at him with a flurry of talons; each barely deflected by a chipped blade. Each strike further damaged the weapon, their pace too rapid for a counterattack to be launched.
In the background, Stolas paced after his own shadow, a fresh incantation on his lips. Dark blue flames slowly flickered to life in his palm, and darkness collected around his feet. A beautiful crash, like the destruction of a royal chandelier, signaled the destruction of Andrealphus’ weapon; and heralded Stolas’ moment to strike. His shadow returned and powered his capability for greater speed, then shot him forward in a flittering streak of power. Andrealphus, his body still caught in recoil from the shattering of his sword, couldn’t react in time as a fireball of occult flame formed against his stomach. Ghostly flames blazed in Stolas’ stony gaze, and the fire housed within his palm erupted in an explosive inferno!
Through the smoke, talons of ice lunged forth, their intent shining with the potency of an eternal glacier. A sidestep was all it took to properly position his elbow and hand, which worked in tandem to violently crash upwards into Andrealphus’ arm. Right at the crook of the elbow, bone gave way and cracked as the power of a prince was brought to bear against that slender limb. Stolas reared his arm back again and struck Andrealphus dead in the throat, which caused the Marquis to clutch at his airway, which opened him to yet another attack.
Talons coated in dark magic, Stolas slapped his hand to the peacock’s face and pressed down. All his strength funneled directly into his arm, which then siphoned further strength into his magic, and burned Andrealphus' face in a malevolent glow of hellish power. Once enough power was pooled against its target, Stolas swung his arm downward and slammed Andre onto the ground. With superior leverage, the prince quickly overwhelmed his court relative. Andrealphus’ screams bounced from every wall in the room; no trace of confidence or superiority remained.
So lost in his torturous subjugation of the Marquis, Stolas didn’t hear the footsteps behind him…or the cock of the shotgun.
An ear-shattering boom caused his shadow to spring forth yet again. Its’ outstretched wings acted as a protective shield that absorbed every pellet, but the shot still managed to startle. Stolas turned his head and saw a muscular, red-skinned incubus holding the smoking gun; determination in his eyes and fear implanted in every muscle. The incubus cocked the firearm again, and a single shell launched through the air and landed on the ground with a hollow clatter. “Get off him!”
Wordlessly, Stolas stretched to his full height and released Andrealphus, then took a step towards the stranger. Another shot was fired, but every bullet froze midair at the wave of Stolas’ hand and tumbled harmlessly to the floor. Modern arms were a fruitless effort, and if the lesser demon recognized the futility, it did not deter him from cocking the shotgun yet again. Such stalwart behavior in the face of certain doom, despite the abject fear in those bright yellow eyes, was enough to tilt Stolas’ head.
“Jesse!” The cry of terror was enough to regain his attention, but those dangerous talons continued forward. “Stolas, leave him be! He—” A ragged cough raked through Andre’s plea, and a hack of blood stained the ground. “If you touch him, I swear...!”
A third shot fired, one which was plainly absorbed by Stolas’ looming shadow; ever protective, ever vigilant as the royal stalked forward as an omen of death.
“STOLAS!” He had never heard such anger, such anguish, in his proud relative’s tone before. It piqued his curiosity; just what sort of relationship did he have with this incubus? He must know. “Jesse, run! Stay away from him!” A thorny vine erupted from the floor, as Andrealphus shakily climbed to his feet, and gripped around his broken arm! Bone creaked and cracked as the Marquis was made to bend the knee. Further vines coiled upwards, and a sheet of stone began to cover Andrealphus’ body. His limbs became rigid, the frosty presence of his magic withered; all which drew Jesse’s eye.
Before the incubus could utter a word, Stolas’ wings unfurled and obscured the pair’s view of one another. Only his imagination could fill in the blank of Andre’s thoughts…as his dark wings enveloped Jesse, and the incubus screamed in terror.
“Hurry up Moxxie!” Loona growled as her and the two imps huddled in front of a padlocked door. Welding goggles rested just above white freckles and sweat beaded down the side of his face as it glowed in the blue light of an industrial blowtorch.
“I’m trying, but this lock is thick!”
“Oh, what, you mean like your head?!” Frustration shone across every inch of the hellhound’s teeth, and her fist crashed into the metal door with a startling slam. “Come on, you stupid…”
Slam.
“…fucking…”
SLAM.
“…door!”
SLAM!
Despite her rage, it did not budge.
Moxxie turned a knob on the side of his instrument, and the torch flame bloated in strength. What was once a drizzle of sparks turned into a downpour of fire that bounced and vanished upon reaching the ground. Time was of the essence; there was no telling how long Prince Stolas could last.
“Moxxie, move!” Millie’s words turned his head, and the imp flinched and dove to the side as the head of her axe swung down against the lock! Softened by the extreme heat, the blade was able to cleave through and unlock the door. All three of them wasted no time in kicking it open, their minds laser focused as they stormed the room where Blitz was being kept.
The sight before them shattered their collective concentration.
A battlefield stretched out before them; deeply gouged stone, patches of ice, white feathers, and outbursts of earth littered the room. Holes, some vacant and some occupied by unmoving, blackened vines, pockmarked the floor. A shattered pillar dripped with pebbles, and ghostly blue flame burned atop piles of scrap metal. Amid it all, a stone figure knelt at the knee, its body embraced by vines as if it were an ancient garden statue. Nearby, a cocoon-like shape hovered a few feet above the ground; black as night and silent as the grave.
Beyond the sight…a levitating crystal housed Blitz, and their hearts leapt at the sight!
“There he is!” Moxxie exclaimed, as the rush of footsteps echoed through the silent room. Loona was the first to touch the crystal and gaze deeply upon the sleeping figure of her father. Inquisitive red and silver eyes traced over its structure, as if to look for a weak point, but every inch was devoid of any cracks.
“We gotta get him out of there. We need the Grimoire, where’s Stolas?”
There were only two choices; either the statue-esque figure kneeling on the ground, or the dark, floating cocoon. Millie bravely approached the statue and stood upon her tip toes to get a better look at its face. “Well, he certainly ain’t this poor bastard, so that means he’s gotta be that.” she stated, then hiked a thumb at the cocoon.
Upon closer inspection, it was simply two huge, feathery wings folded together. Caution measured their steps as all three demons drew close, and Moxxie raised a hand to touch it. Before he could make contact, his palm pressed against something hard and invisible; even with a mighty push, he couldn’t reach any further. “What the hell is going on?”
Loona tested the invisible barrier as well, her superior height put to good use in seeing just how high it stretched. There were no gaps, no weaknesses; they weren’t getting in. “Shit…what are we gonna do now?”
“Maybe we can carry the crystal out?”
“And take it where? There’s no point if we can’t open it!”
“Well, we can’t stick around here; what if someone comes looking?”
Loona huffed from her nostrils and punched her palm. “We fight.”
“Now hold on, we can’t just sit around and wait for whatever…” Moxxie gestured to the makeshift cocoon of wings. “…this is to finish doing whatever it’s doing. We don’t know how long that’ll be!”
“I’m not leaving Blitz behind.”
“I’m not saying we leave him, but we should leave.”
“What if we put him in the back of the van?” Loona and Moxxie turned from one another, their frustration forgotten, and looked at Millie. “We pull up, load him up, then drive back home. He’ll be safe there, then one of us can stay back and watch him while everyone else comes back to check up on the prince and ask for his help.”
The idea brought a hopeful smirk to Loona’s muzzle, and delivered a swift, playful slap to the imp’s shoulder. “Why can’t you be as smart as your wife, Moxxie?”
He rubbed at the stinging spot while Loona sprinted off to grab the van. “Just one problem, honey, there are no doors big enough to fit the van or the crystal through. What do we do about that?”
“Pretty sure there’s at least one stick of dynamite left in the back.”
Jesse gasped; he wasn’t dead. In fact, he was quite the opposite, it seemed. An ocean breeze caressed his face, the sun’s warmth glowed down upon him, and the peaceful shifting of sand washed over his bare feet. He touched his chest; solid muscle, smooth skin greeted him instead of a feared, ghostly form. Confusion wrapped around his mind, as he stared out upon an endless stretch of beach, all to the sound of lapping waves against a shimmering shore.
It all felt strangely familiar. Peace and happiness surged into his chest, in the presence of summertime delights. In the far distance, something unfamiliar drew his eye. Something dark, something singular, and it beckoned him closer. Without thought, his feet obeyed the silent call of the object, and he walked atop the warm sands of this new realm. Soft grain enveloped his toes and hugged his heels to the repeating sound of rustling. The shape began to sharpen into focus, the closer it became, and Jesse soon was close enough to see that it was an owl.
Slicked back head of hair, accented with a streak of gray, an eyepatch sat over his left eye. An open-chested blouse lightly billowed in the wind, and two powerful legs crossed at the knee. A colorful, fruity beverage filled a glass that rested in his hand, marred with a little umbrella and an orange slice. The owl’s head turned, and three crimson eyes turned with it. “Please, sit.” A large, black taloned hand gestured towards an empty seat at a table.
Jesse sat.
“The confusion will pass; ‘tis but a minor side effect of lucidly projecting into one’s own mind.”
Jesse looked towards the ocean and all its waves, for but a moment, then blinked as a fruity drink of his own appeared on the table upon his attention’s return. A moment of silence lingered between them, as his thoughts began to piece together. “If…this is my mind, then what are you doing in it?”
“It’s not every day that someone like you stands against me with such courage. I’d daresay that such behavior is at least worth some interest.” Stolas took a sip of his beverage. “Plenty of fools make the attempt, unaware of how deeply they’ve doomed themselves with such a simple action. You, however, were fully aware just how out of your depth you were.” The glass gently clinked as it was set back upon the table. “Yet, you did it anyway.”
Right…that’s right: Prince Stolas. He had been shooting at Prince Stolas.
“Does that mean I’m dead?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Stolas seemed to smile, but the motion lacked any trace of happiness; merely performativity. “Why were you helping Andrealphus?”
“You were hurting him.”
“I’m curious as to why that would bother you. You are low born, aren’t you? A little puppet that dances on strings, wrapped about the digits of those higher in society than you. A plaything, a little incubus made naught for entertainment and practical use.” The drink was raised, and the owl took another sip. “Or do you not see it as such?” A twinge of hopefulness resided within the question.
“…because I love him. I…wanted to protect him. He doesn’t treat me that way; not anymore.”
A dip in tone caught Stolas’ voice, as he swirled his drink in contemplation. “Despite knowing all that he's done? Despite knowing who he is? You still found it in your heart to pursue such a thing?” It was a rhetorical question, and the prince gave a low sigh that momentarily caused the sky to waver. “You threw yourself to your doom to save the one you loved, with zero hesitation. For that, you are to be commended.”
“He’s not a bad person once you know where he’s coming from. Andre is…” A smile formed upon Jesse’s mouth until two little fangs shined in the sun. “…sweet, and loving, and protective. I’ve never known anyone smarter or thoughtful than he is. He’s given me so much, all because I treated him like a person.” The incubus raised his own glass and stared into the rainbow-colored concoction. “How could I not do my part to protect him, like he protects me?”
“Yet here you are.”
Jesse’s eyes closed and he raised the glass to his lips. Fruit juices, mixed with alcohol and weaved into a flavor reminiscent of a famous Gluttony Ring beverage lapped over his taste buds. It was as if he were awake. After a few sips, he sat the glass down; his gaze locked upon it. “I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
“How very noble; a true gentleman’s fate.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“It’s an honest compliment. If another had possessed the same determination as you, then perhaps we would not be having this conversation.”
“Is that how you got the…” Jesse tapped at a closed eye. “…you know?”
“Yes.”
“…I’m sorry.”
Stolas paused, then allowed a contemptuous chuckle to rattle from his throat. “Why does it feel more genuine coming from a stranger, rather than the only one who should feel genuine guilt over it?”
Jesse shifted in his seat, and both wings gave a gentle shake to stay limber. “Andre would talk about you, sometimes; about how you were more focused on your imp than your job and daughter. He talked about how bookish and kind you were; and I guess my apology feels more genuine because, when I look at what you are now…I really am sorry about what you’ve become.”
Stolas listened, his gaze turned to the sea; and while he didn’t move, his fingers curled against his leg at the words.
“Andre was the same as a kid; he just wanted to make things, make people happy, be happy. Then all the expectations and royal bullshit happened. That trauma, that weight…it fucked him up so bad that he made a stronger persona just to survive it all. I can see the same thing happening to you.” Jesse turned towards the table and placed his elbows upon the table, then leaned towards the prince. “Someone once told me that violence is just a means of survival, but love is how we live. I’ve had that line stuck in my head every day since, and it keeps proving true at every turn.”
“There can be no love without trust.” Stolas interjected. “I cannot trust him, not after what happened, yet there is a part of me that yearns to love him all the same.”
“Do you know how trust works?”
The prince leered over at the incubus, as if insulted by the question.
“It’s built…the less fuck ups the better, but there are going to be fuck ups; not because anyone did anything wrong, but because shit happens.”
Stolas blinked in surprise at the depth of those words, as the statement wormed its way deep into his mind.
“If he’s sorry, if the shit that he did to you wasn’t malicious, then he’s probably being honest about regaining your trust; let him try.”
“You’re awfully helpful for someone who’s currently being held in their own mind.”
“Well…what else do I have to lose?” Jesse chuckled. What would normally have been a joyous tune was filled with sad resignation. “I’m probably not making it out of here, but maybe I can bend your ear enough to convince you to let Andre go.”
“Even now, you fight for him?”
“Like I said…I love him.” Sunlight reflected from the ocean waves and twinkled in the incubus’ eyes. He sat back in his seat, gaze turned once again to the unending expanse of water; resolved to whatever fate the Goetia had in mind for him. “A life for a life, if that’s what it’ll take.”
Silence fell between both demons, and only the song of the ocean filled the void of sound. After some time, Stolas spoke again.
“You’re a good soul, Jesse.”
“Can I make a request?”
“Yes?”
“…tell Andre that I hope he can forgive you, and that I loved him more than anything.”
“…I shall.”
Stolas snapped his fingers, and the world went black.
“Put your back into it, Moxxie!”
“I am!”
“You actually want to engage your core, honey bun.”
“Oh, crumbs…”
All three demons strained to push the crystal into the back of the I.M.P. van, but they had hit a snag. “I think it’s…caught on something!”
“I told you we should’ve put the seats down!”
Loona groaned and stepped back, a grimace on her face and two hands planted against her lower back. “Fuck…maybe we can just tie it to the roof?”
A sudden sound ruffling wings caused Loona, Moxxie, and Millie to turn their attention away from the crystal. Prince Stolas had emerged from his protective shield, but there was someone with him that the crew didn’t recognize. A muscular demon lay limp in the owl’s arms, and their curiosity entrapped their gaze upon him as he strode over to the stone statue.
“Who’s that?”
“Loona.” Moxxie shushed.
They watched as Stolas took a knee and placed the demon’s body in front of the stone statue. His eyes glowed in rays of red hues, and suddenly, the stone began to vanish. Vibrant feathers and rich clothing revealed themselves as the shell crumbled away, and the peacock that lay trapped beneath gasped for air in a sudden burst of consciousness.
Ragged coughing signaled the figure was still alive as they watched him collapse onto the ground.
“Consider this your one and only warning.” Stolas’ tone brought a chill down their spines, as he gripped the marquis by his head feathers and yanked back. If that movement brought pain, the peacock didn’t show it. “Next time, I will kill you.” Like a piece of trash, Stolas threw Andrealphus’ head downwards, and watched with a passive stare as his face bounced off the floor. With a slow gait, he stepped over the defeated royal and made his way towards I.M.P.
One look their way compelled them to move, and their astonishment was so fixed on the Marquis that they practically slid out of the way. His clothing: tattered. His flesh: bruised. His arm: snapped. Still, he crawled towards the motionless incubus upon the floor, and upon reaching it, muttered something that not even Loona’s superior hellhound hearing could detect. They watched as Andrealphus pressed his face to the stranger’s broad chest, “Stolas…what have you done…”
A battered, tear-stained face whipped around, eyes wide with fury and fear.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
“Come along, little ones.” Stolas beckoned with a crook of his finger; Andrealphus’ anger ignored. One hand placed itself atop the crystal, and as if by magic, it smoothly slid directly into the tailgate of the van. Both doors closed flush, and an audible click was heard as they locked together. “We have much to do.”
“YOU BASTARD! YOU FUCKING BASTARD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?!”
Trapped between the rage of one royal and the calmness of another, the members of I.M.P. shuffled closer towards Stolas, as they stared in shock at Andrealphus’ anguished roars. Their shuffling switched to a retreating jump back as the peacock surged clumsily to his feet, broken arm swinging uselessly under gravity’s sway. Cold magic sprung to life around an outstretched hand, fingers curled like an eagle about to snatch a field mouse.
“Pay him no mind and get in the van.” Stolas beckoned; his gaze still turned entirely away from imminent danger.
“I should have let that filthy hybrid finish the job like he was supposed to! My sister wanted you dead; simple and agonizing, but I thought you could be of use! It is through my good graces that you yet walk this realm, and THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?!” The magic bloomed with power, then sputtered and died as Andrealphus winced in pain. His arm dropped low just like its twin, and a ragged huff bounced from his chest.
If Stolas felt anything from the goading, he didn’t show it; his expression loaded with indifference. Everyone hopped into the van; Loona in the driver’s seat, Millie in the passenger seat, and Moxxie in the back, which left a wide-open seat for their massive avian prince.
“It is through my good graces that your partner is simply comatose, and not deceased.”
The revelation widened Andrealphus’ eyes, and they filled to the brim with distrust and hope in equal measure. “You…he’s not...?”
“We had a rather enlightening conversation. It is through his strength of character and wisdom that I spare your life. He loves you, more deeply than you deserve.” Stolas finally looked back at Andre; his eyes narrowed. “You are lucky to have someone like him; do not squander his courage by antagonizing me again.”
With that final warning, Stolas slid into the van and closed the door with a wave of his hand. The engine immediately roared, and all eyes landed upon him as they made their escape.
No one said a word, either through fear or astonishment, but the silence itself was condemning and cold.
Loona looked into the side mirror and watched as the defeated Marquis crumbled before the incubus’ limp body. Dread squeezed at her heart, and her foot pressed against the gas pedal with greater strength than usual. Despite speeding away at ninety miles an hour, the monster that had kidnapped her father growing increasingly distant…
…she could not help but feel another looming right behind her.
Notes:
Been pumping these out like crazy and have built up a backlog as a result, so I'm going to take a break until I wrap up other projects. If you need anything else to tide you over in the meantime, I have five other Helluva/Hazbin related stories you can read. Thank you so much for the positive reception!
Chapter 5: Absentee Father
Notes:
I'm so sorry.
Chapter Text
“Dance with me?”
Blitz blinked; his environment unfamiliar. An endless ocean of blue painted upon a background of parchment, waves beneath his feet, solid as any ground yet ever shifting, triggered inertia. Strokes of black ink trailed in the path of his fingers, as he raised his hand to contemplate if it was all a dream.
Stolas stood before him, cloaked in a cape of stars, his gloved hand outstretched invitingly. A smile, one that frequented Blitz’s waking and unconscious mind, beamed down like a warm ray of sunlight. Too familiar to the spotlight that blazed upon him in his youthful circus days, a sense of avoidance turned his head.
The sky: empty. The horizon: vast. The air: still.
Odd; the water didn’t smell like water. In fact, it lacked a smell altogether. No fish, no piss, no foam or salt. Solid and dark, a particular beauty hummed from its unknown depths. Blitz couldn’t see beneath his feet, save a canvas, and its oddness unnerved him to the core. No matter how long he deliberated on a response, Stolas didn’t move. He didn’t clear his throat, shuffle his feet, blink, or show any sign of impatience.
A dream, it had to be a dream; what else could it be? Something so lucid, so unnatural, couldn’t be real; at least not to him. It was then that he recognized the absence of sound altogether. Despite all of the water, he couldn’t hear the lapping of any waves. Blitz stared into the distance…and felt a sound.
It was mute to the ears, but its presence droned against his skin. In the beginning, it was soft, like a tiny case of ringing ear. As seconds passed, a presence blanketed the sky; staring, buzzing, admonishing. Hot impatience burrowed against him.
Itching. Humming.
Glaring. Burning.
Pressing. Breathtaking.
Rising and rising.
Faster and faster.
Need to breath.
Can’t breathe.
Heat. Panic.
Panic.
Panic.
PANIC!
Air flooded his lungs in a typhoon of released tension, like he had breached the surface of water. Blitz clutched his chest and heaved, spikes upon his back flexed with each expansion of his torso. The struggle crackled within his chest and interrupted the natural rhythm of his body.
He had to pee.
Had to breath.
Had to blink.
His lips were dry.
His tips were toes.
They couldn’t move.
They were stuck.
Move them.
Move them.
Must move them!
Another gasp, and his skin crawled like it didn’t belong to him. Every trace of his fingers trembled against red, scarred skin in fearful doubt. Deep pain pulsed within his most sensitive physical region; enough to make him huff to reset his breathing. A groan mashed against the rocks within his throat, and a lubricating cough pulled phlegm from his chest. He spit it out. At least, he thought he did.
Stolas appeared before him, knelt upon a knee, hand still splayed outwards in offering.
Blitz grasped hold without a second thought.
Purification washed through his body; all the pain, all the discomfort and dread vanished. With it came the warmth of royal finery, the soft embrace of Stolas’ hands to his own, and a whisper of cool air as he spun in the prince’s shadow.
The water swayed with their steps, each twirl a splash of the primordial, each dip of their tails a wave to compile elsewhere. Peace stilled Blitz’s tongue, while something unknown stilled Stolas’. Together, they danced amidst the world in trails of black ink, eyes fixated ahead. Intimate, yet distant, until the darkness of the ink bled into the shell of water below. Eldritch blue was slowly stained, and the waves eventually ceased altogether, which slowed the dance. Parchment that made the sky darkened with dried red veins that spilled outwards to become wet spots; like a nosebleed left to dry on tissue. Feathers drifted down from on high, and as Blitz tilted his head to observe them, he immediately found his hands empty.
Stolas had vanished.
Every negative sensation returned in force; the humming, the agitation, the primal fear of something watching. Panicked backsteps spun the imp’s head in search of the prince, but he could see no one else. He was alone, yet he could feel another.
It was then that two colossal red eyes opened beneath his feet.
Wide, horrific, gaping eyes of pure malice glared at him from below. Mania filled them, and their malevolent presence brought a sickening heave to Blitz’s stomach. His feet froze, but his legs trembled and twitched in fear, and it was with a pathetic yelp that he leapt backwards and tumbled onto the water below. Crashing water rushed around his ears, and gravity sucked at his lower body from behind. A gargantuan shadow, one so encompassing that it felt like an eclipse, hovered over him. Blitz turned…
…and stared directly into the nightmarish gaze of a monstrous owl.
A second pair of eyes, filled with equal amounts of menace as the first pair, threatened to swallow him whole. The sight shuddered his very soul; enraged and mortified, those spotlights melted his very skin. What had he done to deserve such a look?! That simple question terrified him more, and panic returned to his chest. Upon the ground, fingers slick with the goopy ink, his tiny body heaved with the desire to breath.
Calm down. Calm down.
Can’t.
Too fast.
Too much.
Breathing hurts.
Can’t catch up.
Dead.
I’m dead.
I’m going to die.
Blitz’s eyes widened as his chest rapidly bounced, fire in his lungs. No matter how fast he breathed, he couldn’t get air. No matter how much he tried to wrangle his fear, it yanked him down. His heart was about to explode.
I don’t want to die!
Dark wings burst outwards and feathers rained down. Blitz curled into a ball and sheltered his head within his arms; his panic having brought him to tears. Nothing was safe from the shadow’s petrifying gaze, as its presence burned through the imp’s pitiful defense. Through splayed fingers, terrified eyes peeked, and the tips of said fingers dug against a burnt and scarred face of white and red.
In pure fear, his voice finally roared out with all the power his lungs could muster.
“Is he doing okay?” Loona’s inquisitive snout peeked over Stolas’ shoulder. Both of his arms were spread wide over the motionless figure of her father, trapped within crystal, as magic brimmed in his splayed hands.
Outwardly, the imp appeared to be in simple slumber, but Stolas was privy to the contents of his mind. “He is struggling.” It was, perhaps, not the news a daughter wished to hear about her father, but a lie would only kindle false hope. With his attention fixated upon the crystal, Stolas could only feel the hellhound’s anxious pacing behind him.
“Back in Greed, in that warehouse, what…what did you do to that guy?” Hesitation mingled with her clear curiosity. Whether it was borne of fascination for his magical prowess or a disdain for his actions, was unclear. Either way, she was brave enough to ask, and thus deserved an answer.
“I induced a comatose state within his mental plane.”
Unspoken emotions brewed, and all while Stolas didn’t turn his head to peek at her expression, her energy spoke volumes.
“You know…it blows, seeing you like this.” She waited, and when all that met her was unflinching silence, she continued. “You’ve changed, and not for the better.”
“Apologies if my permanent state of duress is of inconvenience to your conscious.”
Footsteps softly approached from behind, and he could feel her eyes upon the crystal. “I used to feel that way, you know; what you felt when we fucked up. That shitty feeling that no one is coming to help, that no one cares, that you’ve been forgotten…and thrown away.” Gentle claw tips touched the crystal prison and traced over the immersed, frozen visage of the imp within. “I had that feeling for years, locked up in that orphanage. You go through stages, and none of them were easy. It became easier, to hate everyone…and myself, for where I was and how helpless I felt; all I could do was armor up, lash out, say fuck ‘em. Then he showed up.”
Stolas unconsciously shifted his eyes towards Blitzo, his magical incantations on auto-pilot.
“He could’ve chosen anyone else in that rancid shithole, been anyone else’s hero, but…he picked me. So, I’m here for him, because he was there for me.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Yeah, just wondering who this whole edge lord tantrum is pointed at.” Biting words, but spoken with an undertone of honesty. “Blitz is just a guy with so much love for everyone else, that he’s got none leftover for himself. He fucks up, a lot, but he cares; and I think you know that.”
“You cannot rush forgiveness.”
“Yeah, well, if he had never saved me, then he would’ve been able to save you.”
For the first time since their conversation started, Stolas turned his head. A steadfast gaze met his own, one of silver and red; beautiful, wounded, but resolute. Within those eyes, he could sense the self-loathing, the guilt. This wasn’t someone looking to cast blame aside, this was someone redirecting it onto herself. That innate, selfish desire within Stolas that fueled his anger towards Blitz evaporated, and he sighed.
“You should never feel guilty for existing. It was his choice.”
“Hard not to, when my dad’s boyfriend dumped him over it. If you don’t wanna get over yourself for you, fine, but do it for everyone else. There’s already enough sadistic assholes in Hell."
Before Stolas could say anything else, Loona walked off, her peace seemingly said. As a father, he pondered what he would’ve done in Blitz’s place; if it had been the other way around. Octavia always took priority, and even though he wasn’t perfect, Stolas strived to be a proper parental figure for her. In that light, he couldn’t fully blame Blitz’s decision; after all, he had thought to at least send someone, but it was difficult to forgive over the trauma. Hours of torture at the hands of that…
No, it was better not to dwell when there were more important matters at hand. To escape his immediate thoughts, Stolas allowed his mind to sink deep within its on subconscious and grip the thread of magic that kept his spell powered. Retrieving Blitz was taking longer than expected; Andre’s enchantment truly worthy of a Goetia. So it was that the prince allowed himself to slip away from the physical realm and immersed himself within his arcane incantation…all to the benefit of a foreign shadow that crept amongst his ceiling.
Loona sank down into a chair across from Moxxie and Millie, then planted her face atop the table. They had commandeered some plates and glasses from the cabinets and raided the fridge while Stolas worked in the other room. Sullen silence shared between them all, their individual guilt a group effort. Not even orange juice and cinnamon buns were enough to take their minds off recent failures.
“So, how are things going in there?” Moxxie asked, a freckled cheek planted in his palm.
“Slow.” Loona groaned, and alternated cheeks to look towards Moxxie. “Anyone else feel like utter shit about everything?”
“Oh, come on, things ain’t that bad.” Millie spun the tip of a serrated dagger atop the table, her fingertip pinned to the end of the hilt. “We got Blitz back, didn’t we?”
“Practically in a coma, but that’s not what I’m talking about. We ruined Stolas’ life.”
Moxxie and Millie exchanged a look, their faces wrought with the same guilty expression. “That ain’t got nothing to do with you, shu’g. Moxxie and I were the ones who couldn’t get that slippery varmint in time.”
Despite the words, the hellhound turned her head to look straight down at the table. Rich oak; old and well used, yet polished, was full of smells to tempt her canine nature. She ignored every jab. “If I had just told him I didn’t wanna get that stupid shot when he got the phone call; if I hadn’t been so…fucking scared…”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Blitz trusted us to get the job done, and we let him down.” Moxxie folded his hands together and pinned his fingertips together in a minor struggle. Thumbs twiddled, and knuckles popped as he worked over the truth behind his words. “It doesn’t feel right, him taking all the blame for us.”
Nearby, the door creaked open to reveal Octavia. “Everything okay in here?” she asked, a tray of sandwiches in her hands.
Loona, who possessed the most familiarity with the princess, gave a small smile through her grunt. “Trying to be. It’s been one hell of a day.” Her nose perked at the sandwiches; freshly made with veggies and cheese, the bread plush and airy.
“Well, maybe these will help?” she placed the tray onto the table between the lesser demons, and they all took a sandwich. Such a small thing, but as they bit through the bread and felt the crunch of pickles and freshly washed lettuce, groans of satisfaction rumbled to life around the table. Octavia beamed for a moment, then blinked. “Oh, damn, should’ve brought drinks too! Give me one second, I’ll be right back.”
Through a cheek full of bread, Moxxie commented, “At least his daughter seems to be doing fine.”
Loona slowed the pace of her chewing. It was odd that her father was such a gloomy sad sack of tacks while she remained seemingly normal. That could only mean one thing, “Do you think she knows?”
“What do you mean?” Millie asked.
“What her dad just did; what he’s been doing.”
They’d all heard the rumors; how could they not with how rampant they had spread? Stories of how Prince Stolas had scared an entire factory of workers shitless with an act of magic, or how he broke into a casino in the Pride Ring? There had even been mutterings about bodies hidden inside a hedge maze, with the Goetia having been seen in it only moments prior. Of course, they were just rumors, but there were too many to ignore.
“Do you…think we should say something?” Moxxie sat the sandwich down, his appetite momentarily gone. “It might be a bad idea.”
“I don’t wanna get involved in any family drama. Stolas probably wouldn’t want us to either, and we’ve done enough to him already.”
Loona ripped off a sliver of lettuce and rolled it into a ball; something to play with as she listened and thought of what to say next. Even as she spoke, her mind was focused on the follow up. “Something’s bugging me; why was Blitz kidnapped in the first place?”
“He had a lead on Striker.”
“Right, but Striker wasn’t at the warehouse, just that other bird and…whoever the second guy was. What do they have to do with this?”
An expression of worry flashed over Moxxie’s face. “Prince Stolas said he was summoned there, but why? Was it for a ransom?”
“Maybe it was just to try and kill him?”
“Then why give him a heads up by inviting him? Something ain’t adding up.”
Loona flicked her ball of lettuce into the distance and frowned. It was quite the puzzle; one that she didn’t have the answer to. No matter how many thoughts she chased, none of them could come to a reasonable conclusion. Just as her mind was about to become too mired, a pang of instinct made her look upwards. There was nothing there, just an empty ceiling.
“Everything good Loona?”
She wasn’t sure, even with the evidence of nothing staring back at her. “I think so, just had the sudden urge to look up.”
Crashing glass rang out from the other room and a brief scream stabbed at their ears.
“Octavia!”
All three demons bolted from their seats and into the other room, where they witnessed a chaotic sight. Multiple glasses had shattered upon the ground to create a mine field of caltrops, their contents spilled into one huge puddle. There was no sign of the princess.
“Where is she?!”
Loona’s nose perked and caught a scent trail almost immediately. It carried out of the kitchen through a backdoor and into a hallway. “Through there!”
They all vaulted over the glass and rushed through the backdoor, only to skid to a dead stop. In one of the open windows, Octavia was tied to someone’s back! Mouth gagged with a tightly bound kitchen rag, her wrists and ankles tied, and her torso covered in rope, she was properly restrained. Wide eyes and muffled cries for aid cascaded upon the trio, as she spotted them. Her kidnapper turned and revealed themselves; it was Striker.
“Well, look’y here, if it ain’t my three favorite cricks in the neck!” he cackled, perched halfway out the window. “Didn’t expect to find you all here; don’t you know when you ain’t invited to someone else’s shin’dig?”
“Let her go, shit cake!” Moxxie growled, his pistol already half drawn.
Striker gave a sigh of exasperation, “Or what, little man; you gonna shoot me? I know you ain’t that good of a shot not to pepper the little blueblood.”
Moxxie grit his teeth; shit, he was right. Octavia was large enough to act as a perfect shield for Striker’s back. Firearms were useless in this situation.
“How about we just pull you out of that window and beat your ass the old-fashioned way?” Loona snarled; her hackles raised.
“You three couldn’t take me on your best day. Two of you already tried twice and failed, and I can handle some kennel mutt. Your boss was the only one who could go toe to toe with me, and he ain’t coming to this rodeo anytime soon.”
“Tough talk, for a dirty cheat using a hostage as a shield!” Millie’s tail flicked, the knife in her hand flipped over and over; she was egging for a shot, just one opening would be enough to stick this pig.
“Aw, honey, your words sting worse than a cattle driver’s whip.” His head turned as Octavia squirmed and let out further muffled pleas for help. Striker grinned, “Don’t waste your breath princess, your daddy ain’t coming for you.” Laughter bounced from his chest, and his spiked tail cracked the air like a serpentine whip. “Not unless he’s willing to let his little race traitor die, that is.”
Loona froze, her thoughts raced at his words, then it dawned on her; everything slid into place. “The crystal…”
“That’s right! Round of applause for the dumb animal, everyone!” He cackled at their looks of astonishment. “Did you think I actually gave two shits and a shake if you all found me? The only one I’ve got to worry a little bit about is that gloomy parrot in the other room. See, him and I got real intimate in that mine shaft. I found out what makes him tick.” Striker raised his voice, unable to properly suppress his malicious glee. “He’s got a real soft spot for your boss, a big, tender one; so, I figured, hey, why not give him a choice? If he tries to follow me and save his only daughter, the magic in that crystal kills poor little Blitzo. If he stays here and saves his little fucktoy, then he loses his daughter to the same imp that took his eye.”
“You motherfucker!” Loona barked, teeth bared, red eyes tense and savage.
Moxxie’s trigger finger itched, his fingertip mashed against the side of his gun. He’d been seeking an opening this entire time, same as Millie, but couldn’t find one.
“Don’t you all worry, I’ll take good care of our little princess here. I know a few Overlords who’d pay a king’s ransom to slap a soul collar around her pretty little neck!”
A single gunshot rang out, and Striker leapt out of the window. One bullet hole marked the wall just below his boot, and Moxxie silently cursed as they all ran to the window. Down below, atop a fiery steed that reared back in the cold night air, Striker waved his hat at the trio with a villainous cackle.
“Get Stolas: now!” Loona barked, then launched herself out of the window! At least three stories up, the hellhound tucked into a roll as she hit the ground and gave chase, just as Striker’s horse took off into a gallop.
“Loona, wait; shit!” Millie cursed. With a swift tap to Moxxie’s shoulder, both imps turned from the window and ran through the manor. “I’ll talk to Stolas; you take the van and pick up Loona!” There was a jingle of keys as they exchanged hands, and Moxxie gave his wife a nod before taking a sharp detour to the front steps of the manor. They couldn’t let Striker escape.
“Blitz, would you dance with me?”
Dull yellow light beamed down from above, as the imp opened his eyes. He stood in the middle of a vast and empty ballroom; white marble beneath his feet and empty tables all around. Stolas stood in front of him, a hand extended down in a simple offer. Déjà vu jumbled his mind, so much so that he stared at the owl’s hand for a solid minute without speaking. What the hell was going on?
He took that hand, the same he had touched so many times before, and was surprised to find how solid it was. Warmth spread into his hand, and a blanket of security descended over him as those black digits gripped it back. With one smooth swoop, he found himself pulled into a slow dance with the tall owl. Dexterous heels and clingy hands took point for each spin, turn, and pivot of the nameless dance. It wasn’t a waltz, or a tango, or a shuffle; just their own thing.
A long-forgotten smile spread onto the imp’s face. Spinning, twirling, smiling, laughing; all of those things were what kept him locked in step with Stolas. Blitz had never danced like this, yet found his feet drawn to it with ease, almost like it was second nature. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a…stutter?
Black blinds, like smears or static, crackled in a brief flash over everything. It happened so quickly, like when the lights go out for a millisecond, but you’re unsure if they really did turn off or not. He willingly ignored it and continued to dance; this was a moment he didn’t want to lose. In the heat of the dance, he found courage, and with courage, he opened his heart.
“Stolas, I’ve never been good at this relationship shit, but…I want to get better. I know that I’ve been an ass and there’s no number of apologies I could give to ever make up for it, but…fuck it, I love you.” Blitz’s tone remained steady, despite his speech being trapped on the border of rambling. “The first time I ever tried to tell someone that, someone who mattered to me like you do, it bit me hard. I lost…everything, because of that and it’s kept me afraid ever since. I’ve hated myself for so long because of what happened, but I’m fucking tired of…of hating myself. I’m tired of being me; so, I want to be a new me, a better me.”
Everything stretched on forever into a void of white, but all he could focus on was Stolas.
“I want to be better for you, for myself, for my team…for my family; Barbie and Fizz. I—”
Everything trembled; the ground beneath his feet, the air above his head, and even his core.
“What the—” Their dance came to a slow halt, as Blitz looked around at the suddenly empty world. The ballroom was gone, the tables were gone, the dull yellow light was gone. Confusion swelled and ran rampant; the fuck?
Then, a voice echoed from above.
“Blitz, you need to wake up.”
It couldn’t be, but it was: Stolas. Blitz looked between Stolas and the sky, then alternated his attention to try and piece the two together.
“Blitz, you’re under an enchantment. It’s imperative that you listen to me.”
“Stolas,” he said to the owl he was hand in hand with. “How are you doing that?”
“That is a projection, meant to ease your mind into a more conscious state of being. I am not there; I am out here; you are not within the physical realm.”
“Okay, cool trick, but I’ve had my fill of those. I was kind of having a moment with you!”
“Listen to me; I can only maintain concentration for so long. If we do not act quickly, you may never wake up again. Look around, do you see a tree?”
Blitz turned on a swivel and saw nothing but white. “Nope, no tree.”
“I will conjure a guide; whatever you do, do not lose sight of it.” In a puff of dark feathers, a tiny owl appeared out of nowhere and flapped at a steady level around the imp’s eye level. “Follow it, and once you find the tree I will be able to pull you out. Pay no attention to anything you see along the way; none of it is real. Do you understand?”
“Sure, but…how do I know you’re real? Why should I listen to you?”
A heavy wind whistled through the empty realm, and Blitz realized that the physical version of Stolas had vanished. “Because there are people out here who are waiting for you to wake up. Your daughter, chief among them.”
“Loonie?” Involuntarily, his tail flicked with happiness at the thought of his adopted daughter waiting for him. “Alright, but if this is some kind of trick…” he began, and jabbed a finger at the sky. “…I’m gonna be fucking pissed as all shit!”
Millie found Stolas deep within a trance; arms wreathed in an astral glow that matched the crystals’ own. She had no idea what was going on between the two, mechanically, so hesitation put an anxious pep in her little feet. It might be impossible to get his attention, but she had to try. What if it broke his concentration, though? She needed to test the water.
“Prince Stolas?” she whispered, with a frantic wave of her hands. “Can you hear me?” When no answer came, she swore under her breath and spoke with in an inside voice. “We’ve got a problem. You need to wake up!” Again, no answer. With the grace of a scorpion, she hopped onto his towering leg and scuttled up his body until her mouth was right next to this ear. Maybe a little shake would stir him awake?
So, she did just that, and gave the owl’s shoulders and wiggle, then a squeeze; damn it, all this pussy footing around wasn’t doing anything! The alternative was too risky, but she had to tell him what was going on…or did she? If Loona and Moxxie could get his daughter back before he even knew she’d been taken, it would surely be a load off his mind. No moral dilemma, no choice, no mess no fuss. The diminutive imp fished into her back pocket and pulled out her phone, then hit the speed dial for Moxxie.
One ring, two rings, three…four.
Rumbling tires and gunshots filled the speaker, the moment that the line picked up.
“Honey buns, we got an issue.”
What sounded like rock against rubber echoed in the background, as well as Loona’s voice. “Get closer Moxxie!”
“He’ll shoot the tires!”
“Then give me your gun!”
Ruffling fabric; Loona must have delved into Moxxie’s pockets for his gun. Right thigh: always. Compared to her husband, Loona’s voice was farther out, almost like she was halfway out a window. “Sorry Millie, what was that?”
“Stolas is in the middle of some magic mumbo jumbo and I can’t snap him out of it!”
Gunshots popped through the speaker, and the ping of metal responded. The momentary silence lasted far too long for Millie’s liking, her tail a menacing whip of anxiety until her husband answered again. “Do what you can, honey. It looks like Striker is heading for the rail yard. We’re gonna head him off!”
“Get his ass, baby!” Three resounding beeps signaled that the call had ended. It hadn’t exactly been productive, but at least she now had something to tell Stolas once he woke up. With Loona with him, Moxxie could easily take Striker. They had the van and all the firepower stashed in the back; surely, they’d be fine. Millie tried to push it out of her mind, as she slowly pulled back against one of Stolas’ eyelids. Ruby red, no iris, no response: shit.
Whipping winds blew back Loona’s mane and dust peppered her face, in an attempt to ruin her aim. Narrowed eyes of red and silver concentrated down the sight of Moxxie’s pistol; a well-rounded and reliable handgun that gave a satisfying pop with each pull of the trigger. Her core had never been more engaged, stomach clenched tight as steel to steady her aim. The uneven terrain that caused the van to bounce and rumble fought her every step of the way, but she fought back just as hard. It wasn’t easy to hit a pair of galloping hell stallion legs; between the flames that obscured them and their unnatural speed, she missed every shot. After the twelfth bullet, the gun clicked.
Just as it did, a hail of gunfire rained towards her, and the van swerved to avoid the shots. Loona grabbed the roof and jammed her knee against the dash to stay locked on, then dipped back inside to grab more ammo. “Damnit, we’re not getting anywhere!” she growled, body bent forward in search of a mag to load.
A half vacant rail yard loomed on the horizon; Striker’s purpose for choosing it unclear, as there were no active trains that could be seen. Whatever the case, Moxxie slammed the pedal to the floor; he wasn’t about to let the outlaw escape him for a third time. They’d abandoned the roads long ago, almost immediately, and the rough terrain only made keeping up that much more difficult. All the while, Striker had returned fire each time he’d been fired upon. His hostage was the ultimate deterrent; they couldn’t afford to hurt Octavia.
“Have you tried shooting something other than the legs?”
“If I shoot its’ head, they’ll crash and Octavia could be squished! If I shoot his head, he’ll fall off and she’ll get trampled!”
Moxxie grimaced as he hit a particularly rough rock that tilted the van. Hostage recovery wasn’t exactly their specialty, but there wasn’t anything that could trump quick thinking. “I’ve got an idea! Get in the back; I’m going to get close and spin the van. When I do, you throw open the doors and jump onto his horse.”
“How do you know he won’t shoot me out of the air?”
“Because this is a pretty dumb idea; he’ll never expect it!”
Loona snarled at the horseback outlaw, her ire drawn from the permanent and cocky sneer that plastered his face. Their destination was getting close and they were running out of options. “Fine,” she slapped the pistol onto the dashboard closest to the steering wheel. “But you better cover me!”
Moxxie’s hands strangled the steering wheel in a death grip and made the worn leather squeal as he stomped on the gas. One eye on the off road and another fixated-on Striker, determination fueled his fierce concentration. Slowly, they began to gain ground; the power of modern engineering outpacing that of nature. Inch by inch, the van got closer. “Ready?!” he yelled.
“Ready!”
“Alright, on my go!” The van veered to Striker’s left, as if to pass him, and the thunderous clopping of flaming hooves poked above the roar of the engine. Moxxie jerked the wheel the opposite way, as hard as he could, and the vehicle began to violently whip around. “GO!” He had aimed it just right. Wind surged in from the back of the van as Loona threw open the backdoors and pounced upon Striker’s horse.
She landed on its haunch, right behind Octavia, who greeted her with wide and shocked eyes. Striker growled, and Loona gripped the horse between her thighs; just in time to lean backwards and dodge a dagger that slashed at her face! She retaliated with a wide hook, and in an attempt not to smash into Octavia by accident, it flew wide and missed. For her error, the sting of Striker’s blade burned along her forearm.
With Moxxie mid U-turn, the horse gained significant distance and reached the rail yard. To their dismay, the booming call of a train horn roared out and two bright lights peered out from a nearby tunnel. A gun barrel jabbed over Octavia’s shoulder, and Loona barely dodged the following shot; its ear-splitting crack rang in her ear as a reminder of good fortune. Both hands gripped the rope around the princess’ waist and pulled, in an attempt to free her, only to feel herself partially lift off the horse as it vaulted through the air and onto a moving train car.
In that moment, Striker swung his right leg out of the stirrup and stabbed Loona in the side with his spur. The strike doubled as a kick, and combined with the sudden change in gravity, knocked her off completely. She hit the metal roof with a cry of pain and held tight; body mashed tight to resist the wind that threatened to yank her backwards.
Finally, the horse trotted to a stop. Everything they had just drove through played back with startling speed, the landscape whipped by as the train cascaded towards an unknown destination. Striker hopped down from his horse and drew his revolver. “Sorry mutt, but I only bought tickets for me and daddy’s little brat; you’re gonna have to step off!” Nothing but teeth, gleaming white with a single sharpened pillar of gold, split his face, as he pulled back the hammer. “It’s been a hoot.”
Loona lunged to one side, splayed on all fours, and felt the heat of the bullet ping off the train. Adrenaline surged through her veins, her irises narrowed into feral slits of rage, hackles raised and muscles taut with the strength of a predatory carnivore. She shot forward, then slammed her heels down with explosive force and spun to evade a second bullet. A third lunge got her close enough to swing, claws at the ready to rend his smug face to pieces, but the imp leapt backwards with a swipe of his dagger.
“Springy little shit stain!” he cackled, then fired again, this time at her feet. As she dodged the shot, Striker leapt forward and went on the offensive, a blade in one hand and his gun in the other. Slices and jabs alternated with aggressive footwork, like a coked-up honey badger mixed with a pissed off cobra. As Loona cocked her elbow for a counter attack, two more shots rapid fired at her feet, and she maneuvered her body’s momentum into a spinning leap. She momentarily corkscrewed through the air, then slammed the back of her foot against the side of Striker’s face and followed through.
“GAH!” he recoiled, but quickly regained his footing and leapt back towards his horse. One arm dipped into a saddle bag with lightning speed and yanked out a bundle of dynamite! “Here mutt, have a bone!” In a single flourish, a hidden match lit the fuse, the dynamite was thrown, and the entire bundle unfurled mid-air to become a bombardment of explosive death.
“Shit!” Loona dashed forward as Striker leapt back onto his horse, but she wasn’t quick enough to escape the rain of red sticks. Some exploded mid-air, some exploded after they hit the top of the train, but they all posed equal danger. An inferno arose; it’s heat intense, the sheer concussive force enough to shock the hellhound’s muscles, tendons, and organs. None of them hit her directly, but as she ran forward to escape, Striker’s horse turned…and kicked her square in the chest.
A ragged gasp burst from her lungs as she flew backwards. Her back hit metal, then her head, and she flipped onto her front. Harsh steel and an incessant, deafening ringing filled Loona’s entire world, as a spring of liquid rose inside of her. Blood oozed from her mouth, her head pounded, her lungs crackled and crinkled like an empty chip bag.
When she finally was able to lift her head, she saw Striker three train cars ahead. What was worse than watching the outlaw speed away was the look in Octavia’s eyes. No, she couldn’t let that bastard have her! Loona willed her body to move, and in a roaring growl of agony, she pushed up onto her knees.
As her vision began to blur, Moxxie suddenly appeared in front of her.
He shouted something, but she couldn’t hear a word of it. Greater heat warmed her back and shoulders, and the smell of smoke began to fill the air. Oh, the train was on fire. Able to hear or no, she couldn’t quit, but as she stood, a stake of pain impaled her chest and made her bend forward. Moxxie appeared below her, his eyes wide and flickering; panicked, worried, but his mouth still moved with the energy of someone shouting.
They locked eyes, Loona gave him a nod, then stepped forward in pursuit of Striker.
Moxxie did his best not to leave Loona behind, but it was clear that her injuries had hobbled her. At this rate, they wouldn’t catch up to Striker. The countryside rolled by; the van long left behind back at the rail yard. He had barely made it onto the train, but he was thankful he had; otherwise, Loona would have been all alone. That explosion had seemingly deafened her. Moxxie prayed it was only temporary.
Every step from Loona brought a wince to her face; minor cuts along one of her arms and an apparent lack of breath signaled she had taken quite the beating in her one on one with Striker. The fire he started crept along after them; every train car an appetizer for its constant hunger. They had to keep moving or it would eventually swallow them alive.
“Come on Loona, you can make it.”
Even if she couldn’t hear him, he hoped the words would somehow invigorate her body to fight through the pain.
“Moxxie…wait…” she groaned, then sank to a knee. Slow and shuddering heaves of breath never grew above a whimpering, shallow huff. Gingerly, twitching fingers hovered over the sides of her torso. “…I think my ribs are broken…”
“Shit.” Moxxie jammed a hand into his pocket and whipped out his phone. They needed backup; they needed Millie. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then four…and was followed by a pre-recorded message. No, not voicemail; not now! “Just hang in there Loona.” He encouraged; his gaze turned towards the encroaching blaze.
“Go…get that fucker, I’ll…” a violent cough leapt from Loona’s chest, and she covered her mouth with one hand. As she pulled it away, blood stained her palm. “…I’ll catch up.”
“No, I’m not leaving you here.” Moxxie stepped forward and grasped Loona’s furry shoulder, then dipped his own shoulder to try and help her up. A weak shove pressed to his chest, and a clawed hand slapped onto the metal roof below.
“Stop…you need to save her…she’s so scared, Moxxie.” Another weak push to deny his aid, but this time, she raised her head to give a weak smile. “I just…need a second to catch my breath, but I’m right behind you. Go, now, before he gets away!”
Sharp teeth ground against each other as Moxxie’s jaw clamped shut in desperation and indecision. Loona was right; if Striker got away, a grim fate was sure to await Octavia. Stolas would be decimated, and who knew what would happen as a result? He couldn’t leave an innocent girl in the hands of someone like Striker, but he also couldn’t abandon Loona. Moxxie’s eyes brimmed with apologetic moisture, and he gently touched foreheads with Loona, “You better not be lying.”
Then, grief in his heart, the imp spun on his heel and sprinted further down the train. It was too painful to look back, and so he didn’t, but the shadow of abandonment weighed upon his back with every step. Despite being at a significant speed disadvantage, there was only so much train to travel along; so eventually, Moxxie would catch up to Striker, horse or no. Soon, the chug of the train and the tapping of his hooves was all he heard, and the blazing heat faded to be replaced with cool, summer air.
Sloth stretched out before him; cotton-candy skies, floating islands, and cascading waterfalls filled the horizon. Was this where Striker had been hiding? About six cars ahead, he spotted the outlaw atop his motionless horse and drew his pistol. It appeared as if he’d been waiting for quite some time, as the princess was no longer strapped to his back, but instead placed upon the back of that fiery steed.
With absolutely zero cover, Moxxie rushed forward. “Striker!”
The outlaw turned, and even from that large distance apart, Moxxie could see the gleam of his golden fang slide over his bottom lip. Three hops between train cars later, they stood face to face, and Moxxie raised his gun in both hands. “You finally made it, eh pipsqueak?” Hands on his belt, shoulders relaxed, tongue pressed to his teeth in thought, Striker seemed completely at home. “Gotta admit, that trick with the van back there was slick, but you lose points for not being man enough to jump me yourself.”
“You think I give a shit about what you think? Drop your weapons and hand over the princess, now!”
A short scoff blew through tight teeth. “Like it’s that easy? I gotta tell ya, for someone so dainty and fucking sophisticated, you don’t think about the bigger picture much, do ya?”
Moxxie’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened on the grip of his gun, finger ready to squeeze. “What are you talking about?”
“That stick bundle of feathers back there is our ticket to stopping all this bullshit, and you wanna just give her up.” The brim of that cowboy hat fluttered in the wind, as did the open flaps of his vest and the tassels on his sleeves. He stood resolute, unbothered; eyes locked more on the passing landscape than the gun pointed in his direction. Far below them, an open and rocky valley of green yawned with the majesty of untouched nature. “You’ve seen it; I know you ain’t blind. Stupid, sure, but blind: no. That moody blueblood who’s got you running around after me has been slowly tearing up the place, and he don’t care whose garden gets dug up.”
“That’s because of you!”
“Just a feller doing his job, same as any other.”
“Oh, like that’s an excuse!”
“Ain’t that different from what you lot do; you’re killers, just working for different folks with different ambitions.”
“Then you know I won’t hesitate to put a hole in your head.”
“You’d rather gun down one of your own than fight the real enemy? Do you know the only thing that’s gonna stop all of this? You get this girl, this key to the throne, on a fucking leash!” Striker’s face dipped into anger for a moment, a snarl clawed onto his face like he’d swallowed his own venom. “I get her to the right people; they slap her soul with a binding contract that not even a Goetia can break. With her as a bargaining chip, we might actually get somewhere. Our communities can prosper again, we can get into government; hell, we might even be able to get one of our own into the royal houses and shake hands with Lucifer himself!”
“So, what, you’re doing all of this because you’re some hero of the people? Why should she have to suffer through this for any of us; you didn’t ask her to. It’s no different than the oppression you’re talking about, except you’re the one punching down.”
“I’m doing this because I’m tired of being on the bottom, of being thrown scraps while demons who haven’t worked a day in their damned lives are served the first helping just to pick the bone clean. It ain’t fair, it ain’t right, and I’m sick of wallowing around while people tell me that I’m in the wrong for wanting better!” Striker jabbed a finger in Moxxie’s direction. “You and I should be on the same side, but you don’t wanna lose your meal ticket. How’s that make you better than me, ya reckon; willfully ignoring the plight of every imp who’s ever served these royal fuckers, just because you’ve got a cozier collar?!”
“She doesn’t deserve this!”
An explosion shook the entire train. Moxxie and Striker both stumbled. A gunshot rang out. Striker’s horse unleashed a whinnying cry and collapsed onto its side, a bullet hole in its head. Shocked at the misfire and the death of his noble stallion, Striker was unprepared as Moxxie tackled him to the ground.
In the scuffle, all the smaller imp had was the element of surprise, which quickly vanished as his gun was slapped away. They rolled atop the train car, and Striker ended up on top by the time they reached the edge. Moxxie’s head dangled over the side, and his arms raised to resist the downward thrust of a gleaming dagger! Sweat poured down his brow, the larger imp’s superior strength pulling its weight as the blade dipped closer to his face. Moxxie grit his teeth and fought back with everything he could muster, but it wasn’t enough. His strained features shimmered in the reflection of cold steel and gazed back at him; inevitable pain on the horizon.
A blur of white slammed into Striker and soared with him over the edge of the train. Moxxie barely turned his head in time to see who had saved him, only to see a battered Loona roll along a grassy, floating island below. Three small landmasses in total, as if cracked apart by some aerial earthquake, floated near one another at differing elevations. Striker landed on a slightly higher patch of land than Loona, and didn’t appear to be moving.
Working on pure reactionary instinct, Moxxie leapt from the moving train and landed on the same landmass as Loona, just in time to lunge for her as she began to slide off! Nothing but a grassy abyss lay below, amongst a chorus of cascading waterfalls that never touched ground. Before she could fall, he grabbed her hand and held tight!
Moxxie dug his hooves into the dirt, muscles stretching from wrist to chest as Loona’s weight threatened to pull him over as well. Their eyes met as she dangled mid-air, and it took all that he had not to lose an inch of ground. “Loona…!”
The cock of a revolver snapped their heads to attention.
Striker stood above them, the sun at his back and his hat discarded. “You shot my horse.” Surprise filled his tone, and a chuckle bubbled out from his lips, pushed by his chest. Ringed eyes slowly looked between the pair, as if his brain was behind. Then, something within them clicked, and a sharp sheen crossed along his iris. “One dumb animal for another.”
Searing pain erupted in Moxxie’s hand as a bullet passed through it; too great and sudden to resist.
His grip loosened. “Moxxie!”
Blood and sweat disabled it entirely. “Loona!”
She slipped from his hand. It was the first time he’d ever heard her scream.
“ LOONA! ”
Chapter 6: A Father's Grief
Chapter Text
Blitzo panted heavily, an endless realm of white stretched out all around him. What felt like hours had passed, all of it spent in pursuit of Stolas’ owl guide, and he still didn’t feel like he’d gone anywhere! Despite being rather athletic, even he had his limits.
“Wait, hold up you…stupid bird…” he huffed, spiked back bent forward so his hands could grip at his knees. Sweat, salty and hot, slid over his top lip and onto his forked tongue. Stolas hadn’t said anything to him, since they had last spoken, and the silence had started to get to him. Was this really a spell, or was he just dead and this was all a special version of Hell?
Air began to fill his lungs, each inhale a battle to push back a cinderblock’s worth of blockage, but eventually he made progress.
“Alright, fuck, let’s get—” Blitzo looked up. The owl was gone. The white void was gone.
The concealing darkness and humidity of a big top tent stretched into the sky above him. Red and brown stripes draped down from heavenly darkness and formed the walls of his world. Blitzo gazed around as his surroundings, his turning feet kicked up the newfound dirt beneath his boots, and a trapeze swing creaked through the air above. Empty bleachers only made the immediate area smaller, as they boxed him into a circular arena.
It’s not real. Remember what Stolas said; it’s not real.
A light tune perked his ears; it was the sound of a flute. His head snapped towards the source of the music, only to find a tiny demon perched upon a platform high above the ring, tiny legs swinging in the air. Ratty and tattered clown pants and ankle-bound sacks for footwear were the first thing he saw, then a striped and multicolored shirt pinned beneath rainbow suspenders. A bright red clown nose sat on the imp’s own, and a youthful, kind smile peered over the top of the flute.
“Fizz?”
The music stopped. The little imp waved.
“Blitzo, you’re back!”
There were no mechanical arms and legs, no gravely and raspy voice, no white skin; could it be? He stared in stunned silence, as the scent of the room began to envelop him from above; dusty stage, peanut shells, cotton candy and slightly old popcorn butter. Wood from the bleachers capped every scent with a rustic odor; a potent deterrent to mask the underlying stench of alcohol. Fizzarolli’s childhood form stood at the edge of the platform and grabbed hold of the trapeze bar, then gave a wink and swung forward!
The nimble and acrobatic imp let go of the bar, at the apex of the swing, and flipped onto a second bar that had moved on its own. Fizzarolli dangled upside down by his legs, arms towards the ground, and waited for the momentum of the bar to swing him back. Once it did, he propelled his body weight forward and tumbled through the air; constantly flipping all the way. Blitzo ran forward, out of instinct, but skid to a halt as the young imp landed in a safety net and began to crawl out.
How long had it been since he’d seen this place? Long, too long, potentially forever; and while bad memories should have risen to his mind like Hell’s nastiest sludge…he felt nothing but nostalgia. Fizz’s giggles echoed through the tent as he drew closer to Blitzo, a glimmer in his eyes. Their height difference was huge, and the taller imp couldn’t help but take a knee and spread his arms. To his immense joy, Fizzarolli ran into his arms and embraced him in a deep hug.
Tears began to well in his eyes immediately, and Blitzo hugged the unharmed version of his best friend tight. No, this couldn’t be Hell, not with this…this potential second chance.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere! We are so behind on practice, and the big show is in just a few days!”
Blitzo pulled his head back and sniffled, his vision blurred from all the tears. “Fizz, is…is it really you?”
The little imp tilted his adorable red head to one side, “What kind of question is that?! Did you tumble onto your head again? Come on, we need to get the act perfect before tomorrow! Dad says there are gonna be a big crowd of birds coming, and he wants to make sure that we dazzle them.”
Dark wings fluttered in from out of nowhere, and a shadowy, four-eyed owl perched atop Fizz’s head. It stared at Blitzo, “Hoo.”
Fizz giggled; “Whoa, that’s a big bird!”
It’s arrival froze Blitzo to the spot. A crackling tremble overtook his fingers and quickly spread up his arms to the elbow. Stolas’ words suddenly echoed in his head, Nothing is real. Nothing is real. Cold dread sank into his heart with such a piercing chill that he was forced to clench his abdomen. This wasn’t real, he was under that spell Stolas had told him about…this wasn’t Fizz.
Seemingly having sensed the imp’s profound sadness, the tiny jester tilted his head and reached a hand up to pat at Blitzo’s cheek. “What’s wrong? Don’t you wanna practice?”
Emotion ripped through his chest and forced his words to tremble, “More than…more than anything, Fizz…but I can’t.”
“What do you mean?” Childlike eyes peered up with immense confusion, as well as a fear of their own as to what was about to be said. “You’re leaving again?” As if to reinforce the only answer, the dark owl hopped from atop his head and flapped a short distance away; its head turned expectantly at Blitzo.
“Hoo.”
“I’m sorry, Fizz, but I have to.” he stood to his feet and began to turn, but stopped dead as two tiny hands grabbed his coat.
“No! I just got you back; you can’t leave already!”
Grief tore through him. He had been wrong; this was Hell. Blitzo tried to pull away, but those little hands held the fabric of his coat tails tight.
“No!”
“Fizz, I—”
“I don’t want you to go! Barbie misses you, I miss you, your mom misses you!”
Tightness enveloped his throat, but the looming presence of his guide forced Blitzo to lower a hand to try and free himself. “Fizz, please, I can’t stay!” He couldn’t bring himself to push the tiny imp away, even if it was just an illusion; the pain was all too real. His heart broke as Fizz clamped onto his leg for a tight hug.
“Don’t go Blitzo, please!” It was a full on cry now. Tears streamed freely from those wide eyes until the child began to blubber and wail. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”
There was too much pain, too much sadness, as the anxiety within him rose and the realization of what he had to do squeezed his heart into submission. Poisonous resolve boiled in his chest, and it was with heaviest of hearts…that he shoved Fizzarolli off of him with a single hand. Free, he ran.
As his best friend vanished from sight, only his presence could be felt upon Blitzo’s back as he sprinted away. The surrounding tent began to stretch thin, as Fizz’s cries roared through the empty world ahead of him. All that sat in front of him was the owl, its feathery wings enraptured in flight as they continued onwards together.
“BLIIIIIIIIIIIITZ!”
The glow of a green inferno erupted behind him, it’s heat fresh upon his back. Fear, regret, loss fueled the devastation in his heart, as Blitzo clenched his eyes shut and blindly ran. Tears flew from his eyes until they burned, his earlier fatigue completely forgotten and immunized. He felt like such a rotten bastard.
Eventually, it all faded; the heat, Fizz’s cries, the décor of his childhood environment. Once again, he was lost in an endless void. At the vast silence that stood before him, Blitzo slowed to a complete stop…and let out a scream of agony and sadness that echoed into nothingness.
It took everything he had not to collapse onto his knees, but he couldn’t stop his hands from being drenched in his falling tears. They trembled beneath his own rain; everything blurred as his lung began to hurt once more. All he wanted to do was curl up and die.
A hoot tore him from his sorrow, and the tapping of talons against ground turned his head slightly upwards. That black owl shifted on two feet, it’s four red eyes filled with neutrality and understanding. It sat and watched as Blitzo cried, and cast no judgement, no admonishment for his sadness, or mockery at his pain. Like a silent friend, it watched him weep, and slowly approached with the warmth of an emotional support animal.
He resisted the urge to scoop it up, and instead began to smear the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Little blubbering aftershocks bounced his shoulders, and his wrists soon aided in the drying of his face. Feathers soon bumped against his leg, which brought out a shuddering and short laugh; albeit brief.
“I’m sorry…I’m…that was fucked. I’m…”
“Hoo.”
“Right, shit, right…we need to…I need to keep going.” An unfamiliar sensation embraced his leg, and he looked to see that the owl’s beak was busy rubbing against it; gentle nips and nibbles followed, almost as if it were preening him. Maybe it was the one form of comfort the bird could give.
With the reassurance that he wasn’t alone, Blitzo sniffled one last time, wiped the final tear from his eye, then set off into the unknown once again.
Sleep weighed heavily upon Blitzo’s eyes, his footsteps felt like two petrified tree trunks trying to pull an anchor from the ocean floor. Darkness passed over his sight every other second, and his mental state began to drift. It took all he had not to pass out, but his body soldiered on. At the cost of pace, he stumbled about in a nearly blind state, until he slipped to his knees. Head heavy, neck heavier, back arched; he just wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep.
“Hoo.”
“I can’t…I need to sleep…”
“Hoo.”
“Please, let me sleep…”
“Hoo!” The flap of feathers, the tapping of talons, and a gust of wind sounded in sequence before Blitzo felt the weight of the bird atop his back. A tiny dance took place, like a side a side bounce accompanied by a few firm hops. It was oddly soothing. Sweet darkness closed over his eyes, three tiny taps of the owl’s beak pecked his side, but he was too tired to care.
As the kind and motherly tendrils, the promise of dreams, and a release of tension descended upon Blitzo, a fourth sensation appeared. Warmth, like that of a perfect summer’s day, began to toast the outer layer of his clothing. Something soft, molten, feathery, pillowy, and angelic touched the top of his head.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep yet Dad, you’re almost there.”
Through squinted eyes, a brilliant light beamed directly into Blitzo’s mind, and his head rose from the ground. “Loonie?” Draped in a golden glow, his daughter sat crouched in front of him. Akin to a hologram, her body appeared partially translucent, yet he felt as if he could reach out and still touch her. “What are you doing here?”
“Giving you a push. Now come one, get your ass up.” Her touch was like that of a cloud, and its power practically levitated Blitzo back onto his feet. Newfound and vibrant energy poured into his body to infect his muscles, his organs, and every cell. All his fatigue vanished, sleep the farthest thing from his mind.
The owl on his back hopped down and jumped about on the ground. “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!”
“How…are you here?” Blitzo stared at his daughter’s face, her trademark aloof nature showcased, even through hues of gleaming gold. “Are you real? Is this another trick to fuck with me? Am I just…imagining this?” Loona placed a hand upon his shoulder, and the sweet smile that peeked onto her muzzle melted his soul.
“I’m real, Blitz, and I’m here to make sure you get home.” She shifted, then pointed with her other hand into the distance. “About ten minutes that way, you’re gonna find a gorge; a deep and fucking scary gorge. Once you get there, jump into it; that’s your ticket home.” She pointed at the hopping owl. “Stolas can back me up on that.”
“Wait, if you’re here, then…how exactly…what—”
“Dad.”
Her sudden use of the word ‘dad’ shut him up. Her smile slipped into a half-smile, drawn tight against her face, and her brow lightly furrowed. The hand upon his shoulder squeezed, and with a sigh, she turned in and embraced Blitzo in a tight hug. Blitzo’s eyes widened, and his body sank into the first hug he’d ever received from her. He didn’t know what to do; trapped in the wonder that was his adopted daughter’s embrace, his heart soared and flipped and pounded with joy…and love.
“I need you to promise me that you’re going to wake up. Stolas needs you, Moxxie and Mille need you…I…need you.”
Blitzo embraced his daughter, and her body partially yielded; whatever she was made of gently absorbed his arms and torso, if but only for a moment. “I will, Loonie. I’ll see you all soon.” She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then the hug released.
With eyes full of love, Loona smiled again. “Thanks Dad…I love you.”
Before Blitz could say anything, she evaporated into the wind; nothing but glittering stardust.
To the empty air, he smiled. “…I love you too, Loonie.”
True to her word, a dark gorge appeared in the earth after ten minutes of walking. Blitzo stared down into its craggy abyss, the tip of his boot partially over the edge. A gentle scrape with his boot sent ivory rocks, like that of chipped paint, down into the darkness. Their meager light vanished within seconds, and he never heard the sound of their landing.
He turned towards the owl guide, who sat perched on the edge of the gorge beside him. “So, this is the way out?”
“Hoo.”
“Alright, still can’t understand you, but I’m gonna assume that means yes.”
“Hoo.”
Hesitation gripped his feet. “You wanna…I dunno, jump in first to prove it’s not bullshit?”
“Hoo.”
“Right, that wouldn’t prove anything: shit.” Blitzo clapped his hands together, then rubbed his palms to generate invigorating friction. A sharp exhale flew from his pursed lips, as gentle bounces were done to try and psych him up. He had to make a decision soon; if he took too long, he’d lose his nerve! “Guess I’ll…see you on the other side, Stols?” he turned, but the owl was gone.
He embraced the fear in his heart…and jumped down into the gorge.
Wind tore upwards under his coat and made it flap violently as he fell. It only grew angrier as he felt himself pick up speed; the light above dimmed with every passing second. Soon, he was enveloped in pitch blackness, his head became light, his body floated until he couldn’t feel it anymore. Alone, weightless, formless, free, Blitzo fell…and fell…and fell…
…
The thunderous tick of a clock signaled another second had passed. Stolas still stood before the crystalline prison that housed Blitzo’s unconscious form. He had not moved for hours, his mind locked within a powerful trance; one that could match the strength of the binding enchantment cast by Andrealphus.
Millie paced back and forth, her cellphone jammed against one side of her face. Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail; she had began to worry. Normally she wouldn’t, but Moxxie should have been back by now, or at least be able to answer his damn phone! Stolas wouldn’t answer, Blitzo couldn’t answer, and Moxxie could be either or; it was absolutely fucking maddening. She was so high strung, that the sudden crack of the crystal and a gasp from Stolas sent her halfway to the ceiling!
Glowing light burned through the air in thick columns as more and more cracks formed. Stolas stepped back and threw an arm up to draw his cloak as a protective shield. A chorus of clinking rocks played against the ground as the crystal shattered…and Blitzo jolted awake.
“HOLY…FUCK ME!” he gasped, hand clutched to his chest. Multiple wheezes ballooned his chest outward, each a ragged and hoarse declaration of life.
“Blitz!” Millie cried out, her strong arms instantly wrapped around his torso in a tight hug. “Oh thank Satan, you’re alive!”
“Yup..!” he groaned out, the white scarring on his face shifted to a shade of pink as he lost all his air again. “…alive and…kicking!”
Stolas sighed and slowly approached, his arms hidden beneath his cloak, gratitude alight within his heart. To think that Andrealphus could have woven such an intricate and powerful spell… While that knowledge worried him, it was pushed to the back of his mind from the relief of Blitz’s safety. Momentarily lost in Millie’s reverie, he watched in silence as she embraced her boss. Wait; there had been three of them earlier, where were they?
“You two had been under for hours! I was getting’ so worried!” Millie’s hug broke and her head turned towards Stolas…then her smile faded completely.
Stolas’ stomach tightened at the expression.
“We had a…few problems happen, in the meantime.”
The Goetian Prince turned, eyes thin as razors.
All of the red drained from Millie’s face, and a cold sweat broke out upon her brow at that look. She felt as small as a field mouse, locked onto by an inescapable harbinger of dark wings and sharp talons.
“Ya gotta promise not to get mad, but…while you were working on this, Striker paid us a visit.”
Fierce crimson light gleamed in the prince’s three remaining eyes, and his towering figure bent at the waist to jam his face directly in front of Millie’s. Enveloped by the ominous glow, fear seized her, and as she forced the words to continue, her body trembled.
“And…he…nabbed your daughter, but Loona and Moxxie—”
“WHAT?!” Occult flames exploded around the prince in an unholy inferno; his body wreathed in smears of black, red, and purple. Its heat was scorching, yet somehow cold, and not a single trademark glimmer of his magic resided within. A gale of heat tore nearby books from their shelves, pushed furniture along the ground, and whipped up the drapes. His cloak billowed in the embodiment of his rage, while the prince himself stood firm with a mask of twisted emotion.
Blitz took a step back, mouth agape with the sheer explosive power on display and a raised forearm to shield his eyes from the blaze. In all the time that he had known Stolas, this was a side of him that he’d never seen…and a knot of terror turned in his gut. He had seen the prince’s true form; the massive and demonic bestial form he took to save them from D.H.O.R.K.S, yet it paled in comparison to the demon’ present aura.
“I tried waking you up, but you were too far under! I can’t get a hold of Loona and Moxxie either, but last I heard they said Striker was heading to the railyard!”
Stolas’ eyes flickered with a myriad of emotions; tight to the point that they may just rip straight out of his skull. In them, Blitz saw the fury of a father, but there was also fear; chaotic and overwhelming fear that signaled an inevitable meltdown. A practical ticking time bomb had started a countdown, and there was no telling what would happen when the fuse burned out. Blitz stepped forward and put an arm out in front of Millie to shield her from the royal’s gaze, “We’ll get her back, Stolas: promise.”
As if Blitz’s words hadn’t reached his ears, pointed talons stabbed the open air. To the shock of both imps, a crack appeared, and wailed as Stolas jabbed a second set of talons into it. With one sharp rip, a gateway was torn open, and in its gaping, jagged maw sat the background of a seemingly abandoned railyard. Without hesitation, he pushed through; Millie and Blitz right behind him.
Empty tracks, open and vacant train cars, and a dark tunnel were all that awaited the trio. “OCTAVIA!” Stolas yelled; the usual posh and regal nature of his tone entirely absent. As the prince spun around, eyes frantic in the search for his only daughter, Millie jabbed a hand at a nearby clue.
“Tire tracks, they must’ve driven through here!” Said tracks head in the direction of the tunnel, then seemed to turn around and divert their path to follow the railroad. Out of the tunnel, they carried ahead in a straight line, and also held a path that deviated onto a leftward curve. The tires followed the leftward curve; a track that lead towards one of the many junctions between rings.
“Shit, they could be anywhere. Millie, try calling Moxxie again; we can—” Blitz let out a surprised yelp as his body rose from the ground, back of his collar gripped in Stolas’ large talons. Millie was hoisted as well, and the two imps were wrapped in dark wings as he shifted into a mass of red and black feathers. Together, they flew through the air along the path of the tracks. Below, the world passed in a blur of color, and all sense of momentum was greatly diminished within the safety of royal wings.
After what felt like only minutes, they slowed to a halt, and the world opened up once more. Beautiful skies of pink, blue, and white stretched above a landscape of verdant green and levitating rock. Sloth, in all of its lethargic glory, surrounded them.
“Why’d we stop?” Blitz asked, his head tilted upwards to look at Stolas.
“Blitz, the van!” Millie cried out. The IMP van sat on its side in the distance; shallow trenches lead straight to its crash sight. A back wheel was missing, the front and side window was shattered, and the side mirror was snapped, but still held on by the thread of its wiring. Anxiety spurred their steps, as both imps rushed towards the overturned vehicle.
“Loonie, you in there?” Blitz called out, then hopped onto the van to grab the door handle and yank it open to look inside. The interior was a mess; all of the decoration and weapons scattered over the seats and against the cracked windows.
“Moxxie?” Millie called out in turn, her own head dipped into the driver’s side of the van. “If the van’s here, where are they?”
“There’s no blood, so that’s a good sign…” Each piece began to click in his mind; a story to be inferred. “It looks like Striker hopped a train and they followed. If they crashed here, then that means they might have hopped on the train with him.”
“But where’s that train now?”
“No idea, but that fucker had to have stopped at some point.”
Stolas fidgeted in place and dug at the earth with slow, powerful clenches of his talons. They were wasting time with conversation, and the dread over his daughter’s safety gnawed at his patience. “I will take to the air. I can cover much more ground that way.” Magic glowed along his hand, and with an upturned gesture, the van was flipped onto its tires. “Stay here and tend to your vehicle; I will find the train.”
Not wishing to suffer any debate on the matter, Stolas surged into the air once more and corkscrewed through the sky. Sloth’s countryside, illuminated in a peaceful and tired cascade of sunlight, was worthy of an art gallery. It was a harsh contrast to his own form, but such things mattered little at the moment. The greater issue lay within the ring’s size; sure, he had a general area to inspect, but the realm was gargantuan, even with the power of flight. As he flew, the land began to narrow until the train tracks hugged the face of a mountain, and below it, a steep cliff that fed into distant fields of green. Crashing water roared into his ears, its source the multiple waterfalls that plummeted off floating islands, and the prince turned his head to gaze at the endless fields below.
Within his eagle-eyed vision, a peculiarity stuck out. Amongst all of the green was a dark dot, one that lesser eyes would have easily missed. Instinctual terror sank in at the implication; had his daughter fallen from the train?! Stolas swerved and dove into a sharp plummet, flecks of water all around him as the waterfalls turned to a steady drizzle. Tall grass, flanked by natural pools of pure, glittering water obscured the object rather well, but its nature soon became clear.
It was a body.
Stolas touched down and shifted back to his normal form, heart in his throat as he rushed the immobile form. Unimaginable terror gripped at his muscles; don’t flip it over, don’t see, don’t risk the agony of it being your daughter. Yet, his parental instinct proved far stronger, and he slid to his knees and reached out amidst the grass. What felt like a shoulder or an arm greeted his touch, and Stolas pulled to one side to flip it over.
Closed eyes and scratched fur turned in his direction, a dark stain of dried blood behind the figure’s head. Hours old, it clung to the blades of grass; its’ red coloration already faded to near black. A long muzzle, shut and peaceful as if in a state of casual slumber, tilted with graceful femininity. White fur that mingled with gray in a distinctive pattern held a sickly pallor, somehow even paler than before.
Shock rippled across the prince’s face. “Loona…”
Grim realization settled upon him, and Stolas’ three eyes shut tight in a solemn expression of grief. To have fallen from such a height…she must have perished on impact. Gentle fingers brushed aside a mane of gray hair to gaze upon her peaceful expression, and a worming coil of guilt lashed out to strike at his constitution. If he had been a superior sorcerer, if he had just been faster at unweaving Andrealphus’ magic…
Stolas gently held her face in both hands. Forehead to forehead and eyes closed, he mourned the loss of Blitz’s adopted daughter. Hardness behind his eyes, poised to steel his heart against emotional turmoil, brought a sudden and devastating reality; what was he going to tell Blitz? As a father, this was…a nightmare, black and unending as Satan’s soul. No crueler fate could be bestowed to the heart than the loss of a child, and even though she was fully grown and had been adopted, she was still Blitz’s daughter; his only daughter.
Shuddering breaths left his beak, anguish mingled with anger in each exhalation. Striker, Andrealphus; both were to blame for this tragedy…as was Stolas himself. His choices, his influence, his desires, his weakness, had lead to this. Arms slid beneath Loona’s back and tested the weight of her frame; immediately, he knew that it had been shattered in the fall. Limp in his arms, her body hung with all the majesty of a sleeping beauty, but her presence only filled the prince’s soul with sorrow.
Thoughts of his own daughter surged angrily through his mind, but his heart compelled him to perform a single act…one that sunk deep with a visceral maliciousness. Octavia could be anywhere by now, trapped in the hands of a fiendish outlaw, but he couldn’t simply…leave Loona like this. He couldn’t abandon Blitz to handle this loss on his own, not after…
“Loona…Blitz, forgive me.” he muttered, as he took to the skies once more.
“Engage your core, Mills!” Blitz shouted, as he gripped the rear bumper of the van. Son of a bitch was heavy, given it was a rust bucket of pure steel whose tires were half-sunk into the dirt from all the hoisting and all. If they were going to put the tire back on, they’d need to find a way to prop it up. Toned leg muscles strained to their maximum, veiny potential as Blitz squat lifted that van, sweat on his brow and face strained with exertion.
“Momma didn’t raise no bitch, Blitz!” she shouted back, as the vehicle began to rise. Adrenaline surged through her limbs, a rush of success followed, and confidence forced the ass of the van into the air.
“Hot…fucking tits Mills, you’re awesome! Alright, now the tire; wait…” His head whipped left and right to try and locate the tire, and when he couldn’t, he groaned. “Shit, where did we put it?!”
Before Millie could say anything, the sound of rapidly beating wings reached their ears, and they dropped the van. Stolas was back! Her heart soared; did that mean he found Moxxie and Loona? The scrape of her and Blitz’s feet turned in unison, only to stop dead at the sight before them.
Stolas stood with his head bowed, a motionless and limp Loona carried in his arms.
“Loonie!” Blitz dashed forward and skid to a stop; eyes locked on her face. “What happened?” His head tilted upwards, eyes wide. “Stolas, what happened?!”
One look at the owl’s face dropped the imp’s heart into his stomach. “Blitz, I am…so sorry.”
Millie gasped, hands clasped over her mouth.
Slowly, Stolas knelt towards the ground on a single knee and held his arms out, his voice low and soft. The same eyes that had struck terror into their hearts earlier in the day now possessed a kind sorrow; no longer crimson lasers, but ruby gems that shined with fresh raindrops. “I found her at the bottom of a cliff. It would seem…she fell from the train.”
Denial shook the imp’s head from side to side, his tail a twitchy whip that curled inwards on itself; unable to cease. “No…no…” a shaky, loose moan that failed to capture the depth of his sadness. He reached out and held Loona’s face with both hands. “Loonie…Loona, wake up; c’mon, you’re fine…you’re fine…” When she didn’t respond to his calls, his face dropped along with his voice. It was barely a whisper, a whimper so weak that it could only be uttered by a broken soul. “…Loonie?”
Gingerly, he took his daughter into his arms and collapsed onto his knees. Wide, hardening eyes stared down at her unresponsive body; the stillness of her face, and the cuts on her arm. Stolas stepped back to grant the imp room, as Millie cautiously approached from the back, her eyes misty.
“She’s fine! She’s…she’s just sleeping: look.” Blitz brushed aside that large gray mane to expose the hellhound’s face; serene, yet hollow and cold. “This is just…how she sleeps; I’ve seen it so many times!” His face pressed to her cheek, and he began to rock back and forth, his voice back to a pleading mutter. “Open your eyes Loonie…show them you’re just sleeping; I…I know you’re just sleeping. Wake up, please…” Blitz’s grip tightened around her and a dismantling shudder chipped away at his delusion.
His lip tightened, and his spine bent inward to share his body’s natural warmth with the cold corpse of his daughter.
A sharp hitch in breath was the last straw for Blitz’s mental defenses, and with the exhale came a cascade of pain that wrest all manner of control away. Tears freely poured from his burning eyes, his fingers dug against her furry arms as he clutched her close, and an earthquake possessed his shoulders. Mouth agape against her pelt, Blitz unleashed an ugly wail that seared every bit of moisture from his throat. It was a bellowing, mournful sob that ripped apart his heart. There were no words, only the sound of a father who had just lost everything, as each cry of agony reaped another chunk of his soul.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t think; he didn’t care about anything, nothing mattered, nothing existed save the sensation that overtook him entirely. Stolas and Millie didn’t exist; everything he’d ever known didn’t exist. Barbie, Fizz, Moxxie, IMP; it all vanished in that singular moment of loss. Blitz couldn’t stop crying, even as it tore his chest apart and ripped through his lungs until naught was left but croaking groans and sobs. Only when his agony peaked, when his body screamed to die and his mind shattered into pieces, did his voice return.
“LOONA! NO…NO…NO…NO…NO!”
It was the most pitiful and harrowing sight that Stolas had ever witnessed, his own heart twisted at the pain on display. To see Blitz break down, someone who had been so abrasive and confident, was enough to tighten his throat. Worse were the sounds, those pure cries that would haunt his soul for eternity. This was a father’s pain; a pain he resolved to avoid with every fiber of his being. Comparatively, his missing eye was but a bruise.
From behind, Millie embraced her boss with a tight hug as his head tilted towards the sky. Sharp teeth stabbed against his lower lip, held aloft by a quivering lip until he buried his face back into his daughter’s neck. There was no pulse to be found, and its absence sucked another wail from his body.
Stolas slowly approached, and Millie glanced upwards at him. “What about Moxxie? Did you find my husband?” she sniffled, clearly distraught by the loss of her boss’ daughter.
“I did not. He might…still be in pursuit.”
Black hair briefly dipped over closed eyes, and a strong jaw clenched at the information. “I gotta find him, Blitz.” She muttered in apology, and placed a sad kiss upon the side of his face. “I’m sorry…” With that, Millie released her fold and backed up, only to look back at the van. Then, she looked back at Stolas, “Please, take care of him. I’ll get Moxxie back, and hopefully find your daughter too.” Another sniffle, then a backhanded wipe of her eyes signaled that despite the emotional turmoil, her resolve was strong.
“Thank you. I will send you aid as soon as possible.” With a plan in motion, Stolas knelt down and touched Blitz’s shoulder. “Blitz…we must go.” A simple hand wave, gentle and tired, conjured a portal back to his manor, but the imp didn’t move. “Blitz…” Empathy carried his hand to rest against that tear-stained cheek. “…come with me.”
Empty yellow eyes gazed past that caring touch, as if it belonged to a ghost, and stared at Loona’s face. Every detail was absorbed into his memory; the texture of her fur and the coldness of her body. Yet, her eyes now lay forever closed, and he could only recall their silver and red coloration. To rebel against the hand upon his cheek, the imp’s face tensed into a mixture of grief and rage; lips curled down and brow twisted.
His fist shot forward, only to uncurl and clamp about Stolas’ forearm. A fuming visage turned upwards, lips tight, jaw grit, temples flared with angry veins. Trembling, sharp teeth formed a deadly gate that flashed before the owl’s face; their shine enhanced by the cascade of unending tears that poured from above. Breath bulged in his throat, as if he was about to say something, but whatever it was turned into a sloppy hiss of air. Muscles sank, his grip relaxed and left his hand to weakly dangle; head soon to follow.
Another tremble wracked his shoulders, and Blitzo’s teeth stabbed into his bottom lip. “I ruin… everything I touch…” A gasp forced his lips apart, only for it to completely overtake his body and force it into a weak, rocky exhale. “…you…my family… my daughter…” That loose grip clamped down once again, but Stolas suffered through the pain in silence; far too deep in Blitz’s own to care. “She didn’t deserve this…I should’ve been there, I should’ve been awake, I should’ve…She deserved better than me!” Newfound sobs wracked his entire body, and the imp folded atop that body still cradled in one arm. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore Stolas; I can’t…”
Unable to bear the sight any longer, Stolas spun his wrist and latched onto Blitz’s arm; his other hand jut forward and placed itself amidst the space between his horns. “Sleep.” At the command, soothing and potent magic funneled directly into the imp, and he sank limp atop Loona. It was the greatest mercy he could think to grant him, a bereft father, and as he began to guide them both through the portal, Stolas’ mind drifted towards the safety of his own daughter.
He needed more eyes in the air, and he knew just the soul to provide them.
Chapter 7: An Unlikely Alliance
Summary:
The foundation of their relationship at its weakest point, Stolas makes time to console Blitz in his hour of need. Yet, he cannot leave the search for Octavia unattended; and thus enlists the help of a particular Overlord.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Woodwind instruments played low notes through veiled speakers. Thick smoke, packed with an overabundance of nicotine and cherry scented chemicals, flooded the entire room. Dim lights illuminated the space behind a wide, mahogany desk, and the documents that lay open it. Husk lifted his whiskey tumbler with two fingers, a smoking cigar gripped in a separate pair. The night was long, and the potent relaxant helped keep his agitation low over the contents of the paperwork. Plumbing, foundation, carpentry; all of it had piled up the point of seeming nigh unfinishable. Even with all the wealth of an Ars Goetia royal behind it, the task was one big fucking headache.
Through the thick glass, a distorted reflection stared his way; Prince Stolas’ seal branded over the heart of his palm. Husk recalled the moment of their deal and how the sorcerer’s magic raked through his arm like a thorny tendril and into the depths of his soul. Crackling, burning…something inherently wrong imbedded inside that created a cloud of dread that loomed above him even now. Just build a casino: easy, right?
Suddenly, in the reflection, three narrowed, crimson eyes glared at him like daggers.
Husk jolted in his chair. His hand shot to the pistol atop his desk and drew it as he spun to face his attacker. Yet, not attack came, as familiar finery obscured his vision and a long, slender black talon pressed down atop the gun’s barrel. Heavy eyes, reinforced with what he could only deduce as severity, enveloped him like spotlights.
“Prince Stolas…” he gasped.
“I have need of you.” A cold response; one that held no space for argument. They were words of stone and of strength.
“…with what? I’m making the casino, just like you asked.” At his words, Stolas’ face jutted closer, and while there was no visible indication of it, he could feel the Goetia’s beak slide and grit against itself.
“And you shall continue to do so, but a more pressing matter requires your talents.”
Husk slowly narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Stolas leaned forward, eyes narrowed further with enough weight to force every tongue into silence. “Those wings are for more than simply show, I take it? I need you to scour the other rings in search of someone.”
Confusion wracked Husk’s feline features and his ears gave a curious flick as question upon question piled in his mind. “But…I can’t travel outside of Pride.”
“You shall be granted passage while under my jurisdiction, but it shall be only for this task.” When the Goetia said nothing more, there was a lapse in the held gaze between both demons, as the Overlord glanced about expectantly for a bauble, ticket, or anything physical that would grant him access to another ring. Stolas’ three-eyed stare began to seep into the paranoid, primal part of his brain; that fear of predators which told the more delectable creatures to tuck tail and run. The owl came and went as he pleased with zero warning; and with this being the second time he’d gotten the drop on Husk, the sinner wasn’t too keen to pick a fight, let alone even disagree with his wishes. Then, just as he was about to open his mouth, his question was answered as if pulled straight from his private mind.
An intense throb rippled through his palm, and he glanced down to see that Stolas’ rune marked upon his skin had began to glow. With a wince, Husk grasped his wrist with a light hiss and grit his teeth; something was…wriggling in his arm! Fingers cracked and contorted in ragged, unconscious motions for a moment, then snapped back into docility. Control had been rent entirely away, and through a momentary miasma of panic came the sensation of sweet release. He quickly wiggled every last one of his fingers, just to ensure they still belonged to him, but kept his distaste and discomfort smothered. “Who am I looking for?”
Just as he was comfortable in his own skin again, dark talons wrapped about his marked hand and firmly squeezed; not enough to hurt, but enough to trigger the sensation of impending death by crushing. Dark feathers, filled with an ivory mask of chilling malice, jutted towards his face until the red of those predatory eyes encompassed all else. “That information shall not leave this room. You are looking for Princess Octavia, my daughter.”
Husk gulped, locked in the hypnotic doom that bathed his fur in crimson hues of far-gone blood, like that of the harvest moon. “Someone…took your kid?”
“Yes, and you are going to find her for me.” At the declaration, a sharp tug bent the overlord back as the owl hovered above him. Despite the discomfort, Husk couldn’t resist the force that gripped his hand. He had no doubt that if he gave the wrong answer, he’d be bird food.
“But…I don’t know the first thing about tracking people down. Where would I even start?”
“She was last seen in Sloth; you shall begin there. Help has already been sent ahead to assist you in the endeavor. An imp shall be waiting for you at a gas repository. You are to establish contact with her, and together, you will locate and secure my daughter.”
“How do I get to this…gas repository?”
“Follow the train tracks.”
When no further information came, the feline flicked an ear to curb his confusion and agitation. Being yanked out of his comfort zone like this was a bitch, but he was dealing with a Goetian Prince, and that wasn’t a hill he was about to die on like some idiot. As further questions arose in his mind, said prince finally released his grip and allowed him to take a few steps back.
“Is that everything I need to know?”
For a moment, the atmosphere thickened with an aura that made his fur prick on end. Musty and wrong, it sank deep below his chest like some slug about to suck him down whole. Then, the aura lifted, and Stolas shot his attention back his way, as if he had been focused on something beyond him. Was it a memory…or something worse?
“This pass is for you and you alone; your partner must stay behind. If you fail, you shall not find him waiting for you, upon your return home. Do I make myself clear?”
Husk’s fur slowly perked to stand on end; he knew a threat when he heard one, and his affection for Angel briefly blinded his fear. “You come into my house and threaten me: fine, I can take it. You threaten my Angel; that’s a whole other fucking story!”
The lights went out, and a darkness so heavy enveloped the room that blinded even his feline night vision.
Husk whipped around; it had been too long since he’d been blinded. Snuffed out candles and cigar smoke assaulted his nose, the music swelled and washed over him in undulating waves. As if twisted by the darkness itself, those harmonious notes became discordant, and from every angle, an overwhelming presence pressed against him. Fear entered his heart, tempered by anger, and his fangs bared as his neck muscles tensed.
“Did you know…” a luscious voice drifted in the dark. “…that Anthony is afraid of heights?”
Husk’s spine trembled, arched with the cold embrace of the owl’s words. His eyes widened; that was a secret, how the fuck did he know that?! No one knew except Angel and himself, and that was only after they’d became more than close.
“If you fail, revolt, or disobey me…” Something brushed up the nape of his neck; something wet, something sharp, something he couldn’t place, and the thought nearly drove Husk to madness right then and there. “…I will rip your wings from your body and make you watch as I drop him from an unimaginable height; and when he splatters upon the ground, nothing more than a pile of shattered bone and mangled meat, I will drag you over his corpse to stare at the ruin you brought upon the one you love.”
Water sprung in the corners of Husk’s eyes; yet he felt nothing but adrenaline. The unknown was too immense, too all-encompassing, to resist; and the hopelessness that gripped his soul was enough to freeze him in place.
“You will commit every millisecond of his screams to memory, and they will scar your soul until you beg for the end of an Exterminator’s spear. When that day comes, and you find the resolve to end your own existence…” Breath, cold as the grave, violated the skin of his neck; his fur useless in barring it. “…I will deny you that mercy.”
Through the horror, somehow, words found their way to the rim of Husk’s lips. “…why, why would you do this?”
The response was immediate and firm.
“For my daughter.”
Encased with a clear glass casket, laid atop a velvet crimson lining, Loona’s body held both hands atop her unbeating heart. Unchanged from the attire she had perished in, the hellhound remained suspended in magical preservation. Composed by Stolas and housed deep within his manor with a private hall, it was an everlasting memorial to her sacrifice until an actual burial service could be given.
As Stolas stepped out of a conjured portal and into said room, nothing but flickering candle light served to illuminate the casket and everything around it. At its’ face, Blitz lay draped; arms wide and head pressed to the glass. Shoulders, trapped in an eternity of constant bouncing, showcased a prominent sadness that his near-silent sobbing couldn’t. The sleep spell had worn off in his absence, and the pitiful sight made Stolas’ heart writhe and curl to bleeding stone. What could he say to bring comfort? What would he want to have said to him, should their roles be reversed?
Blitz paid the sound of approaching footsteps no mind, save the elevated sobs that replaced his voice. In solemn silence, Stolas gently rested a hand upon the imp’s back and gazed into the coffin below. She was soft, almost serene in her permanent silence; yet a pale countenance that dulled the sheen of her gray fur mimicked the aura of a cold, absent soul. Its energy was enough to sap all light from the room, if not physically, then in spirit.
A weak fist brought itself down upon the glass again and again, it’s wielder wracked in a cloak of sadness that increased the depths of Stolas’ empathy and pity.
“Blitz, I’m—”
A white flash mingled with smears of red and black enveloped his eyes. When it cleared, he saw two bloodstained eyes and felt trembling hands around the fabric of his collar.
“Why didn’t you stop him?!” It was a harrowing scream, one that danced on a tightrope between despair and unbridled anger. “You’re a fucking prince! You should’ve been able to do something! ” Blitz shook Stolas, grip tight enough to threaten the integrity of the rich fabric.
“The incantation was intense; in order to save you—”
“Save me?!” Disbelief and sorrow wracked Blitz’s face. “You should’ve saved her! I’m nothing! I’m worth nothing! Loona was everything; my everything, and you fucking…” Tension filled his face as it contorted into a visage of pain, and a hand raised; poised to strike.
It trembled, joints possessed by a cascade of pops as his joints and tendons strained beneath taut flesh. That open hand eventually curled into a balled fist, which rattled from the knuckle to the elbow and back. Stolas stared; a pose he had seen too often, an expression he’d rarely seen, and for a moment, the dignity within him quaked in fear of being tarnished.
“My daughter…is dead, because you’re a shitty dad! You should’ve been watching your own, so that mine didn’t have to go and try to save her for you!” Agape, those furious and mournful eyes trembled and wince beneath the might of their own rage; the weight of his mouth’s words another burden to bear beyond the day. “Why did you save me!? Why did you waste your fucking time on me?!” A tormented wail fumbled from Blitz’s throat, and his elbow cocked back.
Stolas remained silent, gaze locked between the wrath of a grieving father and the righteous blow that was sure to fall. Now was not the time to speak, but the time to listen. Even if he were to be struck for his empathy, as one father to another, it was the right thing to do. Blitz deserved no less.
“You should’ve let me die! You should’ve…you should’ve…I…” As if his pain had finally caught up to his rage, Blitz’s arm plummeted into a limp swing and fully released Stolas. The imp collapsed onto his hands and knees, head bowed and chest crushed inward by a debilitating sob. He curled into a ball upon the ground; a weak, decimated little thing with sharp fingers that dug into its own skin.
Gentle hands scooped beneath that small, curled up form and attempted to hoist it into a proper embrace. Perhaps it was the crushed soul that kept the body docile, or maybe an unwillingness to fight any longer, but Blitz soon found himself cradled in Stolas’ arms. It was impossible to keep his face away from a firm shoulder, and the imp mashed his teary-eyed face into it. All of his sorrow, guilt, anger poured against the prince in a childlike wail that echoed through the entire room. Amidst the funerary candles, his heart shattered, and its shard sliced deep into his decimated soul.
Rocking motions worked to soothe, almost like a lullaby, and the owl found himself curled protectively over the sobbing imp. If this was fate, it was the cruelest and unbidden one he could imagine. Had his jealousy brought this about in some cosmic judgement upon his former lover? Spite bubbled in his gut to polish a murderous light that began to shine within his eyes, and a single name branded itself upon his mind: Striker. How much more would that bastard take? How long would he scurry in fear of Stolas’ wrath, only to lash mockingly from the shadows and vanish?
He had been wasting time, taking things slow, pulling punches…but no more.
“I promise you, my darling…” he whispered into Blitz’s ear. “…this shall not go unpunished.”
Husk stepped outward from a golden bullet train and onto a platform of white cobblestone. Soothing lavender and bubblegum purity tunneled up his sensitive, feline nostrils to widen his eyes. Muscles relaxed, calmed by the serenity of Sloth, and a groan of relief steadily tumbled out in a prolonged noise of joy. The air felt lighter, like that of a pure and puffy cloud with nary a trace of gray. He hadn’t known what to expect, and even as he stood within the realm firsthand, it managed to astonish him.
Oxford’s, suspenders, a partially unbuttoned indigo shirt to let his chest fluff breathe, and a thick overcoat to conceal the harness and holster that kept his firearm in place, were his only companions. While ample travelers, demons of all shapes and sizes of whom he recognized none, surrounded him the air was quiet. It appeared that an enchantment lay over Sloth, at least, to an out of ringer. Everyone congregated in the same direction; where a golden archway towered to grant them access to the ring proper. As Husk followed after the crowd, his whiskers twitched; what awaited him outside of the train station?
In mere seconds, that question was answered in full.
Violet hues of color smeared across a white and cloud-filled sky, floating islands of shattered rock and tropical flora dotted the horizon in clusters, and tumbling waterfalls cascaded down into an unknown abyss. Geographically, the land was fragmented; massive drops and haunting voids felt only a careless misstep away. In its beauty, the ring seemed too lazy to pull itself together; quite literally. Everywhere he looked, all he saw was the shape of an island; equally circular in some places as it was horizontally designed in others. Deep dips, mounds and hills stretched as far as the eye could see. Yet, amidst it all, a sterile city of peace.
He longed to explore it. The atmosphere felt like Heaven, compared to the grime and poverty of Pride. As his thoughts began to drift towards his entire reason for being in Sloth at all, a gentle melody hovered into his ears. It was so peaceful, so harmonious, so…angelic…that…he…
Husk snapped from his oncoming slumber, as a rigid object bumped into him from the side. He turned, and saw a simple baphomet demon; who dipped their head in silent apology before they shuffled onward.
Right: train tracks.
He unfolded his wings, rolled his shoulders, gave his neck a good crack, then launched into the air. A gust of wind ruffled the clothing of passersby, yet they paid it little mind. Husk turned and flapped towards the west, where the tracks stretched into the unknown depths of Sloth’s grassy knolls and winding hills. It was a simple enough task to follow the tracks; they were large, golden, and diligently maintained. No matter how far he flew, the air never changed, and it became all too apparent that there was a power in the stillness.
Husk’s thoughts wandered, even as his eyes scanned the land below, back to Angel. News of the task didn’t sit well, and that was putting it lightly. He called it stupid, exploitative, and the echo of those angry words soured Husk’s stomach. Fighting with Angel was the last thing he wanted, and he knew he was just scared, but a miniscule seed of anger still resided within. It wasn’t honest, just reactionary, but the feeling brought guilt and swiftly forced the memory away.
Before his eyes, the grass shortened and thinned. At the change, his head lifted to survey the landscape ahead. Rocky mountainsides stretched into the sky and flanked either side of the train tracks where the ground lost all grass. To his sides, walls of light stone whipped by in a blur as the air caught his wings within the diminished space of the pass. It gently curved to the right, then eased into an incline that carried on for several minutes. At the end, the tracks continued into the landscape beyond, and a whole new world opened up.
Vines and moss dangled from massive, ancient trees that bent with age; a thousand weeping willows of vibrant pinks and startling ivory. Seeds and debris littered the ground, and far above a stone ceiling lay higher than Husk willed to fly. It was a rather spacious ecosystem, where the air quality staled and grew humid; yet not enough to cause discomfort. To him, it might as well have been Sloth’s basement. Beyond the seemingly endless thicket of trees, a pitch gleam of black cut into view, and as he stared closer, exactly what it was came into full view. A moderate metal structure of jagged corners and wafting smoke, impaled with tubes that burrowed into the ground around its base sat alone in a cleared patch of land; right alongside the train tracks. While there was no train, there was a vehicle present; a blocky old van with graffiti spewed over its outsides.
This must be where his contact waited. With that expectation in mind, Husk swooped low to the ground and came to a graceful landing aside the van. Bold, black and red letters that seemed to spell out the word IMP grinned at him, and before he could draw any closer, the door flung open. His hand shot towards the inside of his jacket to grab his gun, but just as he felt the steel of the handle mash against his palm, he stopped. The van was empty.
Husk’s confusion didn’t last long, because before he could even release his firearm, two barrels of metal pressed against him from below...right into his groin.
“Don’t…move.” came a feminine drawl from below. Husk turned his gaze south and tried not to move his head, and within his peripheral, he could make out a head of black hair and two little horns that jutted from it. “Now, let go of yer gun nice and slow like, or your balls, lungs, and eyes are all flying out the same hole.” Slowly, he drew his arm out of his jacket and raised both to the air, palms out in surrender. “Who the hell are you?”
“Stolas sent me.” Husk tried to keep his voice steady, but the pressure against his groin made him sweat in discomfort. She wasn’t being gentle; this wasn’t an ease, she was mashing them upwards to a nice, poppable position. “I’m supposed to find his kid.”
“Or you could be working for that fucking snake. No one else knows about that ‘cept him and the prince, and he’d come himself.” Pressure increased, and Husk gave a grunt and grit his teeth; a bead of sweat trailed down his brow. “How’d you find me?”
“The prince said to follow the train tracks, said you’d be waiting for me here. I’m going to lower my hand; don’t shoot, just look…” Just as cautious as before, Husk lowered his right hand to show the rune that Stolas had burned into his palm. He hoped it would be enough to convince her.
“Never knew the prince one to brand folks, then again…he hasn’t been himself lately.” Quick as a flash, she slid forward out from under him and hopped to her feet, but that shotgun stayed pointed right at his gut. Little thing, even for an imp, she barely came up to his chest at horn height. Long dark lashes, messy black hair, and a gap in her two front teeth hardly big enough to even call it a real gap. Just to be safe, Husk still kept his hands up as she gave him a once over. “You ain’t the type I expected him to send.”
“And…who were you expecting?”
“Definitely not a kitty cat, let alone just the one. What’s your name, Whiskers?”
An inward groan was barely stopped; apparently the nickname Angel had came up with for him wasn’t that special after all. “Husk.”
“Well, Husk,” she responded, hitching that uh sound with a perfect slap of country. “I’m Millie. Now that yer here, we can get moving; but before that, whip it out.”
His eyebrows couldn’t have jumped any higher. "Excuse me?”
“Your piece; saw you reaching for it before I got the drop on ya. If we’re working together, I need to see what you’re packing.”
Husk rolled his eyes, “You have to know how that sounds…” As he reached, the barrel of the shotgun flashed upwards, and he flinched into a frozen pose.
Millie tutted, eyes locked on him tighter than a wolverine in a cage. “Slowly.”
“Alright: slowly.” He made sure she could see every motion and kept his opposite hand up, his eyes locked on her. Something told him that she’d kill him without a second thought if he fucked around. Despite her being so small, there was an aura that prickled his survival instincts with the curdled smell of dried blood. Husk might have killed a handful of demons, but this imp’s hands were caked in murder. Crossing her would be a dumbass idea, not to mention fatal. Once his fingers touched the handle of his gun, he slowly pulled it from the holster and into view.
Single barrel, thicker than that of a standard street piece, and decorated with dark, polished wood. Embroidered on the handle were a pair of playing cards; a diamond and a king. Along the barrel, a trail of rolling dice was likewise embroidered into the metal. It fit snugly in his palm, but leaned heavily in the front; a proper hand canon with higher caliber rounds. It was his get-shit-done sidearm; a far cry from his far more flashy revolver that he used for interrogations.
One look from the imp was all it took for a whistle to slip. “Pretty thang; but looks more like you use it ‘round the office than in the field.” She hiked up on her tip toes and squinted, then suddenly turned on her heel and leaned into the open van. For a second, with her back turned, where most people would’ve taken the shot, curiosity hit him. Was she so confident in her quickdraw skills with a shotgun of all things, or did she already trust him somehow? “Here, catch.”
Husk holstered his gun in a flash, as a box of ammo shot towards him. With just enough time to raise both hands, he stopped it right before it could smack into his face. Perplexed, he looked at the label.
“Hollow points; hope ya reload as quick as you flinch. The motherfucker we’re after ain’t no joke.” As Husk opened the box to inspect the bullets, a thick band of leather was tossed his way, this time with far more air time to react to. It was a bandolier.
“So, why are you going after him?”
Millie yanked the door to the right and closed it tight with a slam, then ran her fingers over the crease to ensure it was flush. “My husband.”
“Demons can get married?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No, I just…” Husk glanced around; things were oddly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the snap of the bandolier as he equipped it over his shoulder and torso hit like a whip crack. “…we’re in Hell. I didn’t know it was a thing down here.”
“Yeah, well, my hubby and I are a special pair.” Millie tapped the passenger side of the van, the reverb of the metal dull against her flat fingers. “Hop in, I’m driving.”
“Where exactly are we going?” he asked, as he opened the door and was greeted by a clawed leather seat, an unholy amount of Styrofoam cups, loose change, and even a few stray wrapped condoms. “…Satan’s taint, you live like this?” Repulsed, Husk held his breath as he planted an arm into the mess and swiped it out of the van. Hopefully the inhabitant didn’t mind litter; wherever they were.
“Long ‘fore you got here, I did a bit of scouting. The tracks keep going into a cave system a few miles up ahead. Lotta space, lotta places to hide; aside from it, the tracks keep going.”
“So you think this guy took the princess and is holding her in a cave?”
“Trust me, he likes caves; fittin’ for a low-down outlaw. I saw his last one up in Wrath, so its our best first bet.” Millie turned the key, slammed on the clutch, and cranked the van into first gear; the chorus of which sounded near musical in timing. “There’s more ammo in the back. I suggest you start filling that thing up.” She said, as she slapped the bandolier wrapped over his chest. Even with the thick and sturdy leather for protection, those two pats nearly knocked the wind out of him.
Sound advice taken, Husk leaned over and arched back for an open duffel bag that brimmed with ammo boxes. Duck shot, buck shot, hollow points, incendiary, even sniper rounds were a few amongst everything he saw. “You brought a whole damn arsenal.” He commented, the looming shadow of a battle axe easily seen in the trunk.
“He deserves nothing less. Tangoed with him once, and the best I could get in were a few stabs in the back.” Millie tightened her grip on the wheel. “My boss and husband couldn’t beat him either; motherfucker is too damn slippery, too damn quick, too sharp. He snuck right under the nose of our hellhound and nabbed the princess…I ain’t ever getting over that one.”
By the time Millie had finished speaking, Husk had filled about five slots on the bandolier. With her recounting, it didn’t feel like nearly enough. Perhaps he should ask for a belt version as well. “This guy have a name?” Nothing but the spin of thick wheels and the rumble of an engine responded; the imp’s attention fixated on the road. Husk joined in on the silence and continued to ammo up.
In the distance, the large and yawning mouth of a cave graced the side of a massive wall of rock. Cliffs above and cliffs below; just how many did Sloth possess?
“There it is. I don’t know what we’re gonna find in here, but if we do find who we’re looking for I’ve got a plan.” One of her hands gripped the shotgun at her side and hovered it over Husks’ lap for him to take. “I’ll tango with the big man and you free the princess; got it?”
“You don’t trust me to handle him?”
“This ain’t the guy to fuck around with, alright? I know how he fights, you don’t, so I’ll have a better chance at keeping him busy long enough for you to do your job.”
“What if he’s not there?”
“Then this is about to be a helluva lot easier.”
Right as she uttered those words, the mouth of the cave swallowed them whole and cast the van in darkness the deeper they went. Husk watched in the side mirror as light began wither away, and eventually vanished altogether. The van’s headlights kicked on automatically, as its engine echoed against the vacant stone. Artificial light wasn’t thick enough to penetrate the void that endlessly swallowed them; like running down the gullet of a massive serpent. Air thickened, soured, turned to moist soggy bread atop Husk’s tastebuds as the echo assaulted his sensitive ears.
Tiny dots of sickly blue and green light began to glimmer in the passing dark, and as they continued to drive, the dots grew larger and brighter. The scent of rain surged into Husk’s nose, and the breeze of something fresh and cold joined it as he cracked a window. Tensed, he focused his senses above the rumble of the tires…and heard running water. It wasn’t harsh, and thus not a danger, but its presence made him ponder if they had somehow passed beneath a lake of some sort.
As the tunnel bottomed out and curved onto a flat plain, a kingdom of bioluminescent blue banished the darkness away. Thick and rocky cliffs, a multitude of weeping willows, and thick foliage; it was a grotto. Mushrooms, vines, and frond leaves bigger than most demons sprung from the off-colored grass. It looked green, but possessed flecks of purple, almost as if it were sick. The sound of running water intensified, as miniature waterfalls cascaded down from a multitude of cliff sides. Millie eased onto the brakes, and the van came to a slow stop right where the train tracks halted altogether.
“What…the fuck is this place?” This wasn’t a sight you’d get in Pride.
They both stepped out of the van. Their trail had effectively gone cold. All that was left to do was venture deeper into the cavern.
“I dunno. It looks pretty, but most pretty things in nature are deadly by default, so we oughta be careful. Watch yer feet.”
“Why not just eliminate walking altogether?” Husk asked with a smug little smirk, then spread his lustrous red wings. Calling an imp small would be obvious, and probably rude, so he was playing it safe; especially since she now had a mean looking company axe draped atop her shoulder. Black metal, probably polished obsidian, gleamed in the fluorescent natural lighting of the cavern. He could practically taste its’ edge in the air. “On second thought…”
“Only one who could ever carry me was a hellhound, and she—” As if struck by information just gleaned for the first time, the imp’s expression froze. Quickly, just as it appeared, a look of abject, downturned sorrow flashed across her features and disappeared. Redoubled by the emotion, her jaw clenched, and her grip creaked around the shaft of the axe. “Never mind, lets get looking.”
Without another word, she trudged forward. Husk followed her lead; better her than him, and it’s not like either of them knew where the best route was. A wall of weeping willows branches, right beside one of the miniature waterfalls, seemed a good of a start as any. Sparkling, pure water twinkled in its own waves in a deep pool; it’s edges lined with mushrooms a plenty. Millie swung her axe, and multiple strands of pink leaves fell to the floor. Behind them lay a path, and without fear, the imp continued onward. Her axe was brought to bear against any branches that hung in their way, and the gleam of sharp steel started to catch the glint of glowing algae.
Unable to see above the trees, Husk adjusted his collar and made sure to keep a few long feet behind. “You got experience navigating through places like this; because, it seems like you do.”
“No, but I’ve navigated a lot of places in general. After a bit, you start to just know where to head.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Never liked the jungle; too many bugs, sudden drops, things that want to eat you.”
“This is a forest, not a jungle.”
“Same fucking difference.” Husk’s ear hairs twitched, as did his whiskers; a vibration in the air. “Wait.” he said, and stopped moving to listen. It was far away, but he definitely heard something.
“What is it?”
His eyes narrowed, his nose wiggled, and his ears turned to help pick up the sound waves. “You don’t hear that? It’s like…a whistling…I think.”
“Probably just some air sneaking through an itty bitty crack in the roof.”
Husk walked past Millie to get closer to the sound, “No, it’s…” A sharp, but serene sound of wind echoed in the far distance; picked up by his superior feline hearing, but only just. “…it sounds like…music?” He looked back down at the diminutive imp, who’s cocked hip and raised brow said all. “I’ll prove it; follow me.”
His caution seemingly banished, Husk pushed through the weeping willow leaves and headed straight. Each branch that brushed against his shoulders and face left tiny little fragments, almost like pollen, over his clothes and fur. Faint odor wafted into his nose; that of wet bark and the blood of mashed pinecones. Tiny footsteps pattered behind him, as he pushed deeper and deeper into the floral veil with blind confidence. Who needed eyes when you had an excellent set of ears? The deeper they delved, the louder the sound became; and true to his word, Husk indeed had heard the call of music.
In an instant, the final curtain of branches was pushed aside. A swarm of butterflies, disturbed the rustling, fluttered away in a momentarily blinding cloud of color. Red, purple, blue, pink, white; a chaotic canvas of nature’s deadliest poisons. As they moved, Husk and Millie were greeted by another grove..
However, this time, they were not alone.
Notes of serenity filled the cavernous realm, and not even the gentle stream that carved the length of it could tarnish the melody. A cloaked figure sat cross legged amidst a circle of widely placed stones; their surfaces etched with mysterious runes. Some encompassed each stone in their entirety, while others were accompanied by smaller clusters of scrawling. The figure was a dot on the landscape, their back turned towards the two demons.
They exchanged glances, Millie rose a finger to her mouth for silence, and Husk nodded before walking forward. Rustling grass was inescapable as they moved, but a faint hope of the nearby stream’s power tempered their resolve to not be heard. If the water flowed quick enough, perhaps their steps simply blended in with the environment. With no knowledge of who the flute-playing stranger was, caution was their first response. The closer they drew, the more details around them began to form into focus; totems fashioned of rock dangled in groups from the branches of trees, spouts that dribbled with a cerulean liquid stabbed into the trunks of those same trees, and baskets of culled mushrooms lay huddled around each.
Upon the thought of having intruded upon someone’s home, Husk readied diplomatic words in his mouth. He hadn’t thought to really see anyone down here, and thus optimism shined over his pessimism. Perhaps this person could help them find who they were looking for? Maybe the princess had found her way here and was being given shelter? All possibilities: hopeful.
Suddenly, the music stopped. They froze in place, now close enough to get a closer look at the stranger. Their robes were rugged, but possessed of a deep red; akin to that of a mushroom. Scratchy threads haphazardly jutted outwards, and a hood with a long tail concealed their face. Above their thoughts, a voice arose; the voice of a woman.
“He said you would come.”
The figure stood in an abrupt, smooth motion, and the flute vanished from view. A new sound rose to replace it; a metallic jingle, as a metal staff emerged. Multiple rings lay trapped within a solid hoop that adorned the top of the staff, and it was their call that clashed in the air as the figure slammed the staff down to make them slam about. Gold swept amongst the grass, the body turned, and a covered hand rose to pull back the hood of the robes.
Large, curved horns jutted back atop a white furred head; engraved with similar markings to that of the stones around her. Bright green and glowing eyes peered out above a point muzzle of vulpine nature, and a stoic expression turned their way. Husk had only ever seen one other like this before, and she had worked in Valentino’s adult film studio as an actress. The less said about that megalomaniacal moth, however, the better.
“Who’s she talking about?” he asked, out the corner of his mouth.
“I got one good guess…and if I’m right, it means she’s a problem.” Millie tightened her grip on the dual-headed axe and let it drop into her other palm. “Get ready for a scrap.”
“Seriously?” Hesitation filled his tone. “She’s just some underground hermit.”
Millie’s sudden movement made the fur on Husk’s head tingle, and he flinched as her axe head flew up to block his face. Something smashed into it, and as the Overlord ogled just how jacked those imp arms were under stress, deep green ore tumbled to the ground just outside of their feet. It was a pile of jade.
“What the hell?!” The axe moved. The strange female demon was still mid-stride, her steps set on a path that lead directly towards him and Millie. “You didn’t say anything about shooting a woman!”
“Oh, you’re such a pussy!”
While they argued for a brief second, red robes suddenly jutted between them, and vibrant green eyes glared upwards; they’d been breached! Husk took a sharp kick to the jaw that sent him stumbling backwards, while Millie found her legs swept out from under her by a swipe of the staff. As she floated, the fox demon struck the front of the imp’s axe with the flat of her foot and sent Millie soaring backwards through the air.
Three successive kicks smashed against the sides of Husk’s face, followed up by a swing of the staff that attempted to take his knee out. Before it could land, he threw his aim upwards and pulled the trigger of his shotgun…only to find the gun wrapped in a massive fist of stone!
“What…the…”
In a single clench, the metal of the shotgun creaked and bent in the woman’s grip. Instinct alone propelled his hand under his coat to whip out his hand cannon, only for a knee to ram into his gut and an elbow strike to crash into his ear. He stumbled, brain fuzzy, ear ringing, tail twitchy, but his eyes still worked; and within them, he saw that the hermit had poised for another strike. Golden magic surged from within, and playing cards were conjured between each finger on both hands. The instant they materialized, Husk flung his arms outwards in a fan motion and threw the cards point blank. Multiple explosions rang out, the fox demon stumbled backwards, and he took the opportunity to disengage with a backwards leap. Deep crimson wings unfurled and carried him into the air; more cards conjured to his fingers as a defensive measure.
“Alright, you wanna play? Let’s fucking play!”
Notes:
Hello everyone.
I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter out, even though I know it's just life and I was going through some things. Needless to say, I hope you enjoyed this most recent entry. More to come in the future, in the cycle of my submitting chapters for other projects. If you've already left a kudos, but still wanna show your love, feel free to comment. I do my best to respond to as many as I can.
Chapter 8: Battle in the Grove
Summary:
Stolas delves into ancient and guarded family secrets, in search of greater power. Millie and Husk go face to face with a dangerous new enemy, whose power rivals that of Hell's Overlords. With Striker on the run, Octavia and Moxxie still missing, and Blitz completely disabled by his recent loss; will the vanquishing of this new foe provide any answers, or will their fates remain an uncertain and grim mystery?
Chapter Text
Ancient lichen and dim torchlight shared company within a stone passageway, miles beneath the ground. Somewhere, water flowed; it’s echo beyond the protection of magically reinforced rock, as Stolas walked alone through the depths of his family estate. He had need of knowledge; knowledge that lay beyond his familiar fields of expertise, and the closest place to procure it was under his very feet.
Far ahead, illuminated in forgotten shadow: a face. Carved of stone, embedded within the end of the tunnel, its countenance heralded a creature that no longer walked the planes of Hell. A crown of thorns dressed its hefty brow, wrapped about two horns that snaked and skewed chaotically in every direction. Offshoots of offshoots, gnarled and thick, created two canopies of stone branches that nearly scraped the ceiling above. It’s face that of a beast, fangs like hooks and a broad nose fit for a beast of Earth’s jungles, topped with a single slit for an eye that lay closed and horizontal.
At Stolas’ approach, dust fell to the ground as stone shifted and clacked. Facial features stirred, and with a resounding crack, the eye snapped open. Hellish crimson hues stared at the prince, and the mouth beneath ferocious stone fangs stretched low with a yawn that shook the very ground they stood within.
“Prince Stolas…” The voice was deep, old, and held the edge of a hiss atop a forked tongue. “…what a surprise. I began to wonder if you had forgotten about me…down in these depthssss…”
“I must pass.”
“Ohhhhh?” Nothing but chunky rumbles of boulder and gravity to grace the ear, yet the eye appeared to grow fleshier with each passing second. “You seek to bypass the wards…” The face’s mouth stayed open, as it inhaled a lengthy gasp of pointless air, then continued. “…that Paimon himself placed upon these chambers? Need I remind thee…of his reason for sealing them, long before your birth?”
“No. I’m sure whatever reason father had was adequate at the time, but I need what he locked away, immediately.”
“Is that so?” Stone chortled, the false face stretched in mocking joy at the declaration. That single eye stretched wide, and a pensive hum quaked the earth. For several seconds, Stolas bore the gaze of that golem’s gaze, until it spoke once more. “Ahhhh, I see; vengeance stains your heart, young prince. You seek what I hold for your own satisfaction.”
“What does it matter?” Stolas snapped; his three red eyes sharpened by the shadows cast by torchlight. “You are bound to the will of the Goetia, as you were created by my father, and so you will grant me passage.”
“Beholden to my duty, I remain; yet, your request must be measured with proper severity.” Another breath, deep and long, as if the face yearned for the open sky. “Alone, the mind is muddled and weakened by the allure of control. Joined, it is strengthened through disagreement and the bonds of brotherhood. You alone…may not enter.”
Anger lashed behind his beak and tightened his feathery brow, but his scholarly mind reprimanded him with the call for patience. To be denied by others was simply a puzzle to be solved; why the rejection occurred and how to revert it were all he needed to discover.
“Elaborate.”
“There is not one Goetia, as you know, but many; the trusted flock of Lucifer, our grand king. Together, you weave the tapestry of Hell itself and oversee his grand, future design. In unity, and in unity alone, this great deed is possible. I require three Goetia present, in order to allow passage.”
Stolas turned up his beak at the stone face. “Once I do, you will open without question?”
“Yes, my prince, for that is my design; as constructed by your father.”
“Any two will do?”
It’s mouth closed, then tightened to raise it's cheekbones, as wide nostrils flared. It appeared to be trapped in thought, once again. “One must be of opposite mind and temperament; one who freely challenges you. With their inclusion, your reasons shall be tempered to a harmonious point. Another must be one who is superior to you, so that your goals can be viewed from above, and thus, with greater clarity. If you can convince your enemy and your better to stand by your side before me, you will gain what lies beyond.”
“…Very well.”
Rock rumbled, and that large eye began to slowly close. By the time that it completely shut, the stone surrendered all animation and life; and thus, became naught but ornamental mineral once again.
“Motherfucker!” Husk growled as he swooped low, two hands worth of cards ready to throw. His wings folded inwards and protected his body, as he corkscrewed forward to try and knock the fox demon off her feet. When he didn’t feel the impact of her legs, his wings burst open as he turned, and he threw the cards in an arc.
Nimbly, the monk dodged each projectile with ease; every edge a centimeter off from drawing blood. It was an otherworldly dance of skips and abrupt, fierce motions that flowed with the fluidity of clouds. Toned, slender legs kicked upwards in a cartwheel, the prayer staff within her hand twirled, and as it rose; launched a series of jade chunks in Husk’s direction.
With a single surge of his wings, he strafed sideways to outpace the rocks; eyes on the background as Millie rushed forward, her axe at the ready. Black steel cleaved down through the air, as the imp unleashed a booming battle cry just before impact. Perhaps it was to surprise the fox demon and throw off her response time, but those furry feet were quick, and she pivoted just in time to bring her staff up and hook the curve of the axe head. With Millie’s weapon stopped, gold swung in an arc and clocked the side of her head; upon which the monk whipped her leg around and crashed against the flat of the axe. It bounced off the imp’s tiny skull with a resounding clang and sent her rolling.
“Fuck!” Husk drew his hand cannon, and it’s click caused those big ears to perk; quick as a wink. Black powder scorched the air as he fired, it’s stench thick in his nostrils. In a blur of motion, the monk zipped around his bullet; and before she could move, he fired off another. Chunks of earth and grass exploded from the ground and left deep potholes in their wake. “Sit fucking still!”
It was like trying to shoot a grain of sand in a wind tunnel.
Before he could fire off a fourth shot, her visage shot up right in front of his face. “No.”
Sudden pain burst in his hand as she kicked the butt of the staff up and whacked at the firearm, but he grit through it and held firm. As he winced, in the span of a split second, a foot crashed into the side of his skull…and the world spun. Grass and earth stained his clothing from the impact; nothing but stars in his eyes and copper on his tongue. Spots danced amongst those distant planets, all imaginary, yet the axe kick that dropped straight towards his face was anything but.
Husk tried to roll, fueled by the fear of pain and the adrenaline that pumped in his veins, but her foot was too fast. His wing was pinned, which stopped his roll before it could even begin, and her second foot seized the opportunity to plant itself square against his throat. One of his hands gripped her ankle, while his other arm shot up to aim the gun. Just as he did, her foot pressed deeper against his windpipe and her staff swung; this time successful in disarming him.
Darkness brimmed at the edges of his vision. The struggle to breath inflated his lungs to the point that his ribs creaked, and only a tight grunt managed to escape. Both wings flapped with furious gusto, in the hope that their conjured gale could loosen her grip or repel her altogether. Unfortunately, the monk was as a mountain; immovable and uncaring in the face of such an onslaught.
A second battle cry rent the air, right before a spinning top of sharpened metal and flung foam descended upon her. Millie had returned, axe clenched in two hands, and assaulted the monk in a dervish of steel that forced a retreat. Thus, air flooded Husk’s lungs.
Spittle flew from his tongue as he hacked and heaved; rolled onto his side in search of his gun. Within the tall, purple grass, he fumbled. Cool strands trailed along his fingers and palms, like the caress of a lover; and in that primal, loving sensation he remembered all he had to lose. Millie’s grunts and roars swiveled his ears, and from the sounds of it, she had yet to land a proper blow. Nothing but metal upon metal; its clang like that of a grand bell.
Husk’s vision soon sharpened to normal, and the bulky frame and red hue of his gun peeked from the tall grass. Immediately, he dove for it, then rose and pivoted into a proper firing stance. He had never seen an axe twirled and manipulated the way that Millie did; to her, it seemed like a toy. Those thin red arms never stopped swinging, yet every attempt to injure the monk was parried away.
“You possess much fire, little one.” A swift kick penetrated that offensive barrier of swings and launched Millie backwards, where her heels dug into the soil and stopped her next to Husk. With another twirl of gold, the fox demon back flipped onto one of the many towering stones that formed the ritual circle, and perched atop it. “But stone simply adapts to the heat, no matter how fearsome.”
Millie winced, and Husk could tell by her heavy breathing that the scrap had taken its toll. “This is one tough bitch.” she growled, thin imp tail sharp as a whip, as it abused the air around it in agitation.
“We can’t take her one on one, but I can’t get a clean shot off with you jumping everywhere. Stay low and keep her back to me.” A plan began to form in Husk’s mind, and he quickly released the magazine in his gun to count his bullets.
“Why don’t you just use your fancy Overlord magic?!”
“Because it takes a lot of energy, and I need to focus to do it, which is hard when she’s pushing my shit in!”
“Alright cupcake, I’ll make sure she doesn’t reach ya; just don’t pop me in the ass.”
“Appreciate it.” Husk gave a deep, ragged inhale through his nostrils, and his ribs stretched with flares of pain. His throat recoiled as it tried to swallow, only to discover that the lubrication had yet to completely soothe the ache from her foot. “Listen, I’ve got an idea, but we gotta get her away from cover first.”
“Kay, then what?”
“I’ll give you a signal. When I do, beat her ass.”
A green glow began to illuminate the carvings along each massive stone in the circle; as did the monk’s horns and eyes begin to gleam in a similar hue. Rock trembled within the ground, then slowly began to rise and upheave everything around it. Still perched atop her own stone, the monk had dropped into a deep squat; arms stretched out to her sides as she curled her claws into the air. Within those hands resided an energy unlike anything they’d seen before, but it was clearly magical.
One of the stones rotated, pointed directly towards Husk and Millie, and shot directly at them.
Chunks of dirt and grass exploded upon impact, as both demons dodged in opposite directions to avoid the impromptu projectile. A second stone flew, as quickly as the first, and Husk kicked off the ground to take to the air. Millie ran along the ground, axe at her side. Now separated, they traveled in an arc to flank their opponent and divide her resources.
Despite their advance, she remained in that pose; staff upon her back and muscles taut with concentration. While there weren’t that many stones, if even one of them hit their mark, it would be enough to maim; if not kill outright. Husk’s wings strained with effort; the earlier stomp against his leftmost having marred the feathers somewhat, and thus, affected his flight speed. Millie’s thighs and ankles burned as she sprinted with all of her might, while keeping her core tight as to not let the weight of the axe pull her down. Momentum, more than anything, was vital.
Husk counted the stones as they flew, and on the final one, he aimed and fired. Where he expected a spray of blood and a cry of pain, he instead was met with the sudden growth of a rocky carapace and the pinging spark of a deflected round. In response, the monk leapt straight upwards, and the rock she had perched upon swung up, then drilled directly his way!
Wings folded, he turned his nose to the ground and dove…only to feel the rugged texture of rock brush his fanned tail and crash into the ground behind him. Suspended in midair, without wings of any sort, their opponent began to plummet; and as she did, Husk’s fangs grazed along the skin of his thumb. His opposite thumb disengaged the magazine of his gun and caught it in the fall. Then, in one fluid motion, Husk bit down until he drew blood, then smeared his thumb over the next bullet in the magazine and shoved it back up into the hand cannon.
As the monk cratered, Husk landed and withdrew something from his back pocket: a casino chip. He mashed it hard against his bloody thumb, then rolled it atop his claw and flicked it forward with all of his might. Like a bullet, it shot forward with deadly speed; and right as it was about to hit that rocky armor, Husk fired. The actual bullet, marked with his Overlord blood, struck the casino chip that was drenched in the same essence with a glorious ping sound.
One chip exploded into many; a verifiable cloud that hovered about every conceivable angle of the monk’s body. Crimson trailed like that of a comet’s stardust tail, as the single bullet ricocheted off one chip and into another; again, and again, and again. Sparks flared as rock was struck, but the bullet didn’t stop. It was a cloud of death, formed by determination and sacrifice, that whittled away that mineral shell. With each strike, a piece of rock crumbled to the ground. One strike in particular dislodged a piece of that stone mask, and for the first time, Husk saw surprise within the monk’s eyes.
“Millie, now!”
The imp bulldozed forward; her axe poised low. Her knees scraped along the grass, and her elbows shot outwards to swing the weapon upwards with all of her might. A hundred bullets, borne of but one, whizzed harmlessly past her. Right between the thigh and the groin, the blade found flesh, and Millie rocketed into the air with a fierce double kick of her legs.
Blood gushed like a fountain and stained the nearby grass in a sickly veil of essence vomit. Millie’s grip tightened around the haft of her axe, lowered closer to the butt, and swung her entire body weight down and forward. Like a yo-yo, she spun downward with a roar, and cleaved straight down the uninjured shoulder of the monk.
Without a sound, robed shoulders sagged forward; wet and crimson suspenders carved through rough material.
Millie bounced backwards, then flung the blood from her axe with a harsh swipe.
Head hung; their maimed opponent didn’t move; nor did she speak.
“I reckon that’s all she wrote.” Hefty metal dropped onto her shoulder, and Millie embraced the weight; her head turned towards Husk. “That was a neat fucking trick; where’d you pick it up?”
Husk ran a hand back over his sweaty head fur and released a calm and steady exhale. Relief surged down his sternum and into the pit of his ribs. “A cannibal; caught him cheating at one of my casinos, and that’s how he paid his dues.”
“Why didn’t you just open with that?”
“Never reveal your hand early, first rule of cards.” Husk holstered his pistol and wiped dirt off of his indigo shirt. A new tear had found its way into the fabric, the he stuck a finger through it for a wiggle. “Damn, this was one of my favorites…”
“We should look around; maybe there’s something that can point us in the right direction. She clearly knew something.”
“Agreed, would’ve been nice to keep her alive.”
“Hey, it’s either us or them. There’s no room for pussyfooting.”
“That better not be a cat joke…” Husk grumbled, then attended to an immediate, biting itch at the back of his left ear. “…but yeah, she was tough. I doubt we could’ve gotten anything out of her anyway.”
Crumbling rock snatched their attention, and as Millie and Husk looked over at the standing corpse, the ground began to vibrate. Slow, at first, pleasant rumbles that tickled the toes hummed amongst the battlefield. Pebbles rose from the grass, drenched in the monk’s blood, and began to fill the gashes in her torso.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me…”
That limp head snapped upwards with a sickening crunch, and those green eyes glowed with pale light. Like an avalanche, the speed at which the rocks sealed those wounds increased rapidly; until their reach extended beyond and began to coat the demon’s entire body. Jagged stone snapped and gleamed into a menacing hide of earthen spikes, it’s protection over all, save her face. White fur remained, yet claws of stone stretched alongside her jawline, cheeks, and head. With one final snap, her bowed back straightened, and both arms rose before a likely impenetrable hide. Now coated in jade that glimmered with starlight and morning dew, the fox clasped the flat of her hands together and stuck out her elbows.
Eyes closed, and a steady exhale of air halted all other sound, as she sank into a low stance.
Husk blinked…and agony exploded in his gut.
Pain so deep and dull that it was ungraspable, inconsolable, buried itself in his stomach. Fist of rock ripped through his clothing and bore straight against his flesh. Hot static and fire washed along the back of his ears and shook his spine, to an explosion of wet; something popped.
He gawked; body bent, head down, eyes wide, and mouth agape. Fur and meat clung to that spiked fist as it yanked away, and the Overlord toppled to his knees. Millie’s sudden cry of astonishment bubbled with drowned vocals in his ear, and he could only glimpse her body as it was smashed against the ground. She didn’t move.
The glint of an axe swiped through the air, like a beautiful crescent moon.
Agony produced itself behind his shoulder blades; a volcanic lightning blast of paralyzing nerve death that arched his spine and mortified his brain. Husk screamed and reached back at the axe that had imbedded itself halfway through his wing. Meat and bone crunched and scraped, as he felt the weapon tug deeper into the end of the humerus! “NO!”
One more sturdy swipe lifted his torso from the ground and utilized gravity to sever the bone. Husk’s body flew into convulsions; fingers curled, eyes bulged, tail snapped and curled as every motion of his back prompted further pain. Lightness, heat, an inescapable shake and tingle that enveloped the entire left side of his back: shock. Blood gushed from the sliced veins that had once joined his wing to his back and showered upon his twitching form.
Whether in blind instinct, or implanted fear, his muscles seized control long enough to slam a hand against the ground and pull his body forward. Escape, flee; whatever it took to live. Yet, after the first drag of dirt and grass along his furry torso, a foot cratered into his upper back and pinned him down. His brow furrowed and his teeth grit so hard that spittle flew forth, but they released as an inescapable grip latched around his other wing…and pulled.
The foot on his back, in combination with the hand, bent his spine backwards in a steady chorus of pops groans. Husk’s mind unraveled as the connecting fibers of his muscles cried out in fear; they were splitting, tearing, being separated against their will! His heart roared a million miles an hour, with enough force to bruise the inside of his chest cavity…and anger took hold.
Both arms reached back and gripped at that rock-coated wrist with all of their might. Jagged edges cut into his flesh and drew blood, but that didn’t deter his muscles from fighting for their life. Teeth bared, he yowled and spat like a feral beast; enough fury in his heart to snap her arm off, were he able. In desperation, as the barrier didn’t break, he lashed out and up with his right hand; only to feel his wrist snatched and yanked upwards with sudden, brute force.
Husk grimaced and cried out in agony, as the monk’s strength immediately dislocated his shoulder and left his body to dangle mere inches off the ground.
“You…where did you get this sigil?”
Shock returned to pierce through anger; all a cool haze of disorientation in Husk’s head. He wanted to spit, to curse, to thrash, but his muscles gave out; deflated, stretched beyond use. At his heaving, ragged panting, she squeezed his wrist until it felt like it would pop; filled with blood as it was.
“Answer me!”
Husk’s arm swelled with a sensation he had never experience before; as if his muscles were being bloated with energy! Light shot upwards from his hand, and he felt gravity seize his arm and slam it to the ground. Fingers curled on their own, bones bent at odd angles and popped with sickening tones; yet, there was no pain in the motion. His arm writhed, completely out of his control, and soon snapped upward to aim his palm at the sky again.
Dark feathers poured from his sigil-marked hand to blot out the rocky ceiling above. There expulsion was marked by a steady burn that could not be quenched; it’s potency low, but filled with a malicious sting. A chaotic storm of flapping wings filled the room; their presence unseen, yet the sound throbbed within Husk’s eardrums. Quickly, they coalesced into a spiral that struck the ground between him and the monk to take on a new form.
Blackest shadow stretched upwards, bubbled like boiling tar, and then folded in on itself. A swarm of feathers flew outwards…and Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia stood amongst them.
Three fierce red eyes beamed with contempt and malice from a thoughtful and furious brow.
“Prince Stolas…” Husk coughed, his arm limp along the ground as it weakly twitched to grip the shoulder of his wounded wing. Blood splattered onto the grass; he could hardly move. For once, he was relieved to see the owl; and that gratitude that swelled in his heart was the only thing that kept him conscious.
To his complete and utter shock, two rock-coated knees struck the ground, and the monk’s upper body bent forward. She…she bowed!
A shaky, shuddering ripple bounced the jade armor along her spine; heralded by a distinct clinking, like jewels or a wind chime bumping together.
“Can it be?” an awe-filled gasp rose from her throat, and Husk stared at those pale green eyes which shone with wonderment and moisture. “My Prince, oh…Keeper of the Stars, Weaver of Prophecy, Lord of Nature’s Bow…is it really you?” Hands clapped together, and the grind of stone rumbled forth as she wrung her palms to the prayer that tumbled down from her lips.
Stolas glanced at the desolation from the battle; Husk’s maimed body the first to be noticed and attended to. Massive, sharp talons stretched forward, and lanky legs strode the prince over to where the Overlord lay. Just as their eyes met, darkness clawed at the edge of Husk’s vision, and he reached upwards.
“Don’t…hurt Angel…”
He wished to say more, but his eyes continued to darken, and Husk quickly slipped into unconsciousness.
Stolas watched as the sinner’s arm dropped, and a familiar itch of irritation burned behind his beak. Incompetence; the fault of his own faith or the product of something beyond his consideration? No answer quelled the ball of heat that slowly seared the inside of his chest. The professional had fared no better, it seemed; although she was far less mangled than her feline counterpart. Heightened vision showed the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
“You know me.” He said, amidst a turn to face the stranger who had somehow felled both of his agents. “Yet you live in a cave, beneath the earth.” With a gentle flourish of his fingers, as if tickling the ivories upon a grand piano, the jade armor crumbled into the grass. Where he expected fear, he instead viewed awe, reverence, and joy.
“My lineage has followed your teachings for centuries, oh glorious Prince of the Stars. Your edicts, your fortunes; they have all blessed my family since its’ beginning.” Her eye itself, not the lids nor the area that surrounded them, twitched. Reverence and joy slumped into confusion, as the awe visibly dropped from her face. Trembling hands rose, fingers outstretched towards his face; a touch that would never grace him from such a height. “But you…your eye…who has done this?”
Stolas curled two of his fingers, and with a brisk flick, snapped them back in a beckoning motion. Taken by an unseen force, the monk propelled forward and dropped both weapons, her form left to levitate in the air; close enough that she could look directly into his eyes, and he could do the same onto her. More importantly, he could ascertain the nature of her markings with clarity. A talon traced alone the intricate grooves of those rough, demonic horns; and primal energies hummed at his touch. Like delighted school children, they reached up with tiny hands to touch their idol.
“You do, indeed, bear my markings…a commendable mockery of my work, and yet…” He noted, his topmost eyes locked on the fox’s expression while he scanned elsewhere with the other. Tight lips, firm eyes, taut throat; she left not an inch of weakness, only resolve. “You aren’t born of Hell.”
“No…my Prince, I am but a lowly, vile sinner.”
Intrigue bloomed within his mind; a sinner had defeated not only an Overlord, but also a hellborn at the same time? Stolas’ talons spread, and the tip of one traced along the underside of her chin, only to scoop upwards so that he could grip it. “What was your crime?” A dark forest of menace, soft as gentle wind through brittle branches, yet with all the power of the unknown night slipped into his tone.
“Witchcraft…my Prince.”
“Were you a healer?”
“No, my Prince.”
“A soothsayer?”
“No, my Prince.”
Stolas tilted her head and began to pet the side of her face with a sharp talon. Enough to trail through her fur and glide alone the skin, but not enough to draw blood. To determine the age of a sinner’s soul was a complicated manner; something beyond his typical field of study. Vassago would have been able to decipher it in seconds, but…he was not present.
“You felled two of my agents.”
At that, her face finally scrunched with regret. Eyes tightened, cheekbones rose, and her lips downturned; as did her ears. “I am sorry, Prince Stolas; I did not see your mark upon him. If I had known, I would have never…”
“Silence.”
Stillborn utterances clogged her muzzle.
“As penance, you shall assist me with an urgent matter.”
Sadness was obliterated in favor of gratitude; a chance at redemption. “Anything, my Prince, anything! Whatever you command of me, it shall be yours; this I vow.”
“They were in search of a demon, a demon who has absconded with something precious to me. Seeing that their path led to you, and you are clearly not the one I seek, you shall fulfill their given duty.” If she was as powerful as she appeared, then this fox should have no issue locating Striker in their stead. “I will give you his name, and you will tell me all that you know of him.”
A vigorous nod and bated breath responded in kind; her tongue still.
“An imp outlaw by the name of Striker.”
Ears folded, a jaw quivered, and disbelief rang amongst the hue of her eyes and the breath in her lungs. “No…it…” aghast, her voice trembled. “…it cannot be. My friend is the one you—”
Stolas’ hand snapped from her chin and clamped around her throat; eyes alight with hellfire. “You are his companion?” As he gazed around at the unconscious bodies of Husk and Millie, his grip tightened. “So, this was not a coincidental encounter; he placed you here. You were guarding his tracks!”
Unable to move, due to the magic that held her aloft and trapped her body, the fox demon could only stare as the Goetia slowly squeezed the life from her. “My Prince…please…I did not know…!” she croaked; throat flexed against his palm.
Harder, he squeezed, filled with fury. Time was being wasted, once again, and the thought of Octavia in the clutches of that fiend only enflamed his anger. Stolas yanked her closer, until he could smell her breath, and glared deep into her eyes with the intensity of a hungry predator. “He took my eye…and now, he’s taken my daughter, and you shield him from me!”
A surprised croak gurgled from her throat, as her eyes bulged. He could feel it in her body; the urge to flail, to kick, to live, but he denied it. Too tight to speak any longer, her eyes filled with a beggar’s quality; frightened, shocked, decimated by the words that he spoke. Through his rage, a question arose; what if she truly didn’t know? Why kill an acolyte of his teachings for nothing more than indignant bloodlust?
A voice played in his head; Loona’s voice. There are already enough sadistic assholes in Hell.
Talons opened abruptly, and the fox demon gasped for air, as spittle rained from her muzzle in ragged, hoarse coughs. Her eyes closed, and tears freely flowed from them. When she spoke again, her voice was rife with sorrow. “Who would…do this to an angel of peace…a cultivator of kindness…the thought…my friend…” Furry fingers splayed outwards, so that claws could dig into the soil, and when her head raised her eyes brimmed with tears. “If Striker has truly done this to you; one of the kindest amongst the Goetia; he who has only loved and taught and guided…then he is no longer my friend.”
Bile still boiled in Stolas’ heart, and so he simply stared upon that prostrating form and listened.
“Please, Prince Stolas…grant me the mercy of allowing to right this wrong. My soul cannot bear the anguish, otherwise.”
“You desire my mercy?” he muttered, then bent low at the waist to hover just above her head. His beak dipped near her ear, and it was all he could do not to seethe into it. “Then tell me where he is, so that I may deliver unto him what he rightfully deserves.”
She swallowed, but continued on. “He arrived…without his horse, and a bound imp upon his back. He said that he had been hired to protect your daughter, and that said imp was after her; killed his horse, but the princess was still on a train.”
Stolas’ head snapped to the side; neck untaxed by the mere thought of flexibility. “He did not have Octavia?”
“No, your highness. He was desperate to find her though, asked if I had seen the train come through. There was…an explosion, a few damaged cars that would identify it, but I hadn’t seen anything. Nothing has stopped down here for some time.”
“Where did he go?”
“I do not know, my Prince…but I have known Striker for years; broken bread with him, laughed with him, and thus I know where he calls home.” Her head dipped and the light in her eyes flickered. “Despite all of this, he has betrayed me…to kidnap the daughter of my tutelary deity; it is unforgivable.”
Hope rushed into his heart; Striker didn’t hold Octavia; his daughter had somehow escaped! Now more than ever, he needed to find her; and thus, every resource must be utilized to the fullest.
“My forgiveness is not easily won. If you wish to earn it, you will assist me in tracking him down, finding my daughter, and ensuring her safety. Do this, and I will consider sparing your life.”
“Yes, yes Prince Stolas; without question, I am your faithful servant…do with me as you will.” Seemingly resigned to her fate, the fox gave no sign of resistance as a glowing talon pressed to her chest. Abyssal crimson and blackened plague sliced through her fur, right above her heart once, then twice. Acrid air wafted upwards, and Stolas watched as her body trembled from his magic.
“If you betray me, if Striker is not stopped, I shall throw your soul to my legions to be tormented for eternity. If my daughter…” He paused, almost unable to utter the possibility, for fear of it becoming prophecy. “…is taken from me, your lineage shall be cursed until their obliteration comes.”
His hand snapped up to grab her chin and yank, so that she was forced to stare fearfully into his three-eyed gaze.
“Now, witness the sin of your companion.” With his opposite hand, Stolas slipped a talon beneath his eyepatch and pulled it aside.
She froze.
She trembled.
She quaked.
Tears flowed like waterfalls.
She wailed.
She despaired.
For the remainder of her days, the fox demon would never be able to expunge the sight from her mind. The horror that lay beneath scarred her for eternity; the wrongness of it enough to compel suicide.
She stared into the face of her god…and realized that no one was worthy of his mercy.
Paging Dr. Casson, Paging Dr. Casson; you are needed in medical suite four.
Angel rapidly bounced his heel off the hospital floor, fours arms folded across his torso. Buzzes, ringing phones, nurses chattering, and squeaky wheels made enough racket to put his brain in a blender. The smell of bleach and piss fumigated his nose and stained his brain. He fucking hated hospitals.
He was starting to hate owls even more.
After Husk had told him that Prince Stolas needed him to do a job for him, one that wasn’t what he was already fucking doing, Angel had spent the evening alone. Mostly smoking cigars and glaring angrily at the television, but by the time the day had slipped into evening, he received a call.
The caller had been none other than Prince Stolas himself. He granted Angel passage to the Sloth Ring, stated to meet him at the hospital, gave him directions, and then hung up.
Now, he sat in a sickeningly clean waiting room, rigged out of his fucking mind with nerves. It had to be about Husk; what else could it have fucking been? Worry, panic, and worse had filled him the entire way; but now that he was so close, anger was his primary emotion. Impatience was a close second.
One of the ‘STAFF ONLY’ doors swung open, and a pink-furred goat demon poked out with a clipboard in hand. Nurse clothes, glasses atop her nose; she cleared her throat. “Mr…Dust?” She only needed to look for a second to spot Angel shoot to his feet. “They’re ready for you in medical suite four.”
Without even so much as thanks, he rushed through the door and practically jogged down the hallway; dodging stretchers, rolling beds, and medical staff. He didn’t need any directions; he could read the signs to find his way. Despite the air that rushed by him as he raced to find medical suite four, the stench of bleach didn’t change.
Sign after sign passed, until finally, a bulky one dangled from the ceiling of an intersection. An arrow pointed him to the left, and so he curved around the corner; head snapped to ready every sign he jogged past. As he finally reached medical suite four, he skid to a stop, nearly fell over, and launched himself into the doors to push them open.
Next to a bed surrounded by medical equipment, Stolas and a doctor stood. It was another goat demon; one with a chin beard that dangled halfway to the floor, bifocals over his red eyes, and a black pelt. A red candle burned atop his head, and for once, the bleach smell was buried beneath…lavender? That must have been Dr. Casson.
On the bed between them lay an unconscious Husk, and Angel rushed forward to pay his betters little mind. Each of his eight eyes; two sets of three smaller eyes lined beneath a pair of heterochromia ones of greater size, widened at the sight. An entire wing was missing, his arm was wrapped in a cast and pushed into a sling, and a bandage was wrapped tight around his head, as well as his right thumb.
Cool metal tried to shock his hands, but their chill vanished under the heated anger of his clenched, curled fists. “What…the fuck happened?!” His head immediately shot to his left, where Stolas stood, and tried to bore eight consecutive holes into the pompous Goetia.
Dr. Casson cleared his throat, to get Angel’s attention. “You are Mr. Dust, I presume?”
“Yeah, I am.” He didn’t even glance at the doctor, his eyes locked on Stolas. “Did you do this, you…” A finger jabbed up, and trembled in rage as fur spiked up and venomous fangs bared themselves.
A secondary throat clear, much more insistent and louder than the last, interrupted him. “Prince Stolas was the one who brought him. Please, compose yourself.”
“Compose myself?” Disbelief rolled up his throat and through his words, and it was enough to get him to finally face the doctor. “Compose myself?! Look at him!” he yelled, and pointed at Husk.
A hand rose, one with an open palm accompanied by a neutral gaze. “I understand that you are in shock over the state of your loved one. We have done all we can to ensure he has an effective recovery, but there are details you need to be made aware of. I cannot do that if you cannot compose yourself.”
Angel’s lower rows of eyes began to close, and his breath slowed as he took a deep breath. “Fine…fucking, fine; what happened to him?”
Dr. Casson folded his hands in front of his lap, and glanced to the unconscious sinner. “A concussion, torn and dislocated shoulder, ruptured gallbladder, light spinal trauma, and a severed wing. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to reattach it in time, due to his blood levels being alarmingly low. We had to perform an immediate transfusion in order to save him.”
Angel grit his teeth at the asymmetrical appearance of Husk; without the second wing, he looked like some sort of broken toy. “So, you’re saying he can’t ever fly again?” Unable to keep the quiver out of his voice, he swallowed in anger; shit, hold it together…
“Not necessarily; with enough physical therapy and a proper prosthetic, he might be able to. However, he would require a specialist, and this hospital does not provide such services.” The goat flapped an ear, whether in thought or as a show of sympathy, was unclear. “I could always provide references, should you desire them.”
“How much would something like that all cost?”
“Unfortunately…advanced medicine isn’t cheap. We are more than willing to discuss potential payment plans for the current bill, but beyond that, you will need to bring it up with whichever specialist you choose.”
Angel gnawed at his tongue and buried it inside of his cheek. Shit, could their savings cover that high of an expenditure. It wasn’t a matter of willingness; he would gladly drop every last coin to save Husk, but more of a matter of means. He ran a hand through his soft, pompadour-like hair and closed his eyes. Calculations ran in his head; figures, revenue, output for bills and the cut landowners took every month. “Fuck…”
His eyes opened, as Stolas spoke for the first time since he entered the room. “If you are in need of financial assistance, I can provide a generous donation to cover the expenses. Being avian myself, wing prosthetics are easier to come by; and given the composition of his own wings, I’d say they’d take rather well.”
“…that’s what you want; for me to make a fucking deal with you? Ever since you showed up at our door a few weeks ago, everything has gone to shit!” Angel spun on his heel, and with all of his might, fumed at the Goetia that stood above him. “We weren’t rolling in dough, but were we well enough off, and you just had to twist our fucking arms until you got what you wanted! Since he’s been busy busting his ass to make good on the contract, our personal finances dipped, and suddenly, you decide to drag his ass out, bring him back torn all to shit, and offer to front the bill?!”
“You would not owe me; it is a matter of honor.”
“Honor?!” Angel laughed, astonished and unwilling to accept the claim. “What honor?”
“He was injured in the performance of a task that I assigned; thus, it is only right that I compensate him.”
The spider walked closer, his gave unwavering beneath that three-pronged, crimson trident of a stare. A venomous chuckle, borne of spite and fueled by bitterness, clacked against his fangs; as he shook a finger at Stolas. “Right, right…but you know what’s not right? Sending my man, the only damn thing I’ve got in this shithole, out to fetch your fucking daughter!”
A sudden clack of a dress shoe’s heel from behind made Angel turn his head; the doctor had taken a step back.
“Relax, doc, he’s not gonna—”
Angel’s confidence was shoved back down his throat, as Stolas rammed his finger tips against the spider’s teeth and pushed his lips back into a splitting grin. The curve between his thumb and his pointer finger sat in that open gap like a mouthguard, and both of said fingers pressed to the gumline of his two most prominent fangs; one gold, the other white. He froze, jaw stretched, brow raised: what?
“Doctor.”
“Y-yes…your highness?”
“Doctors and dentists both attend medical school, despite the naming difference: correct?” Without waiting for an answer…
…he gripped the golden fang between his fingers and yanked down with a savage pull.
Angel screamed in pain, blood poured from a newly opened gum wound, and his golden tooth clattered off the floor. Searing hot, stabbing pulses of traumatized flesh ravaged his mouth and raked along the top of his brain; which caused his back to hunch and his extra arms to hover below his covered mouth. His blood poured down between his fingers and soaked his palms, even through the second set, and raindrops of crimson began to paint the tile floor.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” he roared; face wracked with pain.
Strong hands, stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, slammed his hands away and forced his head back. Eldritch strength kept him still, as Stolas gripped his other most prominent fang and squeezed.
“I thought I could domesticate you, Anthony; but just like the wild rose…your thorns are bothersome.” Stolas pulled, but this time, it wasn’t over in a split second. No, this time, it was slow, agonizingly slow. Angel’s gums held to his tooth, its roots desperate to keep a foothold and do its job; but steadily, and rather painfully, that calcium rich object was ripped free.
Angel screamed through the entire process, his inability to fight back at the forefront of his misery.
“And since my last attempt to domesticate you has apparently failed; I must turn to neutralization.”
Angel’s eyes clenched closed, yet that only enhanced the sensation of his torture, and thus they flew open as Stolas released his mouth. He fell to his knees, his mouth desperate for the smothering embrace of his hands to stop the throbbing. This…fucking psycho!
Just as he went to stand, Stolas’ foot flew forward and latched around Angel’s face; the force of which slammed his head back against the foot of Husk’s hospital bed and caused it to shake.
“Prince Stolas, please!” Dr. Casson exclaimed, suddenly having found his voice again.
With all the time in the world, the Goetia slammed the sinner’s head against that metallic frame.
“He did it for you.”
*CLANG! *
“Out of love, he threw himself at my feet to save your life.”
*CLANG! *
“This is how you repay him?”
*CLANG! *
“By forcing me to harm the very thing he suffered to protect?”
*CLANG! *
“This is my honor, you loathsome little insect.”
*CLANG! *
The metal bars began to bend, stained with a chaotic crater of blood that only grew darker. “Time and time again, I offer you kindness, and you spit it back into my face!”
*CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG... CLANG! *
Stolas released Angel’s face, the spider’s mind having slipped into complete darkness by the third slam to his head, and watched as he collapsed forward onto the hospital floor; unspeaking, unmoving. His gaze shot over to Dr. Casson, who flinched and raised his hands to hide behind them.
“Send both of their medical expenses to my estate.” Stolas turned, his crimson and ebony cape a menacing pair of wings that cast both wounded sinners in his watchful shadow. They had played their part, and by his power...
...they would continue to do so.
Chapter 9: Plant Thy Scorn
Summary:
Friendships are fractured. Wounds are sealed and reopened. Demons stalk the halls at night. Parting words upon the edge of sleep; naught more than bitter utterances and harsh revelations. Power seeks power, and preys upon the weak, for their suffering is the sweetest of all nectars, when aged with vengeance.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Ow!” Millie winced, as Blitz placed a gauze pad against her cheek. Other bandages covered her body; one about her head, another around her arm, but none of the wounds were fatal.
“Sorry, Mills…” the imp muttered, before he stuck the gauze pad in place with a bit of soft medical tape.
“Don’t need a sorry Blitz, but I appreciate it anyway. I gotta get back out and find Moxxie.” As she stood with determination and fire in her eyes, her first step was stopped by Blitz’s hand wrapped about her wrist. She turned, and the fire in her gaze diminished greatly, at the look upon his face.
“Please, don’t go yet…I don’t…” A ragged swallow scratched the inside of his throat, and his eyes dipped towards the floor. “…I don’t want to be alone.”
In the vast and chillingly vacant halls of Stolas’ manor, nothing but the shuffle of boots and a weak rattle of breathe appeared. Neither of them spoke; their environment spoke for them. There they were, pulled from their comfort zone by tragedy, and left with nothing but each other for comfort. Loona’s casket lay close by; a morose testament to the vulnerability that afflicted Blitz.
What could Millie even say? No words would fix anything; yet a crossroads lay before her. Did she comfort her boss, the very same who had just lost his daughter, or did she leave him to blindly chase after her missing husband? She turned her eyes over towards the coffin; she hadn’t even paid her respects yet…
“Okay, Blitz…but just until the prince gets back.”
Right there, atop the unpolished tile floor, she sat with him. Blitz immediately buried his head against Millie’s shoulder and hugged her about the waist, and she reacted to his gesture with a soothing stroke of his head. This was the first time she had ever seen him so defeated, and the silence that he gave off only deepened her empathy for him.
“Things are gonna be okay.”
At her words, his fingers gently increased their grip. Even in his misery, they avoided any damaged portions of Millie’s body. “…no, they’re not.”
She wanted to rebuke him, to say that they’d been through worse, but it would’ve been a lie. The weight of his words piled high, until it created a shared sadness that coursed through both of their hearts. All she could do, in that moment, was exist with him and listen.
Just when a nugget of something potentially helpful came to mind, a cosmic, starry portal opened in the middle of the room.
Stolas stepped out, his face dark, and his steps appeared to track in rain. Yet, the prince himself was dry as a bone; his clothes untouched by anything other than hellish air. With two simple steps, the portal closed, and his cape blew in the resulting wind. Initially, his gaze remained fixed ahead, right on Loona’s glass casket, and it wasn’t until Millie’s tail brushed the ground did his head snap at an odd angle to glare at the noise.
“Ah, you are patched.”
“What’s the word on Husk; is he—”
“Husk shall not be joining us for any continued searches. It appears I had placed far too much faith in his capabilities.”
Millie stood, her eyes filled with vigor and thought as they flicked about. “Then that means I have to get back out there; Moxxie could be—”
“I have already sent another agent to follow Striker’s trail.”
“Wait…who?”
“Someone with rather intimate knowledge of his thought process; not to mention the locations of several hideouts. She shall be invaluable to our cause.”
“No…you did not hire that…we just…agh!” Millie gave an aggravated roar and pulled herself from Blitz’s grasp. “What was the point of us getting the shit kicked out of us then?!”
“She single handedly defeated an assassin for hire and an Overlord in a two on one bout. If I had not interfered and converted her to our side, you would be dead.” Stolas’ eyes burned with a solidity found only amongst the purest of uncut gems; deadly rubies that could cut with a mere glance. “And the last thing that we need is another dead body.”
Blitz recoiled and shrank into himself at the cutting jab towards Millie, who cracked her tail to the air like a whip. “That was fucking uncalled for! We’re risking our lives out there, and you’re--!”
Before she could finish, her and Stolas’ face were a mere centimeter apart. His intimidating height bowed to meet her at eye level, yet it cost him none of his menace. In fact, the look he gave sliced straight into her anger and crippled it at the source. Voice no louder than a menacing utterance, the goetian prince spoke.
“I understand your distress. Your husband is missing and you have been stopped in your attempts to find him, with nothing to show for it besides biting bruises and an embittering replacement. Your pride has been damaged, you have already lost a loved one, and are on the fast track to losing another if he isn’t already dead.” A shadow arched upwards from the prince’s back, or perhaps it was merely a trick of the light, but it cast his expression in an even darker tone. “You are allowed to be angry, but don’t insinuate that my heart does not bleed over these losses. I will not allow my daughter to end up in Striker’s clutches again, but even I am at my limits.”
“Stolas, she didn’t mean anything by it.” Blitz practically wedged himself up between Stolas and Millie, hands up in full protection mode. “We’re exhausted, okay, but we…I…can’t sleep like this. You could use some sleep too; what’s it been, days?”
Gleaming, fierce eyes softened with thought, as the imp’s words sank in and appealed to his logical mind. Distance was created as Stolas began to ease back, only for Blitz to grasp one of his large hands within his own.
“Please…”
Stolas’ harsh exterior melted beneath the pitiful and desperate look in Blitz’s eyes, and it all came down with a cascading sigh. “I suppose that rest would benefit us all…”
“Wait, what about Moxxie: Octavia?” Millie said over Blitz’s shoulder.
“Striker possesses your husband, but my daughter is out of his grasp…for now. While we slumber, I shall send my shadow out in search of her, while our new agent finds your husband.”
“How are you going to trust someone you just met with something this important?!”
“Because I made my stance, and the consequences of disobeying it, crystal clear. We can trust her.”
“Well, I don’t; and I’m not sticking around to leave my husband’s safety in some other woman’s hands. I’m going, you two…stay here if you want.” Instead of heading towards the door, Millie walked past Stolas and stopped in front of Loona’s casket.
To Stolas’ surprise, Blitz followed after, “Mills, please, you can’t keep running on empty like this. Stay, get some sleep, and we’ll get back at it tomorrow.”
“Blitz…if anything happens to Moxxie, I’ll never be able to live with myself knowing I could’ve done more. Stolas has… people to run around for him when he needs a break, but I don’t. I’m all Moxxie has, and I’m not about to leave him because I’m tired.” Whether to escape a follow up, or just because her mind was already too far made up, Millie made a swift jog towards the front door and grabbed her axe along the way.
Blitz extended a hand as she left; a gesture for comfort that wilted on the vine and infected his body. That same arm dropped, and a pathetic little sputter left his lips. “But…we’re a team…”
Unable to allow Blitz to sink any deeper into his misery, Stolas quickly filled the void that Millie left behind, and placed his hand upon the imp’s shoulder. “Come along, Blitz; I will show you to a proper bed. All will be well…I promise.”
Darkness had descended upon the Pride Ring, and Blitz lay next to Stolas amongst silken sheets. Through the windows of a nearby balcony door, countless stars glittered under the veil of night, yet they brought the imp little peace. It was a chamber full of memories, and a vista of his daughter’s namesake; inescapable amongst the warm chest plumage of a demon he had a complicated romantic history with.
Relaxation shouldn’t have come easy, but to the warm rhythm of Stolas’ heartbeat, he found that his eyes grew heavier by the second. Back when they were fucking every full moon, the owl often insisted on cuddling up close after; and so the softness of those feathers wasn’t foreign to the imp. Now, they felt softer than ever, and he cuddled close into that chest plumage without a shred of dignity. He didn’t care about looking tough, at that moment…
To accent how sought that gentle embrace was, a smooth beak slid against one of his curved horns, only to plant a preening kiss to his bare skin. Blitz curled in closer and buried his face right into that fluff, his back spikes an absolute menace to the sheets as they snagged and lowered the value of their silk. Then, either from a stray thought or simply a drowsy attempt to stay awake…
“Does it hurt?”
“Hm?”
“Your eye; does it hurt…even though it’s not there?”
Familiar fingers traced up the small of his back, just above the base of that impish tail, and danced about the spikes with the grace of a professional masseuse. Stolas traced all the way to that slender, red and white shoulder, and settled his touch against the trunk of Blitz’s neck. Reluctantly, his face eased back from the prince’s chest, so that his words might be un-muffled.
“Do you ask out of concern for my continued well being, or simply out of guilt?”
“…Both.”
Stolas’ opposite hand slid up Blitz’s leg beneath the covers; its fingers in search of that spiked, twitchy tail. As if an old ritual, he took to wrapping it between and about his digits with relaxed ease, his three remaining eyes locked in a half-open state. Together, the demon’s shared warmth created a refreshing and pleasurable brush of fabrics, whenever their limbs shifted beneath the covers.
“On occasion, there is a sharp throb, but it dulls rather quickly.”
Lingering resentment lay buried beneath marble slabs of empathy and shared grief. No matter how stark the truth of Stolas’ disfigurement was, he couldn’t bring himself to lash out at Blitz over it. Instead, he dipped his head to provide another preening beak smooch to the imp’s flame-marked skin; and seized a rare opportunity to engage in the scent of their intimacy. Like an old friend, the scent hugged Stolas’ brain with nothing but nostalgia and joy; light brimstone, the raw scent of male, and Blitz’s natural, personal odor.
“Stolas?”
“Yes?”
“If I had just let you hate me…would Loona still be alive?”
Now that gave him pause, and the goetian prince raised his head immediately, only to stare at the imp’s tired, sunken, and baggy yellow eyes. “What?” His response was breathy, weak, and wrought with disbelief. What was more surprising, was how Blitz didn’t move from the embrace, and simply stared into space; almost as if Stolas wasn’t even there.
“If I had just let you hate me…if I could go back and just let you be pissed as shit at me over what happened to you, accepted my punishment, and dealt with it for the rest of my life…would my daughter still be alive?”
An immediate answer wasn’t given; how could it be, with such a sudden and harrowing question? Blitz raised a hand towards the ceiling and splayed out his fingers, like his hand was…immaterial, a marvel of existence that even its wielder didn’t believe existed; or perhaps, shouldn’t.
“I felt like such a piece of shit. I wanted to fix things between us; I needed to, because it ate me up inside. How I never visited you in the hospital, never said I was sorry until it was too late…” Blitz’s voice weakened, quieted, and became but a ghost of its vigorous self. Melancholy had smothered it down to a mere mutter. “…and now Loona is dead, because I couldn’t let you go.”
“You are not to blame for what Striker has done.”
“Yes, I am.”
“How can you even think that? You were kidnapped by one of the Ars Goetia and held within a powerful enchantment that you had no hope of—”
“If I had just been better, none of this would have happened.”
“Better at what?”
“Everything, just…everything.”
“You can’t attribute—”
“Yes, I can.”
“Blitz—”
“If I had been a better dad, a better killer, a better demon; I could’ve—”
“Blitz!” Stolas rolled atop the imp and pinned him to the mattress; his slender frame hovered above as his palms pressed to the sheets on either side of those large horns. “Stop it! It sickens me to see you like this!”
Momentarily, surprise lit his faded golden eyes.
“You gave her love, you gave her a home, and even now you give her your heart. You were an excellent father, despite the outcome! If anyone is to be ashamed, it is myself; for allowing my heart to stray and leave Octavia vulnerable. Loona’s death falls on my shoulders, not yours! It was my mistake, my error, my sin!”
Stolas’ grip tightened, and he lowered closer towards Blitz, his words thick with desperation.
“In my failings, your daughter only sought to protect someone she cared for, and in doing so lost her life. If you need to unleash your scorn upon anyone, let it not be unto yourself, but me!”
Blitz blinked as tears fell upon his face from on high. Trembling, taut arms kept the owl elevated, but they could do nothing to halt his torrent of sorrow. Gravity, in all its heartless glory, exposed the prince’s anger for what it truly was: a mask. All it had taken was the truth; a truth that Stolas had long accepted and bottled up beneath a stoic, necessary posture.
“How could I possibly continue to hate you, after what my actions have brought? The pain that I have caused you is inestimably greater than my own, and nothing that I could do or say will ever be able to undo it.” Stolas’ eyes clenched shut, and in the dark of the bedroom, they vanished from his face. All that remained was the white of his beak; as it held back any further sounds of sadness. “Strike me, if your shattered heart demands it; I deserve far worse…”
Starlight darkened, sheets grew warm, and gnawing emptiness hollowed out all sound within the room. Blitz stared upward, body still, and felt his answer coil around his brain to crack from his lips. “No.”
Stolas’ eyes opened, still fresh with dewlike tears.
“You don’t get to take my pain and pass it off as your own just to make me feel better. If I had just dealt with it; the ghost calls, the cold looks, the fact that you were out of my life...” Language lodged in his throat, and warm hands gripped feathery forearms. “I loved my daughter, Stolas...but apparently, I loved you more.”
His lips tightened, jaw grit, and the grip on Stolas’ arms squeezed to the bone.
“Whatever this is...whatever we were...this is the best sign that it wasn’t meant to be.” Sadness seized the imp’s lip and curled them in a mockery of a smile. “The really fucked up bit, is that I still want you.” A sharp inhale, and his head turned away entirely to stare at the wall. “Even though every time that I look at you...I hate myself.”
Consideration swirled in Stolas’ eyes, and he lowered himself. Against him, he felt Blitz’s leg, his hip, his torso, his tail; all familiar, yet cold and distant. “I don’t want you to hate yourself, Blitz.”
“Who cares what you want, anymore?” Venomous tongue, albeit in name only, hissed in calm turmoil.
Slivers of anger traced along his mind, fanged serpents that tempted him to submit to an aggressive urge, but his heart didn’t allow it. Instead, it chose a much crueler option, even if the magnitude wasn’t fully comprehended at the moment. “...I don’t want Octavia to end up like Loona.”
Small, slender legs scuttled beneath him; suddenly filled with energy. Splotched white skin and spikes shot up from the covers and turned away from Stolas. Two hands gripped against their opposing arms and squeezed tight in a firm embrace. Blitz sat at the edge of the bed, eyes cast to the floor, tail limp, and voice low. “Fuck you, Stolas.”
The barb stung, just like any other; but with it came an odd sensation of happiness. If Blitz could simply divert his hatred onto someone other than himself, perhaps it would be for the better. Stolas raised his hand and quietly muttered an incantation; one that beckoned a heavy sleep upon the imp. “No more anger, only dreams.”
As he watched Blitz sink backwards, he pulled the covers aside to make room, and then tucked him in. It would take several minutes for Stolas to finally slip into slumber himself; the troubles of the day still fresh in his mind, even as darkness overcame him and the pleasant claws of tiredness managed to drag him under.
He prayed to dream.
Stars above, woven in a translucent veil, glowed with twilights hues. They were the first to greet Blitz as he opened his eyes, and felt the comfort and weight of two arms draped over top him. His mind, just having booted up, fogged his vision and slowed his movement to that of an inebriated slug. Pressure in his groin compelled him to slide out of bed, and his unseen muscles gripped to hold back the tide of a late night piss.
The heels of his feet tapped against the marble floor, and a yawn stroked from his throat to his jaw to forced his face to scrunch and gape. Dim light from outside cast his path in starlight, as the sun does upon a summer’s day, and guided him out of Stolas’ bedroom. Blitz leaned against the wall, directly beyond the door, and felt his body slump. Braced against one leg, his knee joined in for added support, and his head dipped in the throes of brief lucidity.
For a moment, his eyes grew fuzzier than before, and he clenched them shut to dispel the effect. Everything spun, crackled, turned to static as relief squeezed the back of his brain; like it relaxed for the first time in its existence. Blitz reopened his eyes and groaned into his mouth, as it took several seconds for the world to slip into full focus.
Unnatural silence surged through the manor halls; at home amidst the dark corners and rafters left untouched by the moon’s grace. He didn’t even need to remember where the washroom was; so numerous were his visits, that its location was committed to long term memory. Blitz trudged forward for a singular step, and then collapsed into the wall once more; the requirement to breath present at the forefront of his chest.
Even as his faculties returned in full, he couldn’t stomach the willpower to enact them with anything other than the most minimal of efforts. Architecture and decorations that some poor interior designer had likely slaved away to produce were blatantly disregarded by the imp, as he began to walk. Straight down the hall, first room on the right beyond the stairs; an easy jaunt.
The beginnings of the marble stairs; a gaping maw with massive, blunted fangs, beckoned his eyes. How many steps did the staircase hold? Must be about…thirty or more, but in the dark it was difficult to be sure. Blitz stopped at the top of the steps and stared down into the foyer below.
Two tiny, red dots of light hovered in the dark.
Within the malleable, all-encompassing void, shape twisted and morphed into the bare recognition of a body. Yet, just as it began to truly resemble anything, he lost the perspective to recognize it as anything at all. Those two tiny dots didn’t move, fixed in their spot above the ground.
Their size rooted Blitz to the spot. Too out of place to be anything, yet clearly present enough to be . What were they; eyes, a reflection of a gem that hung somewhere in the estate? The uncertainty of it all made his focus intensify…and the urge to flee began to skitter up his legs.
A footstep made his heart jump.
“…”
Another footstep; it’s sound came from below.
“…”
He couldn’t move.
“…”
They stopped.
Silence.
“…h—”
Cascading stomps rushed up the stairs!
Seized by terror, Blitz sprinted away and down the hall. Behind him, a presence loomed; one that drew closer and closer with each stomp.
He threw himself through the bathroom door and slammed it shut with a wild cry of fear; chest trapped in hyperventilation as it heaved rapidly. Force slammed into the door, enough to make it bend at the hinges, and he braced himself against it to keep whatever lay beyond it away. Another slam followed, then another…and then silence.
Blitz’s heart throbbed in pain, throat ragged and a stitch in his side; legs made of gelatin. Instinct told him to move from the door, and so he did, choosing to seek shelter in the tub. Curled into a ball at the farthest edge, he stared at the door and tried to calm his breathing. When the silence held, each passing second brought further peace, and eventually, his terror was reduced to but a mere flutter of paranoia.
There had been no time to look, no time to think, but now in the safety of the locked bathroom it was in ample supply. The more his mind reeled to consider all of the likely possibilities, Blitz began to zone out; his gaze dropped towards the pearly white tub, instead of the white door.
“Excuse me, little imp.”
Blitz practically leapt out of his skin, head a whirlwind of motion to locate where that voice had just come from. It was deep, lurid, and smooth; with a dash of pompousness and age that immediately put him on edge. No matter where he looked, there was no one in there with him. Was it coming from behind the door? No, it was too close, like it was in the bathroom.
“Over here, in the mirror.”
Compelled by the solution to his panicked mystery, he rolled out of the tub and landed on his feet, then looked up. An ornate sink, handles patterned after clamshells above a deep, silver bowl sat below a rather plain-looking mirror. Aside from its frame, which carried a particular ornamental flourish to it; something that definitely belonged in a royal’s home.
Within the glass, a face stood to greet him.
Bone white features framed two abyssal eyes; within them red cherries that were forever scarred by a scalpel’s touch. Around the sharp eyeholes, red wines twisted and curled beneath the occasional star of similar color. It took Blitz a moment to realize that he was looking at a bird’s face; an owl’s face. Atop his dark feathered head sat a heavy-looking, golden crown that stretched tall, flanked by a pair of even taller feathers. They appeared like horns, and his head was a bowl in which the crown nestled. Thick, pompous feathers flanked the sides of that white mask of a face, and vanished into a towering black collar; which then slipped beneath a cape with a similarly large collar as well.
“Ah, there you are.”
Blitz gripped the edge of the sink and stared at the mirror. “I don’t know you…”
“No one knows anyone until they converse. It’s quite normal.”
“Who are you? What are you doing in Stolas’ bathroom? What do you want?”
“…that was not an invitation to bombard me with questions. Only know that I can help you with your current predicament.”
“What?”
A massive crash made him leap, and Blitz turned back towards the door, where he saw a crack snake across the wood.
“Ah, right on time. That door won’t hold long. If you wish to not be mauled, then you will listen.”
Blitz winced as another crash bent the door inward, and what sounded like scratching began to burrow into the room. Something was…desperate, in that scurried sound; something fierce, angry, and overwhelming. It threatened to grow so loud in fact, that he worried he may no longer be able to hear himself speak, let alone the stranger in the mirror.
“Fuck…fuck, I’m listening!”
“Touch the mirror.”
“…what?”
“Touch. The. Mirror. A simple task, really; well, unless your mind has suddenly decided to give into suicidal tendencies.”
Splinters blasted into the bathroom and ricocheted off Blitz’s back. No time to think. No time to look. His palm slapped against the glass.
Reality fragmented into a kaleidoscope of grey and silver; reflections upon reflections eternally looped within the scope of tumbling, twisting shards. Air hollowed in the vacant space of his mouth and dried his tongue. Color faded from his fingertips, and through a veil of cold that started to coil its’ bony grip about his body, he watched as vibrant reds and whites decayed to dull charcoal. Through a thousand angles, Blitz saw himself, but not the whole of himself. An eye here, a tail, legs, back spine, teeth, eyes, horns, tails spikes; every piece of his physicality that constructed his waking form.
And then, the shards began to tremble. Light gleamed at their edges, and one slapped against another with a sharp clack. Like beads upon an abacus, the sound swelled to deafening levels...and made him blink.
When he opened his eyes, he found a pitch black talon tapping against his forehead.
“You better not be brain dead in there.” The rather broad owl mused, the near-feline slit of his iris boring into the imp’s soul.
“…what?”
“It speaks: glory. Consider yourself honored, as the average imp mind is incapable of withstanding the transition.”
Blitz managed to turn his eyes from the owl’s own and drink in his surroundings. Gone was the bathroom, gone was the awful banging and the rapid approach of danger. In it’s place…nothing.
Endless stars dotted a vast abyss, their glow far from the hopeful white or yellow twinkle that most were accustomed to seeing. No, instead, these stars shone with a sharp, red aura that cast fading hues of menace through the dark. They were endless; a verifiable infinity of stars stretched farther than he could see. Amongst them, a singular oddity; a slowly rotating black hole that sat too far away to be a worry, but whose mere presence incited a gnawing dread.
Below his feet, an asteroid, one which the strange owl also stood upon.
“Where…in the ever-loving fuck am I?”
“Far from the figment that wished to feast upon your entrails. As for where specifically; a dying star system.” A massive arm stretched out, which caused the golden and red shawl that draped over it to tumble aside, and scratched the sky with a talon. “All of those red stars that you see? They breath their last, about to combust in a final act of celestial design; to be reborn as stardust amongst an infinite pathway of possibility.”
“…what are you talking about?! Who even are you?!”
“I am King Paimon, and I thought one so familiar with death would be far more appreciative of the locale.” The owl’s arm sank back beneath his cloak, and he turned to fully face Blitz; his cape wrapped about his body like sheltering wings. He made Stolas look like a twig, by comparison; and at the thought, the owl’s eyes gleamed with an eldritch light. “I am also the sire of Stolas Goetia.”
“You’re…Stolas’ dad?”
“Regrettably, but undeniably, yes.”
“Is that why you were in his bathroom mirror?”
“No, because I wasn’t in Stolas’ bathroom mirror; but the conjuration of said mirror inside of your own mind.”
“…you lost me.”
“You were hallucinating.”
Blitz paused, flattened his palms, and then patted his face multiple times, in an effort to wake himself up. To his surprise, he felt it, but couldn’t hear it; and he shook both wrists to try and squeeze some manner of noise from them. Was he going crazy?
“Oh, lower minds…” Paimon scoffed, and rolled his eyes with tediously conjured energy. “Need I remind you, we are in the soundless vacuum of space. The only reason we can communicate is due to my magic; but I did not bring you here to lecture.”
“How do I know I’m still not seeing shit? How do I know you’re real?”
“You don’t, but you’re still going to want to listen to what I have to say; imaginary or no.”
“Why?”
“Because, it is important.” Paimon ruffled his shoulders, and his cloak parted to allow an arm to emerge once again. Within his upturned hand, he gestured towards the canvas of blood red stars that gleamed in the cold night. “I have sired many children, throughout my immortal existence; collecting experiences, stories, memories, and knowledge. Stolas has been a particularly dour note in my lineage…” The owl’s beak scrunched, and those predatory eye holes shrank and sharpened. “…cavorting with imps, using his grimoire for sexual favors, cowering before his wife.” Thick neck feathers briefly puffed, and Blitz was able to count them individually, as they smoothed back down. “But, ever since his ‘little incident’, my son has started to make his father proud; for once in his miserable life.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” A paralyzing chill raked down Blitz’s spine, as Paimon’s beak upturned into a menacing, albeit brief, smile.
“You did one little thing wrong, and my son has flourished as a result. It was your own priorities that allowed him to metamorphoses into what he was always meant to; a true Goetian Prince. Granted, he still has a ways to go, but the progress has been rather promising.”
Guilt ripped through Blitz’s heart, and his teeth pressed together behind tight lips. “You don’t have to remind me…”
“Through your assumptions and arrogance, he finally received the proper kick in the head to get his mind right.” Paimon’s eyes closed, and Blitz swear he could hear the moisture in them; like the lids hugged each other out of joy. “Did you know he’s taken to torture? Delightful displays to witness; bloodletting, bone crushing, partial limb removal.” As he spoke, a delighted hiss roused itself from that sharp, ivory beak. “All with the aid of his natural and learned gifts, and your love for your daughter.”
“The fuck you know about that?”
“I know that she’s dead. I know her demise stalks within your psyche. Your guilt wishes to see you suffer for what you feel is your fault. However…” In that upturned hand, a ball of shadow began to form. Almost impossible to see at first, amidst the circle of dark talons, it only became visible as strands of red began to trace through it like veins. It coiled between each finger and wrapped its way back up to the pointed tips of Paimon’s talons. “…why punish yourself, when you can punish another?”
For the first time, the owl took a step forward. Immediately, Blitz stumbled, and barely caught his heel before he could fall onto his ass.
“No?” Etched markings around the king’s eyes stretched and slithered along the white porcelain of his face. “Then, perhaps, you’d like to see exactly how she died?”
Paimon snapped his fingers, and the world changed.
The explosion of a train car.
The click of Moxxie’s gun.
Striker’s angry voice.
A second explosion.
The dying cry of a hell horse.
The glint of a knife towards Moxxie’s neck.
A blur.
A tumble.
Loona; his daughter.
The edge of an island. Yawning, fertile abyss below.
“Loona…!” Moxxie’s hand around hers.
The click of a revolver. Striker’s cold, murderous glare.
“One dumb animal for another.”
A gunshot.
Blood.
Loona, “Moxxie!”
Moxxie, “Loona!”
She fell.
…and fell…
…and fell …
…and screamed …
“DAD!”
She smashed upon the ground.
“NO!” Blitz roared, heart fully vacant from his chest at the sight. Loona’s face, her screams, her plea …
“Would you like to see it again?”
The vision played a second time, right in front of him.
“DAD!” A heartrending cry of fear, one that was the last sound she’d ever make, just before her body shattered upon the grassy field.
In a disorienting sequence, she fell, screamed, crashed, and then fell again.
“I can loop this as often as you’d like.” Paimon noted, his tone vastly indifferent to the sight at hand.
“DAD!” A slam. A crunch. Not even a gasp of air or a death wheeze followed.
“DAD!” A slam. A crunch.
“DAD!” A slam.
“STOP IT!” Blitz roared, tears streaming down through his splayed fingers. He shook, muscles taut with sorrow, fear, shock, and dismay, as he dropped to his knees.
“You seek to punish yourself, because you are only looking with half of your sight.” Magic coiled about Blitz’s horns and yanked his head back, as Paimon stepped forward. As Blitz’s chest began to heave, and blubbering puffs of anger burst from his lips, strong talons seized his chin in a death grip. “Don’t close your eyes. Be a fucking man and look!”
Through his tears, he could hardly see the fine lines, but the initial instance was enough to sear them to memory. It was a sight that Blitz would remember until his final days, and carry them into whatever awaited him afterwards. All he saw was his own failure to save her, to be there for her; she even cried out for him, and he couldn’t even do that. Paimon’s voice continued to burrow into his ear.
“You did not pull the trigger that made her fall. You did not put her on that train. You did not fail to keep your grip. Smother your self pity, and in its’ place, birth righteous rage. Vow vengeance, join Stolas in his hunt, and I shall gift you with the means to stand as his near equal…” That sultry, rich, and deep voice breathed in gently, as his face lowered closer. “…to be better.”
Blitz stopped, his eyes pulled wide by the word.
“That’s all you need, isn’t it; to just be a little better than you are now?”
The scene faded, and they returned to the astral plane of space, in just a single blink.
“Prove to me that you are a true father, Blitzo Buckzo, and as a reward…I will bring your daughter back from the dead.”
Nurses and doctors carried themselves through polished hallways, to the clarion call of ringing phones and P.A. messages that blasted through speakers. To the initiated, it was drowned out, familiar noise. To others, it was an annoyance or a trigger for agitation. Squeaky wheels on stretchers rolled past, each bit of grout another shallow trench for them to bump across.
Beneath it all, a cheery and composed hum accompanied the tapping of a cane. Polished dress shoes stepped their way forward, borne of the rigidity that birthed heel blisters, and brought soreness to the soles with nary a care of shred of sympathy. Their owner was garbed in rich, red fabrics and dark satin accessories to match; enough to draw more than a few stray glances.
He had no need to ask for directions, and no one dared to approach or detain him. A well manner welcome, if any, as he freely roamed the hospital’s halls. That cheery hum never faded, never ceased; at least not until he arrived at his destination: Medical Suite Four. With a rap of his cane upon the door, he entered without introduction.
“Husker, my dear boy; someone dusted you nice and proper, didn’t they?”
Fluffy ears shot upwards, as the feline overlord’s bandaged head rose towards the door. Yellow eyes traced down the multiple wrappings and casts, only to land upon the absent wing; and before the demon could even response, the unannounced figure walked closer to the bed.
“What the fuck are you doing down here?” came the rumbling, grouchy growl of a humbled soul.
“Why, checking on you, of course. When I caught wind that a mighty overlord had been placed under intensive care; what else was I to do aside from investigate?” The butt of the can bounced off the floor with a sharp tap, and its head was pointed at the asymmetrical state of Husk’s back. “The rumors didn’t do it justice.”
“Your magic didn’t do shit, by the way; so thanks for that, asshole.”
Focus shifted to the bandaged finger, and a musical chuckle lifted itself from a dusky throat. "If you only used it for coin tricks, I suppose it would make for a poor defense. A creative spark is required to use it effectively.”
Hacking coughs lifted Husk slightly from the bed, and he quickly shoved an arm over his mouth to cover it up. The remaining wing flapped; always a tick, a habit, but once a dance of two. Such things were mournful, but sometimes a necessity. If anything; a lesson to be learned, or a purpose newly made.
“I am morbidly curious over who did this to you, old friend.”
“You ain’t…” Another cough, one that spewed forth a plucked flour of crimson and splattered his fur. “…my fucking friend.”
“Such biting words, but if I recall correctly, you were more than willing to converse back in your casino. Tell me, what was changed? Is it simply your current state of being, or does something grievous weigh on your mind?”
He leaned against his cane; palm dug into the polished, egg-shaped head. One leg kicked up behind the opposite leg, just between the ankle and behind the knee. Husk continued to cough, and as the spasms ranked dry the lining of his throat, his fingers opened just enough for the lines of a sigil to be seen.
Without a word, that same cane pushed against the palm, and Husk hissed. Yet, his fingers couldn’t close, as his palm ignited with crackling pain. Eyes clenched, teeth bared, ears flattened, he growled as the figure turned his hand around to take a look.
“…So, an overlord has made a deal with an even higher power.”
Strength returned, as if by the mere mention of the sigil’s creator, and Husk swatted the cane away from his hand. “Keep your nose out of it, Alastor!”
Stained, yellow daggers created a wall of silent solidarity and menace. “Come now Husker, we are cut from the same cloth: no? Share your woes with me.”
“You really think I’m stupid enough to trust you? I’ve seen the way you play cards: cheater!”
A smug, static-filled chuckle rippled and buzzed against those corroded, golden gnashers. “A necessary slight, I assure you. My only goal was to secure a partnership, one which you so elegantly declined in exchange for my neck.” Two small antlers atop the demon’s head stretched; their fingers stretched towards the ceiling as an ominous aura of green light cast over his face. “But I doubt you would refuse my aid, in your current state.”
“How did you even get down here? Sinners aren’t allowed to walk outside of Pride.”
“Clearly, there exists a way to circumnavigate that rule; you and I are sentient proof of it. Simply know that you are not the only one who has connections from a higher plane.” Approaching footsteps perked both of those red-furred, fluffy ears, and Alastor’s head craned at an unnatural angle towards the door. A nurse, both arms stacked with towels, walked right past without a glance. “If you simply show me the sigil, I can perhaps find a way around whatever bargain you have struck.”
Husk squinted, “And why the hell would you do that?”
The lanky sinner pursed his lips, then clicked his teeth and examined his nails. “Why, indeed…”
“Alastor?” a surprised, high-pitched tone echoed from the doorway. There stood Angel Dust, his head heavily bandaged; far more than Husk was. “The fuck are you doing here?” He strode past the Radio Demon and stood at the side of the bed, two hands protectively resting on Husk’s uninjured arm.
“Hello to you too, Angel. It has been quite some time.”
“Yeah, it has; last I saw you, we had to sic the boys on your cheating ass.”
Alastor sighed dramatically and shook his head, “One little error, and they never let you live it down…”
“Bambi’s here for info.”
“On what?”
“Who messed us up.”
“And did you tell him?”
“…why would I ever?”
Angel rolled his eyes and leaned down to whisper in his partner’s ear. Whatever he said went entirely unheard by Alastor, even with his cervid-like ears, but he watched Husk’s face the entire time. Not many signs were present to indicate what was said; all save a small twitch of the lower left eye. Afterwards, as Angel pulled back, he planted a hand on a cocked hip and set his sights on Alastor.
“Yo, Smiles; you still make those creepy little voodoo dolls?”
“Why, of course.”
“Then maybe you can help us out. See, we made a deal, and the sooner we fill our end of it, the better off we’ll be. Problem is, our ‘boss’ had Husk run out to do some extra bullshit, and now we’re here. If you can send out your little minion…sack puppet things, and finish the job, we’d owe ya.”
“Careful now, Angel, or I might just take that offer and run with it. When you say you’d owe me…”
“Negotiable, obviously.” Husk grunted.
“Not as invigorating of a task as I had been hoping for, but if you two are absolutely resolved to hold fast to your dealings…”
“Trust us, you don’t wanna piss off the guy we made the deal with. It’s better for everyone if…” Angel glanced to Husk and sighed. “…if we just give him what he wants.”
Creaky spider legs dribbled in sequence against the head of Alastor’s cane; the demon’s smile unfazed by the declaration. “Very well; I shall assist you in this task that has been bestowed upon you, for an exchange of a single favor to be discussed at a later point.” His hand jutted out, formed like a spear, and that grin widened. “Do we have a deal?”
Angel immediately held up a hand; not to shake, but to demand pause. “We ain’t making another deal with anyone until you prove that you’re actually gonna be worth it. Come back in the morning; we’ll think of a way for you to prove yourself.”
The tiniest twitch of a cheekbone caused the smile to diminish somewhat, and Alastor slowly placed his offered hand back atop his cane. This time, they didn’t dribble and skitter, but chose to gently squeeze between one another. “As you wish.” Finally, he turned and strode towards the door, only to pause halfway through its frame. “Gentlemen.”
Lights flickered as he walked back towards the lobby; nose flooded with the scent of cleaning chemicals, the highly-sanitized leftovers of long-cleaned urine, and coffee. Bit by bit, his smile faded more and more, but never died out completely; as his social defense mechanism was needed more than ever. Whether it be sadness, happiness, fear, or anger; he needed to keep a smile.
Faceless demons strode past him, seemingly with zero interest in his presence, on his way out. While he hadn’t expected to be turned away so abruptly, life didn’t care about the most well-laid machinations, at the best of times. Even so, one must continue to lay them. Automatic doors opened with a mechanical grind of wind, and the Radio Demon stepped outside into the darkness.
Protected by the ever-present lights of the hospital, the boundary of an unknown peace lingered yards into the distance. Few cars sat within the vast parking lot that huddled around the entryway; the singular funnel for all grounded patients to enter. As he gazed about the mostly vacant lot, a lonely metal bench caught his eye, and without much of a plan of where to go, Alastor sat down to wait.
Sleep was an unfamiliarity to him. Disassociation was the closest he could ever come to that blissful, rejuvenating state of mind; even before his death and judgement. The dark wasn’t such an abhorrent thing, to one who walked amongst all hours of each calendar day. That quality carried into death, and as Alastor stared into the dark, he couldn’t help but gaze longingly into the abyss that might yield excitement.
Creaking metal drew him from his absent reverie.
A demon had sat next to him upon the bench. Scraggly chin hair, light purple skin, crystal blue eyes; a doctor’s coat draped over slumped shoulders. A lighter’s flame cast a sharp set of cheekbones in shadow, and a half-lidded pair of eyes closed completely upon the first inhale of nicotine. An incubus, if Alastor was not mistaken. Pungent smoke curled his nose, his throat tightened as a memory unfolded…from his youth…
Laughing men. A smoky cocktail bar. Faux fur, glimmering pearls, and the slow slap of turned and flipped cards. Cool, stained air coagulated in a miasma of rancid cigarette smoke that made his head spin. No…no…no…that smell would not do.
Stretching skin bulged against the inside of his coat liner, and as the Radio Demon turned his head towards the smoker, red fabrics began to unravel. “Pardon me, my medically-focused fellow…” he began; a single tentacle poked from his lower back and began to grow. “…may I ask your opinion on a new diet plan I’ve been following?”
Notes:
I still hope you're all enjoying this edgy ass AU. It's easier to write when I'm moody, but the excitement and joy it brings others really keeps the process alive. Live for the drama, mwah~
Chapter 10: See Right Through You
Summary:
Fangs bared.
Closure gained.
Is it all a lie?
Hard to say.
Chapter Text
Crackling fire and the creaking swing of chains echoed in Moxxie’s ears. Linen cloth smothered his eyes, copper tingled atop his tongue, and every muscle ached. His hands, curled and uncurled in sequence; anything to keep the blood flowing. For all the good it did, with his ankles, tail, and wrists bound with heavy iron.
Guitar strings plucked quietly, hidden beneath the other two sounds. It was barely a pinprick, but with his covered eyes, Moxxie could make it out.
“You’re out of tune.”
To the darkness, he spoke; but he knew who lay within it. His captor, his jailor, and the murderer of his dear friend: Striker. Further notes played, their song a replacement for the response he expected, and the scent of cooked meat began to tickle his nostrils. Cruel pain throbbed in his hand, a relic from the bullet he had taken; now wrapped in cloth to stem the flow of blood and prevent infection.
“Where’d you learn to play anyway, scales scrawled on some toilet stall?”
Metal jerked and the cage swayed under an explosive smash against the bars. “Keep yapping like that, and you ain’t getting fed.” A faint rattle vibrated through the air, and Moxxie’s mouth curled into a frown to form a wad of spit. He hoped it hit the mark, as he spat into the dark, hot air.
“I’d rather eat shit!”
“Yeah…” came the barely contained growl. “…I reckon you would. Still mad that I killed your mutt?”
Anger flared, and Moxxie’s leg instinctively kicked out, but was held firm by their bonds. All it produced was a rattle of chains, and an infuriating laugh from Striker.
“Shouldn’t have gotten in my way. You should’ve just let me take the damn girl. Instead, you had to go and try and be some kinda hero.” Gravity shifted, and Moxxie clenched as the cage began to lean. “Bet you were expecting a fat stack of cash and a fucking medal, weren’t you? Instead, all you’ve done is killed your friend and gotten yourself locked up; hope yer proud of yourself.”
The cage swung back, and Moxxie grimaced as his shoulder smashed against the bars. Fading footsteps compelled him to grow quiet, and in the face of those condemning words, he did.
“And here I was thinking you were the smart one.”
Bubbling, thick liquid poured down into a bowl with a single glop. Chicken, potatoes, and what Moxxie imagined to be a dark, bitter broth from scent alone wafted closer. It was an earthy odor; one that promised a scorched throat and a bulging belly. True to his word, Moxxie scuttled back until his back hit the bars, knees tucked up to his chest…and recoiled as a firm hand abruptly wrapped around the ankle.
Hot air rushed up from below, and hard earth smashed against his ass and back; which summarily knocked the wind clean from his lungs. Strong, aggressive fingers stabbed against his cheeks, then curled as Moxxie felt himself lifted to his knees. All the added weight intensified each unpleasant motion; a tumble was a plummet, a grip was the teeth of a bear trap.
“I need you breathing, so I can make a trade for the girl. Now, be a good little imp and eat the fucking soup.”
Moxxie squirmed, neck with all the attributes of an eel, and whipped his chin down. Teeth bared, he blindly chomped and felt the rough, unpleasant flavor of flesh. Striker’s surprised growl of pain made the flavor go down easier, however. With enough power to rattle his teeth, the hand yanked away…and then returned to crash knucklebone against the side of Moxxie’s head.
Just as quick, that grip re-established itself; this time joined by the presence of what felt like a wooden spoon. Smooth, and definitely not metal, its own unique feel pressed to his mouth; as did a steaming liquid that smoked clean the hairs in his nose. Fierce digits forced Moxxie’s mouth open, extra pressure to his vacant cheeks ensured it stayed that way, and hot broth poured down his throat. Chunks of slime; likely meat and vegetables, formed a sandbag wall along the ridges of his teeth. It wasn’t until his maw was stuffed that Striker let go…
…only to slam that jaw shut and slap a hand over Moxxie’s mouth. A second hand cupped his throat, and a knee pressed upwards on his chin to push his head back.
“Eat the fucking soup, runt!”
Unable to gain any control over his own mouth, unchewed chunks of protein and nutrients scraped down his throat, alongside a torrent of hot broth. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, at the discomfort, and he gagged at the disruption to his slender esophagus. Just as the first batch was fully swallowed, and Moxxie burst out into a gasp for air, another spoonful pressed to his lips.
“Stop!”
No response came, other than a rough second helping of vittles. It didn’t go down any easier, and the sensation of ugly helplessness that clawed the inside of Moxxie’s chest grew. As he gasped for air yet again, unwanted flavor stained atop his tastebuds, the imp lurched in his bonds with violent and explosive energy.
“They’ll save me…you’re not walking away from what you’ve done!”
A sneering chuckle stabbed Moxxie’s heart with three separate prongs of cold iron. “Nah, I will; left someone trusted behind to keep your wife off my tail. With her out of the way, that just leaves the Prince, and he don’t give a rat’s ass about you; just his daughter. It won’t take him long to figure out I don’t have her…”
Claws pressed to his skin with such sudden intimacy that the imp nearly leapt from it altogether. Hot breath drew closer, so close that he could taste it on his scalded, serpentine tongue. Cured meats, tobacco, and low-grade alcohol floated amongst every molecule; their odor enough to curl Moxxie’s nose.
“…that just leaves your boss. Once he finds out his little girl is dead; well—” Those claws began to glide menacingly, as if to savor the lushness of that red skin, in a slow and almost graceful motion. Striker’s following words were bloated with a combination of bitterness and assurance; like he spoke nothing but truth. “—he’ll be out of commission for a good, long while; too busy mourning to come looking for you…the failure who got her killed in the first place.”
Those same strong hands pulled Moxxie off the ground, and three steps later, chucked him back into the cage! Mind and body overwhelmed by his enhanced senses, those interactions inflicted greater harm than they otherwise would, and the imp instinctually balled up to combat his discomfort.
“Best start straightening your tune, because you and me are gonna be together for a long time coming!”
“Blitz?” Stolas called out into the seemingly empty halls of his estate. That singular noun bounced from polished wall to polished wall, to the end of the farthest flung hallway, and only stopped once a door stood to impede it. Dressed in nothing but a nightgown, head feathers still ruffled from a night of mostly restful slumber, the prince wandered in search of his imp.
In Octavia’s absence, the mansion had grown cold. Before, despite Stolas’ despair, her presence managed to invoke at least an ember of light. Now, his guiding star had been taken, and the panic to locate her immediately gnawed at the back of his brain incessantly. Logic would prevail; he had his shadow and a new devotee out to scout for her, not to mention Millie’s own devotion to locating her husband. Between the three entities, surely one of them could locate Striker, which left he and Blitz to find Octavia.
That was…if he could first locate the imp in question.
It was a near nostalgic experience; Blitz used to cut and run before the morning sun, in the earliest days of their business arrangement. Over time, that practiced ceased, and he had taken to lingering for longer periods of time. Now, to feel his sudden absence once more put Stolas on edge. Did something happen?
“Blitz?” Again, no answer, even as he called down another wing of the mansion. They had only ever really spent him in his bedroom; did the imp even know the layout to purposefully wander? Had he somehow become lost? The concept snapped like so many hungry beasts at the bottom of Stolas’ heart, and his steps paced with newfound fervor. “Damnit Blitz, where are you?" he muttered to himself; mind already set on the next destination.
It was unlikely Blitz was in the library, the observatory, the greenhouse, or the gardens behind the manor. That didn’t leave too many other places to look, all save one; the tub room. A rather inelegant name for what was close to his most precious room, but Stolas was at a loss when it came to picking a more suitable moniker. It had served as a realm of safety and peace in turbulent times, but ever since Stella’s departure, it’s luster had faded somewhat.
As Stolas approached the familiar door, he gripped the knob without knocking, then pushed on through. “Blitz?”
At the center of the room, submerged in an ornate tub, was the exact demon he had been searching for. Up to his eyes in steaming bathwater, curved and striped horns rose above the calm with island-esque majesty. Twin topaz stared steadily at the porcelain rim, seemingly unaware of Stolas’ voice in the background.
Memories surged across his mind, those of bubbles and smiles, of splashing water and playful scrubbing; from a time long past. Such nostalgic happiness was enough to plant a bulb of bile in his stomach, and the acid from it coated his inner throat. Now, there was no laughter, no smiles shared, and especially no bubbles.
“I was looking for you.” Stolas said, as he approached the bath; tone a chimera of reprimand, concern, and relief.
Both eyes rotated smoothly in their sockets and gazed upwards. Finally: acknowledgement. “Well, you found me.” Like a gator upon the surface of a lake, impish features cut a rather draconian appearance, aided by the gleam of high-quality water and the magical enchantments laced within each droplet. “Needed to clear my head and get all that shit off.”
Old tendencies, social cues that warned of a foul mood, lit up in the owl’s mind; as such, he altered his intention to slide into the tub. Instead, he opted to approach and lightly plant his fingers atop its edge. As he did… something urged them to retreat, and thus, they did. Stolas blinked, brain rattled with momentary confusion, then cleared his throat to subsequently clear his head.
“Well, when you are done, there is a matter you can assist me with. There is someone who would be of great help, and your presence would be pertinent in enlisting their aid.”
Waves rippled along the water’s surface, then crashed as Blitz stood up. Glimmering water coated his toned physique from shoulder to navel; nothing that Stolas hadn’t seen before, but even then, gently tightened his beak at the sight of. “Is it because I’m an imp or something?” he asked, boot-shaped foot swung over the edge to drip water onto the runes that circled the basin.
“No…but it does involve Loona.”
Blitz paused, form highly prone to the cold in his wet state, yet he did not seem to care. As he heaved his other half from the steaming bath, his expression turned away from Stolas and became invisible. His silence felt like an indicator to continue, but lingered near the possibility of a simple upheave in thought. To speak or to listen; neither was an obvious or correct answer. Finally, Blitz spoke up.
“How?”
“At the edges of Sloth, lives a powerful seer; the greatest in all of Hell. His name is Vassago, and is he part of the Ars Goetia. Nothing occurs within that ring which goes unseen by him; for his power exists to perceive the intangible and soothe the dead.”
Through the explanation, red shoulders had slowly tensed, and once the utterance of a necromantic topic touched his head, they rolled with a sharp pop. Heels tapped to ground, as the imp walked to grab a towel and begin drying himself. Balled in two fists, high-end fabrics furiously battered along red and white skin; trapped in a perpetual sawing motion to rend all extra moisture clean.
“He could tell us much; where Striker has gone, where Octavia has gone, what exactly happened on the train.” Stolas approached with deathly soft footfalls, the only sound of his presence the soft brush of his tail feathers along the ground. “Maybe, he could help you with—”
A sharp whip of the towel interrupted Stolas’ sentence, and in the momentary silence that followed, Blitz turned. Eyes downcast, towel wrapped around his waist, “Help me with what?”
“Help you to heal, to give you peace, to tell you where her soul has passed to.” Another step, this time with an added beckoning gesture of both hands, upturned and gracious. “Don’t you want that?”
Blitz gave a harsh, singular sniffle, and his head rose; but he still refrained from looking at Stolas. That rejection dipped the owl’s heart in cement, and the downwards pull of it debilitated his lungs. “Would it fix anything?”
It was a loaded question, one that Stolas could only attempt to answer with honesty and hope. “It might fix you.”
“There’s no… cure for me, Stolas.”
“Only because you don’t believe you deserve one.” Unable to stay parted, talons finally cradled that handsome jawline to tilt the imp’s eyes into focus. They turned away, but the head went with the motion and stayed locked. “She wouldn’t want—”
“Oh, what the fuck do you know?! Stop pretending like you give a shit, because I know you don’t! All you want is to save your daughter, to kill the guy who threatened your kid; you never gave a shit about Loona until she died doing your damn job, so quit acting like you care just to get to me!”
The explosive outburst was followed by a forceful push, and Blitz held out both arms, just to double tap his bare chest.
“You want someone to hurt, then look right fucking here!” Another double tap, this one more thunderous than the first. “Go on, if you could take it, I sure as shit can too!”
“I don’t want to hurt you, I want to help you.”
“Then punish me for all the shit I’ve done; I know you want to!”
“No, I—”
“I ruined your life; almost got you killed, cost you an eye, and got your daughter kidnapped! I’m the source of all your misery, Stolas; me, not Striker, and nothing is going to change that. You wanna kill him so bad, but you should be foaming at the mouth to have my head on a platter!”
“I don’t want to fight with you!”
Stolas raised a hand and slowly inhaled, to calm himself down. Upon the exhale, he pinched the bridge between his eyes, arms half-folded over his torso.
“That is the last thing I wish to do: fight. Not with you, not with my only friend…”
Blitz’s arms lowered, and his eyes flickered in either direction. Those words gave him pause, and the cold, stony exterior began to soften.
“So please, come with me to Sloth?” An outstretched hand offered itself, so that they might travel hand in hand together; but instead of another hand, all the gesture received as a dubious stare. “We can find Striker together.” Never had his palm felt so vacant, so lifeless, as it brimmed with the need for another’s embrace. Like that of an empty bowl, it begged to be filled, and any absence of substance would surely leave a sense of eternal emptiness.
Arms crossed, shoulder forward; a side profile was all he received. Maddening hesitation; how could Blitz deny the validity of the offer? It was sound logic, but perhaps the imp wasn’t thinking with his mind. Hope turned to fear, and fear drifted into the fields of anger. The pause in action was too long, too terrifying, and Stolas found his beak clenched in anticipation.
If Blitz was left alone…if Stolas left him alone…the thought of what might transpire was unbearable.
Silence carried on, near to the point that the royal was fit to burst. Then, finally, he got his answer. “Fine, lets go see this…all-seeing friend of yours.”
While it wasn’t gratification of a physical sort, the sensation poured into his heart all the same. “Thank you. I promise, he will be of great aid in putting an end to all of this madness, once and for all.”
“As long as it’s only to kill Striker. All that other shit; I don’t care.” Heavy steps carried the imp past the owl, and for a split moment, a sour note amongst the fabric of air made him shudder. “And when we get him…he’s mine.”
Those words carried such conviction, that even a Goetia paused to question the deservedness of their desire. He glanced, and bore witness to a glare to sharp that it cut straight through his practiced composure; which struck at the heart of his very being. There would be no arguing, and Stolas had no doubt that if he disobeyed that request, their relationship would be shattered.
“Very well…we shall take a portal. Gather your things and meet me in the foyer.”
Billowing purple grass brushed against their feet, as Stolas and Blitz walked up an overgrown, cobblestone pathway. Above them, at the top of a hill, sat a tower of obsidian. Volcanic veins flowed within the rock, their path northbound instead of south, as if what passed for magma defied the laws of gravity. Glowing trails ended at what appeared to be a massive lantern, and from it beamed a radiant light that beamed into the horizon.
Red leaves dangled from thick, petrified vines that hugged about the tower and spared naught but the front door and the dome of light above.
To Blitz, it was just some fancy ass lighthouse.
To Stolas, it was a pillar of magical might that rivaled his own.
Before they reached the door, it opened, and a sharply dressed imp appeared in the threshold. Curly hair of pitch black, equally black horns engraved with lines of gold, and eyes of sharp amber presented themselves; wrapped in a two piece suit.
“The master has been expecting you.”
Imp and owl exchanged a glance, and the attendant moved aside to grant them passage. Potent sunlight filtered into a vast room, one that housed all manor of arcane artifacts and apparatuses. Gilded bookshelves lined the walls and stretched out of sight into the distance above, as they flanked a bubbling pool of dark orange liquid which brimmed with starlight. Above said pool hovered a singular orb, one that was nearly just as large, but lacked the glow of activity and life; dark and rigid. An oaken staircase jutted out from the wall between the bookshelves and wrapped up the lighthouse to unknown levels.
Behind them, the door closed, and that little imp walked towards the staircase without another word. Not even an honorary greeting, but its absence wasn’t something that Stolas found particularly insulting. Leave it to a servant of a seer to predict his lack of outrage.
“Prince Stolas.”
The voice came from all around them, but its source was unknown. Before their curiosity could fester into something far more fearful and paranoid, a blazing portal of swirling fire opened in the air before them. Out of it, stepped a parrot garbed in clothing of deepest red and most vibrant gold, v-shaped visor upon his eyes and a star-clasped cloak around his shoulders. Sharp, powerful feathers laced with lilac purple jutted in three from the back of his head, and a slight frown rested upon his large ivory beak.
“Prince Vassago.”
Flickering flame faded into oblivion, as the portal closed with a brisk snap.
“While foretold, your presence still comes as a surprise.” Ruby red pits glared like hellfire behind that golden window of glass, then tightened as they gazed upon Blitz. “His: moreso.”
Stolas shared a shift of the eyes with his fellow prince, as he absorbed that factoid. “Well, the future is always in flux, is it not? It is why I have come, to—”
“I already know why you are here; you seek a favor. You seek my help.” Vassago’s hands folded behind his back, and his head turned to gaze at the slumbering orb that floated above the bubbling pool. “I must simply decide whether or not I wish to.”
“Oh, you feathered fuckhead.” Blitz spat, voice measured but spring-loaded with boiling impatience.
“Blitz.”
“I thought you two were supposed to be friends, and you have to think about whether you want to help him or not? Some fucking friend you are, V-ass-ago.”
Where they both anticipated a retort, Blitz and Stolas only found an unmoved expression. “To be driven by guilt is never wise, for it always steers towards unfavorable outcomes.”
“Things are already pretty fucking unfa—unf—”
“Unfavorable, Blitz.”
“What he said!”
A heavy sigh poured from the parrot’s beak like an avalanche. “Stolas, I understand that you wish to locate your daughter, and that you have gone through great lengths to do so…but the path to this point has been paved with cruelty and violence. As your friend, I hesitate to place you further upon it.”
The owl’s beak tightened, and his three good eyes narrowed. “Octavia is my sole concern. Surely, you can comprehend why.”
“Her endangerment is only a convenient excuse for you to throw yourself deeper into this quest for revenge.”
Vassago stepped forward, unafraid as Stolas’ fingers curled into tight fists at his side. The princes stood mere inches from one another, eyes locked as an aura of magical energy began to brim in the air. It wasn’t a menacing presence, but it wasn’t intangible either; and soon, tiny sparks of their respective magics appeared like ghostly ribbons of light.
“In your attempts to grant meaning to your pain, you have delivered that same pain onto others. You receded into yourself and lashed out, abusing your power to put down anyone who dared to treat you as an equal. You have become haughty, cruel, and vindictive; all because you think that killing the one who took your eye will make you feel better. If you could just kill this one demon, everything will be fine, but I ask you; where does it end? Will you kill everyone who has ever wronged you, hurt your feelings, or even slightly annoyed you: next? Revenge is not a single dose cure all; it is a parasitic placebo…and I would be a horrible friend if I enabled your addiction.”
Stolas grit his beak, brow tight and fierce. “My daughter is lost!”
“This is not about Octavia! This is about you; it has always been about you!” Ribbons snarled and twisted into streaks of crackling red lightning, as Vassago’s emotions swelled. “I have borne witness to your actions.” A white gloved finger stabbed towards Blitz, who grit his teeth at the gesture. “Guilt drove him to track down your mark. Guilt compelled you to save his life. Guilt caused Octavia to be kidnapped, and it is guilt that now binds you both together, as you seek to avenge a death that would have been avoided if only you had let it go! ”
Starry, blue-dusted magic crackled in kind, and wreathed the air in cosmic fields of purple that flashed amongst little lightning strikes.
“You manipulated an Overlord, brutalized Andrealphus; what’s next, are you going to turn on me as well, Stolas?! If I don’t help you, will you paralyze me: hmm? Will you snap my limbs, pierce me with thorns, or trap me in an unending freefall? What torture have you devised for me, should I not bow to your whims and sate your darkest urges; while you mask it all under nothing but fatherly devotion to your daughter?”
“Hey!” Blitz roared, feet planted firm and hackles raised. Both birds snapped their attention to him, and the imp whipped his tail against the ground with an echoing slap. “Stolas isn’t going to kill Striker, because I’m going to kill Striker. I started all of this by fucking up, and I’m going to end all of it by fucking him up. So, get off your ass and just show us where Stolas’ daughter ended up!”
Vassago blinked, head tilted at a slight angle to one side, and sized up the imp with a trailing gaze. What began as a hardened stare slowly softened into something remorseful and truly sad; a look that caught Blitz off guard so hard that he stepped backwards. In that moment, the parrot’s voice softened.
“Fate has cursed you, Blitzo Buckzo; truly, it has. I cannot imagine how flayed your soul is, to witness your first love, your mother, your sister, your newest love, and now your daughter all suffer because of your choices.” Vassago’s hand rose, another removed the visor from his face, and his fingers bent to form a symbol that the imp didn’t recognize. Something about it caused the back of his skull to tingle, almost like all blood flow had ceased to flow back there and had fallen asleep. A single tendril slithered outwards, like a gentle stream flowing through a quiet forest, and passed alongside his head.
Suddenly, the orb began to stir. Pale golden light gleamed within its core, expanded outwards, and then formed a tendril of its own that snaked from its spherical bounds. It made connection with the back of Vassago’s head, and those ruby red eyes were washed clean to be replaced with pure, incandescent gold.
For the first time since they had entered, a smile appeared on the prince’s beak.
“Worry not, for your daughter’s soul has found paradise.”
Hope, for all it was worth, peeked its head out inside of his heart. Yet, nervousness and doubt caused his voice to shake. “You…you better not be fucking with me right now.”
A hand pressed to his chest, and a warmth unlike anything he had ever experienced poured inside. Instantly, tears began to flood from his eyes, and his breath shuddered beneath the wonderment that filled his heart to wash it clean.
“She misses you, and regrets that she couldn’t be a more loving daughter like you deserved. Your dedication to doing the best you could was not unseen, nor is it forgotten, and she hopes that you can forgive her for how she treated you. Regardless of your decision, Loona sends her love…and says to tell Moxxie that what happened on the train wasn’t his fault; he did the best he could.”
Was that what he felt; Loona’s love? Blitz felt light as a feather, like his feet could hover off the ground, like his soul was being hugged by a sun lamp. The perfect breeze rushed down his shoulders and along his back, accompanied by a gentle pressure within his cheek; almost like something was pressed against it…something soft and furry…and warm. He wrapped his arms around himself to hug her; to hug anything, and he choked up.
Silently, Stolas watched this act of sheer kindness be bestowed upon the tortured imp; and in some corner of his ever-darkening heart, earnest happiness kept the embers of hope alive. How he longed to retrieve Octavia, but to see Blitz receive some manner of closure kept his assumptions of a grim future at bay. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, there was a happy ending at the end of this ordeal.
Gold faded. The tendril withdrew from Vassago with an abrupt yank; and with its fading, the orb faded too. In silence, he returned the visor to its place over his eyes.
Blitz trembled in place, fingers dug into his chest at the absence of that wondrous warmth; the tears yet dry upon his marked face. “Thank you…” his words were but a whisper, filled with shock and disbelief at what had just occurred, as his body began to level out. “…I didn’t know that…we could go somewhere.”
“Souls are malleable things.” Vassago replied, his voice still steady and quiet. “Never are they truly lost forever, nor doomed to predestination. Remember that, as you leave this place…” Judgmental eyes turned towards Stolas, yet, within them lay a pleading flicker. “…it is never too late to be better than we were.”
Blitz absently nodded, attention fixated on something in the distance; something that Stolas nor Vassago could see. As if disassociation had taken root, the imp turned towards the door and began to leave. “…I need some air.” was all he uttered, before walking outside to leave both Goetia alone together.
Charity hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, nor had it been wasted on the willingly blind. Vassago’s kindness was rare amongst the Goetia, and it was that same unique trait which bound Stolas’ anger and tongue with expert skill. For every graceful act, an agenda lay beneath, even if it were simply out of the kindness of one’s heart. There was no such thing as a free favor.
That harsh lesson of life tempered Stolas’ measured words as he spoke them, and watched Vassago’s reaction with analytic zeal. “Now that you have evened the playing field by removing the weakest link, tell me, are you afraid of me?”
“I am cautious of you.”
“Was that act of goodwill simply to temper my anger, so that you wouldn’t have to contend with it, or did you simply pity him?”
“The answer doesn’t matter; his heart has been eased, that is what’s important.”
“What of my heart, Vassago? Am I simply expected to rise above adversity because of my birthright? Do I not deserve the pity of my fellows, instead of the scorn and disdain you fling my way?”
“He is lowborn; he has less means and therefore less control. Your strength bestows a duty upon which—”
“A duty that has only darkened my life, and that I did not ask for.”
“Prince or pauper; we are all judged by our deeds in the end. Status does not matter, nor do your hardships or sacrifices; only your actions and what they bring.”
“For someone who was just speaking about flexibility, you sound as if it’s all simply black and white. I did not peg you for a hypocrite, Vassago.”
“Your crusade has only wrought misery. It does not matter why you do it, only that your actions lead to an increase in discord. Have you not considered what consequences your deeds will bring; these acts of intimidation, of terror?”
“They will lead to Octavia’s safety.”
“Or they will simply invite danger to your doorstep where she resides. If you continue, the commoners shall become increasingly fearful of all Goetia, not just you. We shall all be lumped under the same umbrella; indistinguishable from one another. Your sins shall become my sins, then her sins, and they will rise to try and wipe us out. You fear for your daughter’s life now, but are blind to the fact that that same fear only endangers her further.”
“Not once I access Paimon’s vault.”
Unseen pressure filled the air, and Vassago’s facial muscles twitched in surprise at the declaration. For several moments, the prince simply stared at Stolas, breath trapped in his chest.
“You intend to access his grimoire?”
“I do.”
“To what end, Stolas?”
“To ensure this never happens again. Once I find and rescue Octavia, she shall forever be protected by the second most powerful force in all of Hell. As such, the morality of my actions is an ultimately irrelevant matter.”
Pause, doubt, and questions flashed behind shielded eyes as they tightened at the edges. “It was sealed away for a reason. No single Goetia, save King Paimon himself, has ever been able to control the incantations within that book. What you seek is suicidal.”
“Which is why I would ask for your aid in controlling it.”
“…excuse me?”
“The vault’s guardian decreed that two Goetia must accompany me, in order to gain access. One must be, in its’ own words, ‘superior to me’. Given your inflated sense of moral standing, and ability to see what which remains a mystery to me, you are a prime candidate.”
Talons shifted along the floor to test the durability and sheen of stone, as Vassago’s beak pursed in deep, distasteful contemplation. “If I say no, then you cannot access the book.”
“I am not so proud as to declare you are the only other Goetia to be above me, Vassago. You are, however, the most righteous.” Stolas strut forward with utter confidence, near to the point of unbridled bravado, and stared him down. “If you decline, I will find another, and with my father’s magic, you will find even your supreme divination taxed to discern my actions.”
From above, a startled shriek loosed into the air, followed by the rapid stomping of feet. Down the stairs, a shadow rippled and shifted along the bannister and steps; unchained by attachment to a physical form. Avian shaped, it shot directly along the floor until it reached Stolas’ feet, upon which it rose to stare at him with blank, red eyes.
Vassago stepped back, bewildered, as Stolas simply smiled.
“Finally, you have returned. Where is she?”
The location poured into his mind, and with it, elation. Stolas whipped around, his cape a billowing curtain of fabric as his shadow sank below to watch his back. Behind him, Vassago uttered a final question.
“When did you learn to do that?”
Stolas couldn’t help but smile, but it was an expression devoid of all friendliness it might otherwise imply. “Maybe you’d know, if you kept a better eye on me.”
He stepped out through the door.
It was time, at last, to rescue Octavia.
Chapter 11: Blood Lake
Summary:
As both groups converge to rescue Octavia and Moxxie, the final battle with Striker looms ever closer. They find themselves in the depths of Envy, facing a colossal fortress amidst a roiling sea. What dangers lie in store? What is the cost of satisfaction?
Chapter Text
The seas of Envy raged beneath an oceanic sky. Foaming waves crashed far below against rock and steel, while all above their reach was drenched in algae-ridden rain. Darkened skies hung above, a sickly reflection of the waters that lapped at land’s edge, and loomed over all that it surveyed. Mira sensed every crash and the bitter sting that carried into the soil at her feet, binoculars poised to shield her eyes from additional moisture.
Far from shore, a faded palace of iron, steel, and industry squatted in a cauldron of elemental fury; unbothered by the rage of water and the boom of thunder on the horizon. It was a familiar sight, one that she had visited numerous times in the past, yet she felt no warm nostalgia in her breast. There was no doubt in her mind, the little imp was inside.
Binoculars back in the bag, the fox demon crossed her arms from shoulder to shoulder and closed her eyes; magic on her breath to lace every utterance beneath it. Rock rumbled from the stained lands of Envy to wrap her entire body in its embrace. Rain became an afterthought, as darkness enveloped all, and a downward pull sucked her beneath the ground. From the cliff’s peak, she tunneled to the bottom of the seabed; forever guarded from the crushing pressure that hovered menacingly above sediment and sand.
It was a dream; a momentary, warm, sucking dream that propelled her to a destination well-known. In mere moments, pressure released, rock tumbled away with a clatter, and Mira found herself at the foot of an encased shoreline. Massive pipes sat within four walls before her; tubes that curved downwards from the ceiling to deposit their contents into the sea. Dead fish, salt water, and the acidic tang of cat urine invaded her nostrils; she had reached the sewer system.
Damp sought to invade her bones, but she pulled back her cloaks’ hood and shook off as much rain as possible. The flapping of wet, rough fabric echoed throughout the metal and concrete to remind her of just how alone she was in such a place. Despite its familiarity, it couldn’t have been more cold or unwelcoming. Above, placed snuggly between all four pipes, was a service hatch, and an affixed ladder for maintenance to access.
Cold, rusted metal rungs embraced her hands as she began to climb, each step against a rung a tiny echo of noise throughout the chamber. It didn’t take long for her to reach the top and push the hatch open with one hand; only to climb into a space not too dissimilar to the one she had just left. Instead of four pipes, however, there were only two, and a rounded hallway that sat straight ahead. A canal flowed directly towards the hatch, but it appeared the water had long dried; or at least, was blocked by some unknown barrier somewhere down the line.
Up ahead, a fork appeared in the canal itself, and Mira searched her memory for the building’s rough layout. As she began to walk down the canal, her sensitive and furry ears flicked at a phantom of sound, and so she slowed her pace and stared at the branched path. In the dark, she crouched, eyes wide to adjust; perhaps whatever it was would simply pass on by. Sometimes, it was better to avoid conflict than seek it. A fight in the tunnels would only create noise; easily spread noise that could alert anyone else in the area.
So, she waited; a silent predator within the darkness.
One second became two, and two second became four. Steps grew louder, and as they turned into a crescendo of presence, a single figure turned the corner. Short of stature, eyes of yellow, a gleam of hell-crafted steel: a lurker, a stalker. Mira reached for the staff that rested on her back, and paused as the shadow’s bright eyes whipped in her direction.
“You!” The sound was unmistakably female, with that of a Wrath Ring accent, and its echo caused Mira’s arm to lower. A single utterance, soft and quick as a field mouse, sparked a gentle blue flame that illuminated just enough space to reveal her face. The same tiny imp she had fought back in Sloth stepped from the shadows.
“I see you have recovered from our bout.” Aside from a wet bandage or three, the imp appeared marvelously intact. As it should be, since Mira had only knocked her for a loop; a far kinder fate than what her companion endured. Unfortunate, but necessary in the heat of combat. “Have you tracked me down to seek revenge?”
“What?” her face curled in disgust. “No; I’m here to find my husband. Not surprised to run into you here though, Prince Stolas said you were looking for him too.” Red, serrated, and chipped steel slid back into a sheath, behind her waist. It’s gentle click reassured the monk that the metaphorical claws had been put away, and as such, her face began to show emotion.
“Are you here at the prince’s behest?” How her heart fluttered with honor, to imagine he was kind enough to send her reinforcements.
“No; he’s too busy looking for his daughter.”
How wise of her Lord to properly distribute resources amongst his many needs. “I see, while it is a shame I could not be the one to locate Princess Octavia myself, fulfilling my Lord’s desire for justice by finding Striker is certainly of the highest honor.” Mira stood, the jingle of her staff’s rings a serene melody that whispered down the tunnels. “We share a common goal. Come, I know of a way out of these aqueducts.”
Hesitant eyes followed her steps, as the fox demon began to walk forward with purpose. If memory served her right, there would be another service ladder over halfway down the tunnel; one that would grant them access to a higher floor.
“Hey, who said you’re the one calling the shots here?” the imp spat. “I’m still mad at you for putting my buddy in the hospital. All I know, you could be leading me into some trap; being Striker’s friend and all.”
“After what he has done, he is no longer my friend.” Resolute words, swift yet clear, responded with a gentle snap. “Our bond has been broken, but memories of it allow me to recall the inner workings of this hideout. If you wish to save your husband quickly, you will follow me lead, less you aim to stumble about in the dark for hours on end.”
A grumble, a curse, then a hiss and spit. “Fine. If you know so much about this place; how’s about you fill me in?”
It was a decent ways to reach the exit ladder, as such, Mira paced herself. The journey would be long, and exhaustion was a silent killer of many a campaign. “First, I’d have your name.”
“…Millie.”
“Greetings Millie, I am Mira; from one warrior to another, I commend your ferocity and strategic mind. It was an honor to engage you in mortal combat.”
For a stark second, Millie shut her mouth, and the reaction nearly drew a small smirk from the horned fox.
“As for this place; it was once a prison. Long ago, political prisoners would be sent here, but after years of rising costs and boredom, it was retired from service. Instead of demolishing the structure, the property was sold to an unknown party and kept intact. Striker’s gang often used it to lay low for months on end; no one thinks to look for criminals in a prison, ironically.”
“A gang you used to be a part of?”
“Yes, long ago, but the gang has been disbanded for years. All of us scattered to the winds, in pursuit of our own goals and desires. Had I known that Striker’s goals had changed so greatly in that time, I would have never answered his call for a favor.” Mira’s lips sank into a light frown, made all the worse by the shadows cast by blue flame.
“You make it sound like that snake used to be an honorable sort.”
“He was. Striker came from nothing, as did we all; a common glue to bind us together in struggle. When I knew him, he robbed criminals of their stolen goods and returned them to the original owners, foiled the acts of con artists, and protected farmland from roving bandits.” The memories swelled, and for a brief moment, she struggled to continue. Emotion welled behind her eyes and at the bottom of her throat, but her heart remained strong willed, and Mira swallowed it all. “He was a hero of the people, but now…it appears he has taken to regicide.”
“That definitely don’t sound like the Striker I know. He’s been trying to kill Prince Stolas since day one, startin’ at the Harvest Moon Festival.” Millie walked past Mira, as the monk’s steps came to a halt. It wasn’t for several seconds until she noticed, as the tunnel had grown darker from the fire’s radiant glow. She looked back, then walked back, “You didn’t know that?”
A tight fist squeezed the golden staff, but both eyes locked onto the far distance; into the darkness. “The Harvest Moon Festival is a sacred event. Prince Stolas blesses the moon to provide ample bounty to all of Wrath’s denizens. It feeds so many families and props up the poor; why would he…” Mira trailed off, then stepped forward once more, footsteps fueled by anger. “Sacrilege…”
“Sounds like we’re on the same page now!” Millie said, as she jogged to keep step with that long gait. “Know where we can find that bag of fucksticks in this tin can of a building?”
“The Warden’s Office is the most secure place in the entire prison. If he is anywhere, it will more than likely be there.” Mira gripped a ladder rung, as finally, they reached the path to the next floor. “That is where we shall go.”
He’s lying to you. There is no peace. There is no paradise. She is not saved.
Blitz squinted in the heavy rain, as a voice not his own echoed clearly in his head. Stolas stood next to him, as they overlooked a roiling ocean; massive prison at center of what they could see. Again, above the roar of rain, Paimon’s voice spoke.
Do not trust Vassago; he is frightened of my son’s strength. He seeks to deter you from your goal. Only I can pluck her from the reaper’s bony fingers.
A shake of the head worked to remove the sounds from his head, just in time to catch Stolas’ spoken words.
“Mira has been here; I can feel her magic in the soil.” Dark talons raised and splayed towards the concrete structure, alight with a magical sigil. For a moment, he fell silent, and his hand hummed with power; vaporizing all water drops that landed close. “Good, there are no wards in place.” Two hands clapped together, then pulled apart, and a tear in reality opened to conjure a bright portal. Within, Blitz could see steel tables, cell bars, and bannisters.
Without fear, Stolas stepped through, and Blitz followed right after.
A yawning room of metal and concrete stretched high into the sky. Jail cells sat in uniform order upon the surrounding walls, sheltered by the canopy of a secondary floor. Dozens of levels towered above, each devoid of any light. All illumination that existed did so on the ground floor, conjured by the electric lanterns that sat on each metallic table. Rows upon rows of seating, conjoined into a singular stretch, sat before them.
Water gently dripped down, its’ echo enough to banish the mental demons of smothering silence.
“If Mira is here, that means she has located your little imp friend.” Stolas noted, before his face shifted into wary thought. “Yet, by her own admission, Striker did not possess Octavia…”
“Whoever you’re talking about, I guess she fucking lied. It’s either that, or something changed since then.” Blitz walked forward, head craned to examine the cells with mild curiosity. One in particular caught his eye, as it was the only one that appeared to possess an occupant. A dark blob of shadow, barely revealed by a nearby lantern, lay strewn upon the ground behind rusted bars. He drew closer to get a better look.
An odor snaked up into his nose: cherries. Fresh, dark cherries that carried a hint of cough medicine. The shadow rose, only one limb apparent as it stretched and craned towards the imp. A low, rattling groan croaked through the bars, and two balls of pink peeked into existence.
“Stolas,” Blitz turned. “Looks like there’s someone—”
A hand, atrophied to the bone, shot through the bars and made a desperate grab for the imp. The figure’s face and body slammed against metal, prevented from going any further, but it’s gaunt frame was revealed in the artificial light. Flared ribs, a concave stomach that vacuum sealed itself to a thick spine, and pale scabbed skin twitched with feral vigor. A near skeletal visage, sunken eyes, and overexposed gums stretched towards Blitz. Whatever it was, or had been, little thought resided in its eyes.
Upon viewing such a sickly sight, Stolas frowned. Amongst flickering shadow, a faded and bold number appeared on the creature’s trousers; drained to a pungent brown shade. “What a repugnant ghoul.”
Blitz, likewise, frowned. “Why’s it look like that?”
“Malnutrition, abandonment; who’s to say? From my estimation, it’s survival shouldn’t be possible.” He sniffed the air, and noted the scent. “Neither should it smell as it does. Something isn’t right.”
A horrid, swine-like squeal barreled from the creature’s gaping mouth, eyes aglow with unnerving malice. Bony hands squeezed the bars, and multiple vertebrae cracked as its distended spine curled backwards. Then, it slammed its skull into the bars, and an ugly, dull ring of metal echoed through the room.
Blitz stepped back and watched, as the prisoner repeatedly bashed its face against its cell. “The fuck’s it doing?”
Another squeal, another bang to splay amongst prison walls; seemingly without end signaled a sort of malignant mania. Stolas turned, as his instincts warned him of unwanted eyes upon his person. What he saw altered his tone.
“Blitz.”
“What?”
Silently, the owl pulled on the imp’s shoulder to get him to turn. Pink eyes glowed in every cell, on every level. High into the void, wisps of light glared down towards the racket…and a low chorus of howls began to infect the air. Whipped into a frenzy, squeals, groans, and the banging of metal multiplied and intensified, as unseen figures made their presence known.
From out of the darkness, a body abruptly struck the ground from above; bones cracking against hard concrete. Its’ appearance was identical to the one in the cell, more akin to a corpse than a demon. Twitchy movements snapped bone into action with sickening lurches, as it jutted to its feet. Blackened, dry blood stained its paper-thin skin, but the injuries weren’t enough to stop it from lumbering forward with mindless abandon!
Crimson smoke freely gushed from its open jaws, and as it stretched out an arm towards Stolas, the creature screeched.
Blitz leapt forward and slammed the flat of his foot into its kneecap, which shattered bone like dry cracker meal. Flesh ripped open, the creature dropped, and he plunged his dagger straight into its skull. Vacant eyes went dark, and the rough withdraw of demonic steel was enough to toss the corpse aside.
Just as one fell, two more bodies slammed down from on high.
Skittering limbs slapped against concrete, as an entire legion of eyes descended from the darkness.
Oh, now this should be fun. Paimon’s voice cooed within Blitz’s mind, just before two inmates lunged forward.
Mira held a finger to her lips, back pressed to a concrete wall. Long had she and Millie traversed throughout the bowels of the prison complex completely unimpeded, but that time had seemingly come to and end. Heavy, metallic footsteps and the whirr of electronic gears echoed nearby. Her head peeked around the corner and witnessed something she had not expected to see.
A metal humanoid figure stalked the hall, a rifle held in its arms. It was thin for a machine; wires wrapped about its limbs, like the muscles of an organic body. Harsh, rectangular feet stomped atop stone, as a motionless, blocky head sat upon its bare shoulders. She waited until it reached the end of the hallway, then watched as it made a left and disappeared down another.
“What is it?”
“It looks like a guard, but it is a machine…on legs.”
Millie joined her at the corner. “The hell is a robot doing here? Was that always a thing?”
“No; it is highly concerning. Mineral and electricity bent to the will of evil, nature twisted into something impure and alien…” Mira slowly shook her head, muzzle a gentle curl of sour distaste. “I do not like it.”
“Well, let’s do our best to avoid it, then.” Millie slinked around the corner, held in a reverse grip. There was no doubt that if the machine discovered them, she would strike it down. Mira only hoped that her blade was sharp enough to do the job. If her aimed prove true, and her warrior instinct spotted weakness, then perhaps all would be well.
Mira followed after the imp, her form crouched low and her steps light. The senses of an automaton were a chaotic thing to discern; some saw heat, some saw sound, and others hunted in ways unknown. They were of silenced earth made form; abominations, twisted by those who sought to rise above the natural order. Despite it’s origins as primal entities, she could not hear their voice, their soul; could not feel the life that thrummed within and connected all things. Separated, deadened, cold, and alone; a wretched fate, indeed.
Logic compelled the duo to travel in the opposite direction of the sentry. Faded posters, cracked walls, the smell of mildew and salt water polluted the air, but its effects weren’t enough to cause anything other than light discomfort. It was a place meant to be forgotten; for undesirable objects to be locked away until their dying day. Littered with ghosts of the past, left to fester and rot in their grievances, the atmosphere of the prison set both Mira and Millie on edge.
Upon one wall, at the end of a hallway, a large square sign pointed in multiple directions. Mira pointed to one section in particular, her voice low to avoid detection. “There; the Warden’s Office is that way, to the right.”
“How much further is it?”
“Not far.”
Machinery whirred and hissed.
Mira turned.
They had been spotted.
A robotic guard, identical to the one she had laid eyes upon moments before, aimed a rifle in her direction.
“INTRUDER! INTRUDER! INTRU--!”
Concrete, formed into a rectangular pillar, shot from the wall and smashed into the robot’s cube-shaped head. Sparks flew and oil blasted out in a spray of viscera, as it collided with the opposite wall. Mira lowered her hand, the magic within warmed by the adrenaline in her blood.
“Hope no one heard that.” Millie noted.
“It is better to be safe than sorry.” Before her sentence could finish, the fox demon had already began to continue down the hall. “Come, before anyone arrives to investigate.”
It wasn’t much further down the hallway, until a steel doorway sat completely ajar; glass window shattered and scattered onto the floor below. Carpet replaced the concrete floor, gaudy and intricately woven with all manner of shapes, and even the walls turned from stone and into polished wood. Stale air hung about a sitting lobby, no small measure of mothballs to be found near what meager furniture remained. Most was ripped, insides strewn about the ground, and pictures lopsidedly dangled on the walls.
Through a secondary door, a proper office was revealed. Bookshelves, a thick and singular desk, and a vacant seat that sat behind it; but more importantly, a wall of monitors. Most were dark, some were naught but static, but a few were active.
“Looks like there was a riot; so much for being the safest place in here.”
“Striker must have moved locations, but for what reason, and where?” Mira’s eyes scanned along the active televisions. Out of about fifty, only three weren’t filled with static.
“There!”
Mira followed Millie’s finger, only to find a familiar sight: Striker. He padded about a seemingly padded room, rifle slung over his shoulder, as an unknown imp dangled from a thick construction hook. From the angle that was available, he appeared bound at the hands and feet, and the hook itself wasn’t impaled within him, but rather used to hoist him by other means. “That is in Solitary Confinement.”
“Well, come on then; what are we waiting for?!” Millie rushed towards the door, only to screech to a halt and leap behind the immediate wall. A red laser shot through the door, scorched the air, and truck the desk next to Mira. “…shit!”
“INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!”
A legion of metal thundered in the distance, and Mira drew her staff from her back. They were going to need to fight their way out.
Blood. Muscle. Bone. Organs.
Slick in viscera, Blitz slammed his head into an inmate’s skull to shatter it like a rotten egg. Dagger stuck in another, he viciously ripped the blade out through the front of its jugular, just in time to slam his foot into another at his side. Smothering bodies clamored forward in a sea of dilapidated flesh and sensitive bone, a miasma of red smoke spewed by yawning, groaning maws.
Behind you.
He spun on a dime, and hilted his dagger straight into a dirty collarbone. Mushy pumpkin churned about his serrated blade, as he twisted the knife; a spew of corrupted blood followed, a feral cry silenced by the blunt end of a hilt. Even as one fell, another stepped over its corpse to try and grab him; an endless sea designed to drown him.
Blitz liked killing, he was even good at it, but the lack of any guns made things way more draining. Fatigue attempted to creep into his arms, but something within blocked it entirely. So, he stabbed, and sliced, and gouged with wild abandon; a new feeling alight within his chest.
Yes, you feel it don’t you? The rush, the satisfaction, the rage? Let it fill you; use it. Cut them down to the last!
Blitz withdrew a second knife from his belt, then drew a third to grip within his tail. Armed to the teeth, he screamed and pounded his chest; slick with the gore of his enemies. “Come on, motherfuckers! You want a fucking piece of me?! I’m right here!” Berserk, the imp transformed into a chaotic whirlwind of death; a dagger for every throat, eye, and heart. He killed two inmates in a single thrust of dual blades, then stabbed a third in the throat as it approached him from behind. Strewn corpses provided ample bounce pads, which he used to vault into the air and spin upon his side, arms and tail a dervish. Body after body plummeted to the ground, under the howls of a single assassin.
Nearby, Prince Stolas wielded a magical blade that severed limb and life like room temperature butter. Fearless, however, were the mentally devastated members of the horde; and their lack of thought made their approach relentless. Practically flinging themselves over one another to get at him, their groping claws and gaping mouths all but signified a most gruesome end, should he sink beneath the tide.
Magic bloomed in his free hand, and as he decapitated a prisoner, he smashed his palm into another’s face and sank his talons into its flesh. Deep purple hues glowed through its skin, and the creature’s spasms caused dark, root-like veins to sprout below its flesh. Stolas released it, then unleashed a shockwave of magic to send it, as well as numerous of its kin, flying backwards. Seconds later, flesh and bone exploded in a starry display; deadly shrapnel that struck a multitude of foes and killed them instantly.
He was focused, but nothing was eternal.
Blitz’s rampage wasn’t entirely out of his view, despite the majority of it being locked onto his own survival. He had never seen such ferocity from the imp before; so angry, so venomous. Was that simply an aspect he had never seen, or was it something else? Stolas witnessed two daggers slam between ribs, and the demon hoist his impaled prisoner from the ground like a corn cob. The third knife, held by his tail, coiled up like a scorpion’s stinger and eviscerated the sternum with multiple, violent stabs. A final thrust went straight between the zombie-like creature’s eyes, and Blitz roared as he raked his arms upwards to carve through ribs and muscle. A shower of blood burst out from the collarbone, and an open flap of meat opened like a hatch to spill hot guts all over the floor.
Then, like a piece of trash, Blitz kicked the body over.
Positively glorious, my little imp! They fall like thin paper against your blades. Blend them into paste!
Steam blasted from between Blitz’s teeth as the battle mania grew stronger within him. From it, something darker, something odd and eldritch in nature, bubbled to life in his core. Energy poured into every limb; more potent than adrenaline, more potent than the best drugs anyone could buy, and it roared inside of his temples. In a blur, he flashed through his enemies, one after the other; wings of blood spread in his wake.
Enemy numbers rapidly thinned beneath the combined onslaught of commoner and royal. Crimson pools clung to Stolas’ talons, as they did to the stamp of Blitz’s boots; it’s stench a field of fumes that bred with the smoke above. Wet, sickening plops and splashes of gutted entrails created ripples along the pond of blood that covered the floor. As Blitz skewered the final inmate through the mouth and twisted its head clean off with savage efficiency, Stolas caught his reflection in their mire of murder.
Hat long absent, frayed and stray feathers of hair dangled down to obfuscate his face. Smears of matter marked his usually pristine beak and luscious coat; stains that he immediately wiped with the flat of his talons. Death was a stranger to none in Hell, but the scale of what lay in front of him…a field of bodies. Wall to wall; draped over railings, strewn over cafeteria tables, stacked in piles by sheer will of luck: decorations.
As the room quieted, and naught but the panting of his partner and the final, gurgling death rattle remained, Stolas stared at the far wall where an exit appeared to stand. In his hand, a tremor, a shake, a quiver; one that was entirely against his will, yet felt somehow necessary to maintain sanity. The owl swallowed, breath suddenly absent in his lungs. A great weight had been cast upon him.
They were nameless, identical in appearance, yet he thought of their origins. Surely, hopefully, they had performed foul enough acts worthy of being imprisoned. Their mindless, zombie-like state indicated their minds had long dissolved, but a tinge of remorse tapped at his heart.
So much death.
So much pain.
All for what?
“Stolas: door.”
Blitz’s growl snatched him from the doubtful claws of his own mind, and he pushed all feelings of regret and mercy down to be handled at a later date.
Octavia needed him.
He barely looked up in time to watch as Blitz boldly stalked through the open doorway; coat matted with blood, weapons drawn, a twitch in his tail to splatter the walls in taken life. Every step unleashed a guttural snarl, and shark-like teeth bared in the light. It was a side of him that Stolas had never seen. The imp had always been so lively, even at the peak of his most negative emotions; there was intelligence and character. This…this felt unlike him.
Was this the unleashed fury of a father, or something else entirely?
Urgency carried Stolas’ steps, if only to catch up and ensure he didn’t lose track of his only companion within the vast prison. Separation wouldn’t be wise, as the unknown stretched before them both.
The crash and clatter of chains blasted out from the hallway.
“Blitz?!” Stolas rushed through the door, only to witness what could only be described as a booby trap. From above, a spiked portion of the ceiling pressed down against veiny, strained hands; fingers perfectly planted between each spike to avoid being skewered. Below, the floor had opened up like a bear trap, and it was only his spread legs that kept it from springing shut on his torso.
Magic surged in the owl’s hand, quick to free his companion from the trap’s deadly intent. However, it soon became apparent that his aid was unneeded.
Stalled by the imp’s strength, both ends of the trap lay locked in a battle for supremacy on two fronts. Muscle bulged against bloodstained sleeves until fabric tore, taut legs clenched to keep the jaws below from snapping closed, and back spikes flared outward beneath the rise of a ferocious growl.
Stolas watched in awe as concrete cracked.
“You think…this is going to stop me?!” Effort strained his voice, enriched by inner rage that served to safeguard his life. Blitz’s back spikes thickened, then began to spread down his back. Shadows coiled about his arms and legs, as if to infuse them with strength, and began to creep up the remainder of his body. “I’m not going to die here…not to this!”
A dark, distorted roar leapt from his unseen maw, as his horns elongated and his tail thickened.
“RRRRRRRAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!”
Concrete shattered above and below; the dual ended trap shattered into harmless shards. Like that of a rockslide, modified earth rained down from on high and clattered to the hallway floor. Powder and dust burst about Blitz’s hands, his feet slammed down to proper ground once again, and he launched forward to shoot down the hallway; a ball of smeared shadow.
Stolas took chase, mind aflame with questions that marinated in the pond of surprise within his skull. What in all of Hell’s Rings was that?! He hadn’t sensed any magic from the imp whatsoever, and yet it couldn’t have been anything but magical influence that caused such a change. Concern added itself to curiosity, and the owl swept past the shattered trap to give chase.
The hallway stretched onwards, and deep clawmarks began to appear in the walls. Malice and volcanic shadow oozed from them as a fine mist; a glimmer within like that of a frosted window. Gouges of concrete grew in number, as did the intensity of the magic that leaked from them. Yet, the unnerving signs didn’t end there.
Blobs of some unknown substance began to appear along the ground; a bubbling, sizzling substance that appeared like tar. With no time to stop and properly examine it, Stolas couldn’t deduce its purpose, yet something in his gut told him it would be unwise to touch it. As the concrete’s wounds and pus reached their apex, that same warbling roar shook the world.
“STRIKER!”
Stolas whipped around the final bend of the hallway and nearly ran into the heaving, gargantuan back that blocked his way. Massive spikes ran from shoulders to tail, which itself had grown to the size of a tree’s trunk. Draconic scales covered what was once skin, and that same searing hot substance oozed between natural plating. Colossal talons arched and stretched at the ends of gargantuan arms, flanked by further spikes that had grown out from the forearm and curled towards the hand. In place of white burn marks, embers of charred, blackened flesh glowed with fierce light beneath an ever-moving veil of shadow.
It was all the owl could do not to panic at the monstrous transformation.
“Do I know you?” a cold, country drawl asked. It’s vile utterance immediately gained Stolas’ attention, and he walked around the side of his now altered companion.
Striker stood aside a chained and dangling, blindfolded imp, the runes of angelic rifle alight in his hands; the end of which was pointed squarely at the draconic monster that blocked the exit. A poncho lay draped over his body, the dark leather and metallic gleam of bandolier bullets peeked from beneath, and two knives sat sheathed against both thighs. Upon seeing Stolas, a mischievous and arrogant grin split his face.
“Good to see you again, blueblood; did you miss me?”
Playful mockery boiled Stolas’ blood, and his hands flashed with arcane power. “Release the imp, at once.”
“And lose my bargaining chip? Nah, I don’t think so.” Steely eyes locked onto the royal, but his firearm stayed fixated on Blitz. If the markings were any indication, the bullets within were likely enough to damage the imp, even in his new and brutish form. “But I am willing to talk; I remember you like flapping your gums.”
Blitz snarled, and Stolas turned to gaze upon his face. Elongated, filled with fangs; more akin to the royal dragons of Lucifer’s own pens then that of a lowly imp. Eyes roiled with liquid fire; agonized eyes that overflowed with the fury of Hell. He was hardly recognizable.
“I can whip this rifle ‘round and pop my little prisoner here, if either of you make a move. You don’t want that, and I don’t want that; so sit your asses still and listen. Give me the girl, and your little twerp here goes back home with you.”
“I will kill you! Rip your guts from your spine!”
The ground shook as Blitz’s tail slammed down and created a small crater. Claws large enough to rend a helicopter in two dug into the wall, unholy muscle tensed and stretched. They carved through stone like it was mud, but the beast’s gaze never left Striker.
At the threat, Striker’s right arm shot out to hold the rifle in one hand; pointed directly at Moxxie’s head. His left hand drew a revolver from his waist, its steel also embossed with holy runes, and aimed it at both Stolas and Blitz. “Make another move, and you get to watch your little buddy’s brains splatter all over the wall.”
Blitz snarled, but remained still. Stolas kept silent; if Striker truly didn’t have Octavia, yet his shadow had sensed her presence here…what had happened? Too many questions swarmed his already overcrowded mind, and he shoved them all down with a single solution. He would simply detain Striker and pry the knowledge from his head; but, how to do that without costing Blitz another family member?
Under his breath, an old and practical incantation weaved itself into being; one to divert the chambered bullet in Striker’s rifle.
“Last chance.” the outlaw threatened, with a cock of his revolver. “Either agree to my terms and walk out of here, or he dies.” At their hesitation, the rifle’s barrel jutted closer to the seemingly unconscious Moxxie. “One…” A sneer, his finger curled against the trigger. “…two…” A frown, as neither demon before him moved.
The incantation was nearly finished.
“…thr--!”
Rock and padded walls exploded outwards.
Dust and debris filled the air.
Stolas threw an arm in front of his face to protect himself.
“Moxxie!” A new country drawl, but feminine and familiar. It was Millie.
“Prince Stolas!” Mira’s voice joined in through the cloud of dust, and the faintest of outlines could be made out as they walked through the destroyed wall.
Something slammed into his legs and pushed him aside. Fear jumped into his lungs as he turned, which evolved into anger as he spotted Striker halfway down the hall they had just left, in the midst of a dead sprint. He was getting away.
“NO!”
As the prince dug his talons in to give chase, instinct shot his head to the side, and he leapt back just in time as Blitz’s massive tail swung his way! It smashed into the wall and shook the room, just before the gargantuan beast barreled back down the hallway. Such girth barricaded the way forward, and Stolas lay trapped behind.
A curse rang from his beak, and he turned around to get a grasp of what had just happened. Mira approached him and gave a deep bow, as Millie leapt onto the hook that suspended her spouse; knife hard at work to remove his blindfold and work to free him from his bonds. “Mira, your presence is most welcome. Have you seen Octavia?” he asked, voice hurried.
“No, Prince Stolas; I wasn’t aware that she was here.”
“Damn it. Striker claimed not to have her. Given his testimony and yours, she may truly not reside within these halls.”
Walls shook as an earsplitting roar carried from Gen Pop; its’ presence enough to perk Mira’s ears and tense her muscles. “What in all the Hells was that?”
Gunshots rang out, and their cracking chorus caused Stolas to turn his head back towards the door. “A dear friend. I must see to him; stay here and assist Millie in freeing her husband, then ensure they both make it free of this place. Reconvene back at the manor: go!”
Without argument, the monk gave a swift nod.
Stolas whipped around and rushed down the hallway, in the hope that he wasn’t too late.
DAD!
Toxic, bubbling tar flew as spittle, in the wake of an earth-quaking roar. The very air rumbled and distorted, as a lake of blood frothed and foamed beneath the heat of Blitz’s fury. Right behind the darting shape of Striker, hellish jaws snapped at his heel; wrought with pain and anguish. Loona’s voice, her final cries, throbbed inside of his brain.
Striker dashed atop a table and leapt to a higher level, just as one of Blitz’s draconic claws smashed it to scrap.
DAD!
Blitz gripped the first guard rail and bent it, as he rose to the upper level in pursuit. His shoulder crashed through wall after wall, cell after all, but none of them slowed him. Spurred, enflamed, his limbs tore across the ground in a predatory mad dash; furious gaze locked on Striker.
Claws snatched at the air, and missed him by an inch, as the imp cut a hard left around a corner.
“You killed my daughter!”
Dripping scales slammed into a metal rail and sent it flying, dislodged entirely from its concrete holdings. Savage footclaws scrabbled, hooked against the cold, indifferent floor to launch him forward. Mid-chase, Striker leapt onto the railing to his right and vaulted to another higher floor just above.
Blitz shot straight upwards, his head smashed straight through, and he tore straight onto level three of Gen Pop.
“You killed Loona!”
Gunshots rang out, and three ferocious stakes of pain scraped against his scales. Blitz paid them no heed; their shelling rapidly melted into nothing by the shadowy magma that oozed from his protective plating. Deadly claws raised, as he leapt straight through a hail of bullets, jaws gaped wide to swallow Striker whole.
The butt of a rifle smashed into the side of his snout, which encouraged another roar to shake the sky. A single round fired into his face, one far more powerful than the previous three, and a great flash of agony ripped through him. Claws slammed down, then swiped upwards in a flurry of strikes that would easily rend the murderous outlaw in two, if they connected.
Dexterous footwork kept Striker just barely out of reach, his trained arm and sharp vision enough to keep him safe, as he fired off shot after shot. The bullets felt more like tank rounds; their effects enough to momentarily part the shadowy cloak that enveloped Blitz’s transformed body.
“You hurt Stolas: Moxxie!”
Dark flame burned bright within his throat, and Striker’s eyes widened in its glow. In a single, rage-filled bellow, the darkest fire known to demon and mankind alike shot forth in a stream of all-consuming death. Nimble hands threw Striker back over the railing, and he landed back into the lake of blood and corpses below.
The shadow of the beast hovered above, and he barely had enough time to leap aside, as it cratered with a roaring crash. Tidal waves of blood crashed forward and sent Striker under; caught in its sickening tow. He rolled through blood and guts; sticky, boiling viscera that gripped his face and weighed down his clothing. In that single moment of enfeeblement, Blitz leapt upon him, jaws snapping at his face.
Striker’s rifle was all that saved his life, as it’s reinforced frame and angelic enhancements kept the monster’s teeth at bay long enough for him to pull out a dagger. It sank deep into the side of Blitz’s head, and with a roar of his own, Striker maliciously twisted the blade to stir up whatever brains the beast had left!
“Yeah, I murdered your precious mutt, and I’d do it again! She screamed for her Daddy all the way down! ”
Blitz joined his claws into a singular, spear-like point and slammed them deep into Striker’s thigh. Weak flesh and fresh blood spilled upwards; his screams of pain an utter delight to the ears! Such satisfaction provided the necessary grit to resist the churning knife that wiggled and scraped the inside of his skull.
“You…attacked…MY FAMILY!”
Jaws stretched wide, the gates of a new kind of Hell itself, and enveloped Striker’s head.
The imp hollered and roared, as railroad spike thick teeth pierced his scapula and collarbone. Blitz growled as the murderer’s screams funneled down his stomach. Worthless kicks battered at his chest, as he hoisted his meal high into the air.
With a sharp yank, Striker’s leg soared across the room.
A fresh scream raped its way into Blitz’s esophagus, but he felt nothing but undiluted satisfaction.
“Blitz!”
Pretty voice. Familiar voice. Friendly voice?
He turned, fresh catch still awake and flailing in his jaws, and saw Stolas standing before him with an outstretched hand.
“I need him alive. Put…him…down.”
What? No kill? No revenge? No…no…
Drop him, you imbecile!
The voice in his head screeched! Chalky nails gouged deep into the board of his psyche and raked down. Every muscle trembled, and the beast spat Striker out and onto the ground; riddled with oozing holes and missing a leg, but alive.
Immediately, the cur pushed back on his elbows to try and escape, a truly mortified expression locked onto his maimed body. It was the first time he had ever seen him afraid; no bravado, no mask, no courage…simply horrified at what the future had in store. He screamed at the bloody stump of his leg; thick red meat and shattered bone that spouted streams of blood.
Stolas approached with a cold gaze, and Striker cried out.
“No! No, no, no; get the fuck away from me!” An anguished scream followed, as Stolas’ magical blade impaled itself through his remaining thigh and stuck him to the floor. The prince knelt, blue fire upon his palm, and gripped that stump without any trace of kindness. Burnt flesh crackled and singed the air, as once more, the outlaw screamed in agony and twitched as Stolas cauterized the wound. Somehow, afterwards, Striker was still conscious, but hardly capable.
Prince Stolas curled his talons into a single fist, grabbed the imp by the collar of his poncho, and clocked him dead between the eyes.
Striker fell back, body limp in the grip of his poncho: unconscious.
His foe finally defeated, Stolas tightened his grip around the coarse material. Relief swelled to his beak, and a laugh jumped free. At first, it was slow; almost still born, but grew in emotion and strength. “Ha…ha-ha-ha…hahaha-hahaha… hahaha-hahaha!”
Bone popped and veins bulged as he hoisted the outlaw a mere inch from his face. It was to sear his visage into memory forever; Stolas wished to savor the last time Striker would ever look the same again. A delicious rush of knowing seeped into his nervous system, and the owl wiped back his ruffled head feathers, only to coat them in a bloody red sheen to mask the gray.
He looked down at Striker’s severed leg…
…then he pointed.
“Eat that.”
Blitz obeyed, all too willingly.
“Moxxie, are you okay; say something!” Millie pleaded, as the flat of her fingers tried to jumpstart her husband’s mind. Unkempt hair, a bandaged hand stained brown, and tattered clothing painted a grim picture in her mind; what Striker had put him through. All manner of terrible things rushed to her mind, and she was quick to plant a head to his chest in search of a heartbeat.
Mira planted two fingers to the side of his neck. “…I have a pulse. If we get him into medical care, he should be fine.”
“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?!” Millie lifted him up and draped his unconscious body over her shoulder, with a grunt of effort. “Stolas can open a portal; lets get to him, and fast!” With a brisk trot, the little imp galloped down the hall, as if her man weighed nothing at all.
Mira stood in silence, if only to swallow recent events. The clamor from down the hall had been enormous, terrifying, and overall chaotic. Yet, in its silence, an uneasy calm settled upon Solitary Confinement. Combating robotic guards had taken a toll on her stamina; as there had been a great many to carve through on the way. Fortunately, for everyone, they had picked the right wall to kick in.
Good fortune aside, her mind could only slide back into her lord’s question; where was Octavia? It was one that pricked the fur on the back of her neck. Even at the end, even at the place where all was to be solved…they knew nothing. The search continued on. Would it last into eternity? Was Octavia too far from their grasp? Those thoughts raced within her, as she walked down the same hallway Millie did.
Carnage; no word was more fit to describe the damage done to the halls and floors. It was all likely caused by that beast, no doubt. Its’ presence was of great concern to her, as she didn’t recognize its species. Was it a new breed? Was it something unnatural, manmade, or was it simply a consequence of the hatred that Striker had sparked within Prince Stolas? Idle musings got her nowhere, and when she stepped out of the hallway…she paused at the apocalyptic slaughter that stretched before her.
Bodies.
Mangled, disemboweled, decapitated corpses strung about the room like leaves in fall. Her stomach heaved, and the disgusting bile of hot sick rolled back as she swallowed it down. Mira padded through the ocean of blood, each step a stain upon her very damned soul, as she surveyed the carnage. Multiple levels of the prison had been decimated; concrete lay strewn about as the after effects of earthen wounds, and metal railings lay bent in severe degrees.
It appeared as if a true hellbeast had rampaged through there.
“Mira.”
Lost in thought, she leapt at the vocal intrusion; the rings about her staff a racket of noise against one another. “…yes, Prince Stolas?” she replied, without looking.
“It is time to leave this place.”
Her muzzle curled, the magic in her blood screamed, the miasma of death quick to seep into the prison’s infrastructure; into its very soul. “…I fear this place shall be forever cursed now, my lord.” Blood sloshed like water as she turned, yet she still did not dare gaze upon his face. Something kept her at bay; something primal and instinctive that warned her of the consequences of looking: death. “Is it wise to leave such a…a stain upon Envy?”
“Let it sink into the raging tides. If it does not, then allow its’ continuance to be an ever-present reminder; the tithes of crossing the Ars Goetia are high.”
Sadness coiled in her gut, and Mira was unable to completely mask its influence in her voice. “This place was once a safe haven, my lord; a sanctuary for those who once did kindlier work. I must address the discomfort I feel at leaving it tainted so.”
She froze as talons rested upon her shoulder; sharp, bloody knives that chilled her soul.
“Do not weep, my disciple; you have a new home now. Allow this one to rot from memory, and from this realm, entirely. ‘Tis a chapter better left forgotten, in a book best left unopened and long-shelved.”
His words were gentle, sweet, and comforting even; but…why did she tremble? Why did she freeze? Why did her throat dry and crack, until breathing became impossible, in the presence of a kind god? Stolas’ lullaby drifted into her ears, just as a portal opened before her eyes.
“Come now; recent revelations require we adapt posthaste. I shall require your aid within my arboretum.”
“...For what, my prince?”
She felt his smile…and it brought nothing but terror.
“Why, for healing poultices. We are going to need an abundant supply, for what’s to come.”
Chapter 12: Mercy; Oh Mercy
Summary:
Stolas finally gets his hands on Striker.
I.M.P. have a decision to make.
Mira's faith is pushed to the brink.
Notes:
--TRIGGER WARNING!!--
This chapter contains the following content that might unsettle certain readers.
+ Heavy Torture
+ Sadism
+ Heavy Blood and Gore
+ Dismemberment
+ Mutilation
------------------------
Chapter Text
Light had returned to Goetia Manor. The pallid veil that had drowned its halls for months was finally lifted. Starlight, long-lost, gleamed once again in the air, as a heavy silence choked all around; as if oxygen had been sucked dry. Such a massive shift in atmosphere had only occurred in the face of their victory in Envy; a victory which not only heralded the closing of one door, but the opening of another, far more satisfactory one.
Mira had done as ordered and put her botanical skills to work within the arboretum. Not only was she tasked with properly stocking the racks with ample poultices, but to tend to the little imp’s wounds as well; Moxxie, she believed his name was. Unconscious, he lay out upon a makeshift table. Draped in a clean cloth, it was more than large enough for such a diminutive demon.
“This is your husband?” she asked Millie, salve-coated fingers pressed against the hole in his hand. At the same time, her clean, gloved hand held a sanitized wag that wiped away the crust of dried blood. “I must admit, he does not appear as warrior-like as I imagined.”
Fidgety feet tapped against the ground, as the sharp-haired imp stood close by with an attentive and worried gaze. “That’s the trap; my Mox has a damn big body count.”
Stained glass hung above, to cast magical rays of gentle light to the plants below. Humidity clung to every molecule, but in a reserved measure of presence that displayed zero oppression. It was a medicinal heat; one to keep the plants alive and healthy. Rows upon rows of massive pots lined the walls, hanging pots of smaller sizes dangled from on high, and tended gardens of rich, enhanced soil filled what space remained. Nearby, a cart of potions and salves sat; rolled from the nearest alchemical closet to be administered and analyzed.
With such ample resources, a healing balm had been easy to create.
“Perhaps that is why he is still alive; this wound hasn’t been properly treated. Hopefully, we are not too late to prevent infection.” Mira glanced, caught the weighty concern upon Millie’s brow, and finished wiping the wound. “Prince Stolas’ teachings cover an array of medicinal techniques and enchantments, so do not be too concerned. Your husband shall be fine, on my honor.”
Breath drew upwards, pushed out every bit of spiritual blockage that had gathered within her throat, then exhaled as a flat hand raised. Palm out, fingers raised, a hum of green cast a glow over the table. Ancient words whispered from her muzzle, and at their behest, a marble of light traveled from her palm; its final destination a cozy resting place within Moxxie’s bullet wound. Nice and snug, it began to pulse, and the hole began to slowly close.
Its’ power pulled a groan from the imp, and his head turned with an expression of discomfort.
“Moxxie!”
“He is well; his body is simply adjusting to the magic.”
At her side, Millie began to furiously pace like an antsy jungle cat. Sweat sprouted from Moxxie’s forehead, as his head continued to shake left and right; as if a child fighting off a stomach ache. Amidst her incantation, Mira’s free hand snatched a fresh bandage from the cart and began to wrap it around his palm. With her magic now sealed inside, the fox demon ceased her utterances, and the glow ceased.
“Aside from a few bruises and a minor concussion, he shall be fine. Everything else will heal in time. The best that we can do is not to agitate him; come, let us relocate.” Hands aloft, claws arched, magic sprung forth once more. It was a simple levitation spell; a mere manipulation of gravitational forces to safely cradle the injured imp in nature’s embrace. Moxxie rose from the table, and as Mira began to walk, he followed.
Sunlight beamed down upon them, as the doors to the arboretum swung open. Negative energy had vanished from the surrounding area, replaced by a self-curing and spiritual calm. Birds tweeted, wind whispered, and leaves rustled in the nearby trees. Mira regarded the shift with silent optimism; it indicated that Prince Stolas’ mood had lifted. Yet, her stomach turned at the cause of such joy. Through the backyard, they entered the manor and made tracks toward the nearest bedchamber. Having such an expansive and illustrate estate meant ample guest rooms, and fortunately, one such room was on the ground floor.
Mira made a point to stay far away from the glass casket, that resided in the foyer.
Within the guest room, an extravagant and large bed awaited; clean sheets, ample pillows, and fresh air from nearby windows served to create a perfect recovery zone. Not only was it easily accessible, but it was quiet, calm, and most likely to be left undisturbed. Millie pulled the sheets open, and Mira tucked Moxxie in.
“I will check on him periodically. If anything in his condition changes, come and find me; I shall either be back in the arboretum or with Prince Stolas.”
At mention of the prince, Millie began to stroke Moxxie’s hair. “No offense, but I’m not planning on sticking around. The second Moxxie gets better, I’m taking him and Blitz and getting out of this mess.”
“You do not feel the urge to assist in Princess Octavia’s rescue?”
Sharp lashes lowered and soft eyes hardened into smooth, yet diamond-hard edges. “We just make things worse, sticking around. We’re the whole damn reason this all kicked off to begin with. Too slow on the draw, too cozy to think that nothing bad was gonna happen…and all we got to show for it was a big, fat reality check.”
“There is always a chance for redemption. If your failures weigh upon you, running will only worsen them.”
“I ain’t running.” Her gentle caress traced from the top of Moxxie’s head to his slumbering cheek. “I’m just protecting what I’ve got left.”
Mira allowed the words to slip deep into her mind, as she absorbed the heart of them. In that time, Millie didn’t speak; her peace uttered. Yet, one detail in particular filled the monk’s mental voice with a tone of concern. If what she had seen back in Envy was any indicator, Prince Stolas wasn’t afraid to raise his arms to enact slaughter.
For a god of peace to enact such brutal savagery, his love for his daughter must easily eclipse the sun itself.
“Whatever the reason, know that I shall be here until you go. For what it is worth, I have rather enjoyed your company.” Mira turned and wandered from the room; mostly to give the married couple time alone, but also to simply clear her head. A gnawing bug of dread had displaced much of her stomach, and it only intensified as time passed.
As she passed through the center of the foyer, a shadow flit along her peripheral. Natural curiosity demanded she investigate its’ authenticity, and when her head turned, her eyes landed upon the grand staircase. A pull, an enticement, eased her feet forward to ascend the stairs. Up and up she climbed, as the shadow continued to pass over the fringes of her sight. At the top, her head turned left.
Down a vast hallway, a monumental portrait smothered an entire wall. It was an oil painting of stars; systems, galaxies, nebulas that stretched into the infinite, in a vertical display of celestial alignment. Bloated with striking colors of rich red, mystical orange, and depressing blues, its artistic visage drew Mira closer. The closer she drew, the more she began to realize what had pulled her close; the painting was tilted away from the wall.
Behind it lay a dark passage.
What possessed her to tread forward, Mira did not know. Obsidian stone lined the walls, its exterior cold to the touch. She stared into the abyss ahead, felt its all-consuming jaws yawn outward, and paused. Like predatory fangs, the darkness gouged into her scapula and spine; ravenous in its desire to snap her in twain and slurp the liquids from her organs. Light’s warmth withered, its motherly presence reduced to a demented senior, and turned to indifferent cold against her back.
Deeper into the dark, then even deeper still, an echo shuddered through the walls. Its’ ghostly, haunting sound brought her pause, but shadows snapped at her heels to propel her onward. Eventually, a dim light poked through the night; yet, its glow brought no hope. It was a pale, ominous, and unnerving light that slowed her pace.
As Mira drew closer, and the light grew in presence, an unearthly chill washed over her shoulders and arms. Sound was absent, all save a second pass of the ghostly echo. Her eyes could not see; not even her mind’s eye. What was this place?
An abrupt corner surged towards her face, and the monk’s toes dug into the ground below. Barely in time, she stopped herself from slamming directly into it, and turned…
…only to see herself staring right back.
She froze.
Her form was fully illuminated; an angelic presence to pierce the sea of black. Almost uncanny in the way her own eyes stared back, it took Mira several minutes to push through her survival impulse and think. Slowly, she reached out, and the action was mimicked in turn. Stretched far, the tip of her claw clinked against air; no, it was glass!
She had stumbled upon a mirror.
Go on child; reach forward.
Bidden by the sudden voice, her palm rushed forward and was subsequently halted. A cool, clear surface pressed back…and then, she began to sink forward. Ripples appeared, an undulation of liquid, and Mira felt the cold embrace of mercury swallow her forearm. Darkness faded, as an unfamiliar and eldritch sensation coursed over top of her body. Her ears rang until she heard nothing else.
Panic, fear, but then…release.
Warmth returned. Light returned. Through a cloud of fog, her eyes began to adjust. Through the ringing drone in her head, her ears popped.
A scream tore through the air.
She had found Prince Stolas.
Sharp talons dug into Striker’s head, restrained rage at play to ensure they drew blood, but not too much. Power surged from deep with Stolas’ heart; a wellspring of malicious magic that festered and churned with vengeance. Lightning crackled in his palms, then implanted itself deep into the imp like he was a lightning rod. One bolt turned to two, then two turned to four, until a tempest threatened to cook the outlaw’s brain from the inside out.
Chained to the floor by bonds of woven magic; unbreakable by all but the most accomplished sorcerers, Striker knelt. Stripped down to his given flesh, every scar was exposed to the world; as was the vacant canvas to draw more. Purple sparks shot through the air, as his body convulsed, eyes rolled towards his skull in agony. The pungent aroma of burnt hair spiked the air to mingle with boiled blood and singed flesh.
Shock abated, but then talons moved; their tips sought to hook his skull just above the bubble of his eyes. Striker screamed in pain, teeth grit, chest rapid in its rise and fall, as Stolas yanked his head back. The prince’s grip tightened until he felt bone creak against his palm. Only then did he deliver another shock of lightning that lasted several seconds long. Once it ended, he threw Striker’s head forward and let it hang.
Stolas circled around, his hand surged towards Striker’s throat, and the prince bore down around that venomous windpipe with seething might. No matter how hard he squeezed, the itch could not be sated, his lust for proper vengeance uncured.
“You…pitiful rat.” the owl spat, talons poised to spear through flesh, should he desire to. “Look at me.” A harsh yank hoisted the imp three inches off the ground; the shackles about his wrists and ankles dug deep and tore at the skin. Stolas squeezed tighter; every indignity housed in an explosive force behind his fierce visage. Hatred poured from every molecule of his being, to wreath murderous intent among a sadistic dreamscape.
Striker’s jaw tightened, then ground, and a projectile of spit hawked itself forward like a missile.
It missed.
A thunderous backhand split the sky, and a clattering of chains rang out as he dropped the imp back to ground.
“You have much to answer for, but first, you are going to tell me where my daughter is.”
Wheezing pants pushed through cracked lungs, smeared by blood that lined spittle. “Fuck you…blueblood!”
Talons clamped down over Striker’s face again. “Very well, then I shall rip the information from your mind.” Dark roots undulated beneath Stolas’ skin; wriggling vines of blackest earth that shot straight towards his fingers. From there, they pierced into new skin; rough skin, weak skin, foreign skin, and clawed upwards to the eyes. Once they hooked inside of his sockets, the roots blackened…and Striker’s body convulsed.
An ear-splitting scream roared against his palm, as Stolas watched the criminal writhe on his knees. His head violently whipped about, in a futile attempt to escape the roots from tunneling into his mind. “Fuck you! Stay out of my head! No! NO! N---AAAAAGHHH!”
A smile crept onto Stolas’ beak, as angry and pained wails turned frightened and helpless. Literally within the palm of his hand, his foe could do nothing. The source of his pain, the malefactor of his misery, knelt and suffered with no chance of escape. Elation flooded the owl’s heart, and that smile grew into a wicked grin as smoke began to pour from between his fingers; spouted from Striker’s eye sockets.
Funneled into a single point, guided by its magical design, the smoke of memories swirled into a sphere before him. Upon its completion of form, he rent his hand away to cradle the orb.
“My lord?”
The voice returned an ounce of normalcy to his mind, and Stolas turned towards it. “Ah, Mira, my disciple; I trust the imp is stable?” Eyes locked onto the orb and the power within; the information that would lead to his daughter and put an end to all of this was within his grasp.
“He is.”
Like a comet of wonder, a thought crashed through his murderous revelry; how did she find him? Stolas silently slicked his head feathers back and downplayed his grin into a soft smile. “Apologies that you had to witness this. I thought this chamber was inaccessible, but it appears, in my haste, I must have left the way ajar. How foolish of me.”
A groan from behind turned Mira’s eye, and at her observation, he observed her right back. While her thoughts were a mystery, there were clues hidden in the microcosm of her eyes. They wavered, moistened, then dried and moistened again, as they darted about every detail of the prisoner.
“Go on, speak your mind.”
She hesitated, and in the moment of silence, Striker’s voice crackled with pain. “Mira?” Eyes yet to clear; occluded by the after effects of memory extraction, his head tilted to detect her through audible position alone. “Mira…hel—”
In a flash, Stolas’ shadow shot forward and vanished into the imp.
Striker tensed, veins bulged in his face as overburdened fangs clamped down atop one another. Every muscle shook, the ground around him began to vibrate, and an overwhelming tremor rocked the imp’s body in the throes of a mighty seizure. Blood burst out through cracks in his flesh and showered the ground, as he screamed. Restraints rattled under the convulsions to ring out in unholy moans. Pressure continued to build, shown in the increasing fervor of visible, pumping veins and tensed muscle.
“My lord, please.” Mira dug her feet in, ears folded back past her decorated horns to enhance her respectable plea.
All of the shuddering stopped. Striker’s chest roared with fierce pants for air, as blood oozed down his entire body. Desperate, wrought with struggle, it only turned to a singular frightened gasp…as his chest began to expand. Unable to clutch at himself, teeth bore and grit down as his face scrunched up.
“Prince Stolas, please, stop.”
Recognition gleamed in three, malice-drenched eyes. Yet, in the presence of his faithful follower, the owl tilted his head. “Was it not his screams which bothered you?” A sweep of his fingers triggered a popping of bone, like that of cracking wood, and Mira recoiled. “You do not believe his punishment is unbefitting of his crimes, do you?”
“I know…that he has deeply wronged you, my prince.” Her voice was reserved, cautious, but bloated with pleading misery that corrupted typically soft melodies. Like a dirge amidst a cheerful ballad, its presence brought the Goetia momentary pause. “In more ways than can be forgiven, but he was once a good soul, and this…this tears at my own.”
Stolas blinked as the fox demon fell to her knees before him and stretched forward; face to the ground and arms spread in prostration.
“I beg you…grant him what sliver of mercy may yet remain within your heart to give.”
The cracking ceased. Striker’s chest began to deflate, and Stolas’ shadow fled back into its original host. In a combination of meager pity, honest curiosity, and bullish resistance, he traced a hand up alongside Striker’s face and gripped one of his horns.
“Are you prepared to bear the burden of my mercy, Mira?” All that existed for several seconds was the outlaw’s heaving, messy breaths, and the monk’s hesitant, perplexed expression. “Are you willing to carry and guide him along the path of redemption, that so he might be cleansed of his sins in my eyes?”
An all too eager, relieved nod seized her head. “Yes, my prince. Just please, I cannot bear to witness this…this suffering.”
“Very well.”
His fingers skittered down the top of that head of snowy hair, across sweat and blood-soaked skin, then stopped just above a heavy brow. Stolas spread his fingers wide and slipped them down the perimeter of Striker’s eye…
…and with a single flick of the wrist, yanked it clean from his socket.
Mira recoiled, and an unnatural cry of dismay slipped through her devotion. Blood sprayed forth, reinvigorated screams strained the imp’s ragged throat, and his head tried to shake wildly. As if to deny reality, to deny the pain itself, his neck whipped and flailed like an unruly child; all while a fresh stream of blood gushed from clenched lids.
Stolas released the shadowy orb of memories in his free hand and allowed it to float into the safety of his robes. Shadows, injected with hellish, eldritch crimson energy, glowed along the edge of a singular raised talon. Like a scalpel, its tip pressed to the fleshy membrane of that severed eye and began to carve. Smooth, curved lines formed to eventually join and create the prince’s personal royal sigil. It hummed with potent magic; lines rife with smoky shadows.
Satisfied with his work, he seized the wiggling outlaw’s chin and forcibly held it still, then shoved the eye back into his head.
“So begins my act of mercy.”
Moxxie groaned, as the world around him began to fade into reality. A terrible throbbing pounded in his head; so potent that it jostled his eyeballs. Through the haze, a muffled voice rang in his ear, a smear of red shifted and expanded, and he felt his back straighten. Firm hands supported his spine, and as he blinked away the fog, the visage of his wife became visible.
“Moxxie!”
He smiled, “Hi, honey...” Muscles tried to move, but a jolt of pain made him stop and groan. “Where am I? Where’s Striker? Are we—”
Warm lips interrupted him with a deep kiss, one that drew all tension from his body in a single second. All too eagerly, Moxxie sank into the touch of his wife’s embrace. The kiss broke seconds later, only to be followed up by a hug that gripped him tight; as if she were afraid to let him go.
“You’re safe. We’re at Stolas’ place, and Striker has been taken care of. He’s never going to hurt us again.”
Idly, he glanced about the room until Millie released the hug, then looked down at her hand as it clasped his own.
“But we’ve gotta get out of here. Everything is such a mess; can you walk?”
Confusion soaked overtop his mind, but his legs tensed and shifted on instinct. They felt fine; no tension, no soreness, and no lack of weight.
“I think so, but…you just said everything was fine. Why do we have to leave?”
The paranoid glance that Millie gave over her shoulder gave him pause. When she spoke, her voice was but a whisper.
“Something is wrong with Stolas, and I haven’t seen Blitz since we got back. We need to find him, then get the hell out of this mess before things somehow get worse.”
“Blitz, but…” Moxxie muttered, face scrunched up into a snarl as the throb in his head returned. Memories, unwanted and cruel, rushed back; freed from a heavy layer of survival instinct and fear. He was free, he had made it, but all he could recall was the train. “…what about Loona?”
“We take her too.” A strong arm reached under his arm and across his back, then eased him around to stand up from the bed.
Guilt rushed in with the memories; a cocktail of sickly, oily dread and despair that churned in his heart and dripped into his stomach. Moxxie’s face shifted from discomfort and into sadness, his grip held fast to Millie’s supportive shoulder. There hadn’t been much time to properly mourn, but now the bottle had been uncorked, and grief pounded in his heart until his sternum ached. “You found her?”
“Stolas did. It was…well…” Millie bit her bottom lip, as she pushed open the bedroom door and guided Moxxie down the hallway. Despite the strength he felt in his legs, they didn’t seem to obey him; perhaps they needed more time to remember how walking worked. “…a shock. She’s been here at the manor, while we looked for you.”
Up ahead, the foyer stretched into the distance, but all he laid eyes on was the glass casket at its center. Bathed in a beam of light, lit candles stood in vigil around its base; some even floated mid-air to guard even the space above it.
“Is that..?”
“Yeah, she’s in there. Stolas whipped it up. Do you want to see her?”
“I…” Moxxie swallowed a sudden blockage in his throat, as his nostrils burned and his eyes watered. Immense shame blanketed his soul, and words failed to surpass the next lump that arose, in the wake of the first.
“Come on baby…” All the kind words and supportive tones couldn’t deter his failure, but she drew him closer, nonetheless. Each drag of his feet only strengthened his tears in the ugliest way. He had constantly come up short; not strong enough, not fast enough, not good enough to save her. It tore at his heart, all to till the soil for seeds of rage to grow; rage at himself and those responsible.
Then, from out of nowhere, a gargantuan beast stomped into view.
Bipedal, covered in dark scales from head to toe, it’s monolithic size stopped both imps dead in their tracks. Malicious horns curved from atop its head like cleavers, spikes as thick as railroad nails jutted from the back of its skull to the end of its tree-trunk sized tail, and patches of glowing embers dotted its skin; as if it constantly burned. Shadowy smoke cast its form in a light veil that came from the magma-like tar which oozed between its scales. A truly draconic being; one fit to stalk the house of royal demons.
It’s head turned, almost casually, in their direction, and slits for nostrils flared. The beast tensed, its gargantuan and muscular arm raised to puncture marble walls with gouging talons, then growled as it stepped down the hallway. Two yellow eyes glared down at them from on high, as each step shook the ground and left a trail of searing, black slop in its wake.
Millie’s heel pulled back, her grip tightened around Moxxie’s side, and she began to back up with him in tow. Her eyes never left the creature, even as it stared right back and continued to approach. Its head tilted, as if in curiosity, and it slid onto all fours; back stretched forward to sniff at the air before it.
“Moxxie?”
Both imps froze; it spoke! Not only did that, but the voice was familiar, if far deeper and bestial.
"...Blitz?"
Strength surged through Moxxie's legs, and he hurled himself forward to grip the draconic monster’s snout in a tight embrace. Immediately, tears began to cascade down his face, and he began to cry.
Before Millie’s eyes, the transformed monster that was their boss shrank. Shadows fled away from his body, scales vanished from view, and in mere seconds he was returned to his normal self! Battered, nude from the waist up and lacking any shoes, Blitz embraced Moxxie in an equally tight hug; his own eyes a galaxy of tears.
A shudder, a sharp breath; as he gripped the back of his employee’s head to pull his sobbing face against his shoulder. “I thought I was going to lose you..!”
“Sir, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for—” Amidst his pleas, Blitz only tightened the hug, and Moxxie’s words slipped back into a waterfall of sorrow. It poured and poured, wild and free in the embrace of his boss.
“You’re safe…thank fucking Satan…” Knees quaked, and both imps fell to their knees upon the ground; still locked together, unable to let go. Soon, Blitz’s shoulders shook, and his head dipped down against Moxxie’s shoulder to cry alongside him. “…thank fuck you’re okay, Moxxie!”
Millie sniffled, as she watched the two greatest men in her life fall apart in front of her. Resolve in her heart, she walked forward and knelt next to them on the ground. Arms wide, she embraced them as family, and together, all the remaining members of IMP sobbed in relief, in sorrow, and together.
Nothing would ever separate them again.
Striker’s screams were a sweet melody to Stolas’ ears; one that soothed his spiteful soul and helped to quench months of compiled resentment. The Prince hummed to himself, as his talon carved through flesh with artistic consideration. Each stroke needed to be perfect, and he spared no expense in ensuring that every second was spent wisely.
All along the outlaw’s flesh, brilliant lines of purple glowed in occult splendor. Satisfaction bubbled in Stolas’ gut, at the prospect that they would scar him forever and bind his soul to the deepest path of punishment and redemption possible.
Mira, his new pupil, had long slipped into prayer. Deep, rapid, zealous mutterings that echoed over the screams of her former friend. The kindness of her heart didn’t go unnoticed by the Prince of Stars, as it sought a string of kinship with his own nature. However, even the most beautiful flowers donned thorns and brewed poisons to protect themselves.
That was all Stolas was now; a beautiful plant set to defend itself. At least, that is what he told himself.
As he finished a stroke from temple to chin, Striker’s screams abated in favor of heaving pants for air. It was the same each time; returned to pained normalcy with every pause. Nothing but contempt burned in the owl’s tri-gaze, as he hovered above the bloody imp, talon caked in gore.
“You should feel ever so fortunate to have such loyal companionship.” he said. Talons skittered atop Striker’s face, just to reach the untouched flesh on the other side. “Her words have moved me to spare your life, and so I shall remake you.” A needle’s cradle curled beneath the outlaw’s chin to catch the fresh blood that dripped down; bathed in crimson splendor to darken the sheen of his talon.
The prayers grew in fervency, and they did not go unnoticed by the Goetian Prince. They brought a smile to his beak, and his voice clicked in amusement.
“Do you hear them; her prayers? Oh, how even now, after you assaulted her God, betrayed her trust, deceived her, she begs for your salvation?” Occult power sizzled against Striker’s untouched cheek, and his skin shuddered at the touch. “She recognizes your sins, and pleads that they be forgiven: thank her.”
Clenched lips shuddered, their reluctance a spot of amusement in Stolas’ red eyes.
“…fuck…you…you SICK FUCK!”
Two hands gripped Striker’s horns.
“AAAAAAAGH!”
Like burnt wood, they began to glow and crack in the prince’s grip. A scream, more terrified and pained than all that came before, tore the air asunder. Magic beamed out from the cracks, brightened with each subsequent squeeze that Stolas gave. The pride of every imp trembled in his unyielding grasp, only able to quake in fear as his strength was brought to bear against them.
He looked down and relished the absolute horror in Striker’s eyes.
It was utterly, unabashedly, delicious.
With one final clench, the imp’s horns shattered and left naught by stumps; decimated in a single burst of magical light.
A tortured wail fled his chest, a gaped mouth stretched to howl at the blood-stained floor, as the final dirge of a broken demon played into the bowels of the royal manor.
Discontent to allow the cur even that, bloody talons clamped down against the side of Striker’s face. Stolas’ own visage jutted close, a mere millimeter apart, and every molecule of hate he could muster poured forth in his aura.
“You are mine.”
A bell’s deep, hollow toll boomed through the hidden chamber. Stolas raised his head, as he shoved Striker’s down and away from him. Eyes narrowed, he walked towards the exit, but made sure to stop near Mira on the way out. Her prayers continued to flow, now mere breathy gasps; as if her lungs had run dry of breath long ago.
“Ensure that he does not bleed out.” He commanded, then walked straight past her to exit the chamber.
Someone was at the door.
Millie gripped the glossy door handle and yanked back with both hands, droplets of tears still on her cheeks. Moxxie and Blitz huddled in front of Loona’s casket; they had been mourning when the bell had suddenly rung. With no idea where Stolas was, she had gone to answer the door.
It swung wide to reveal a tall, majestic, and ornately dressed parrot. Bright red feathers, bright red and white clothes with starry accents; his eyes lay behind a boomerang-shaped visor of gold. Those ruby red gems blinked in surprise, but she only wiped her face with a wrist and sniffled.
“Can I help you?”
Concern dipped his brow, and the parrot fished beneath his jacket to immediately procure a handkerchief. Nothing but kindness in his eyes, he offered it willingly. “My name is Prince Vassago of the Ars Goetia, and I am here to see Prince Stolas.”
Millie accepted the handkerchief and used it to dab at the leftover tears below her eyes. “He’s a bit—ah—busy right now.”
Vassago’s head tilted back up and looked past her, towards the centerpiece of the foyer. A pensive frown edged at the corners of his beak. “Is that her?”
“What?”
“Is that Loona?” he asked, and the question stunned Millie.
“How do you—yeah, that’s…did you know her?”
A sad smile slipped onto his face, perhaps as a defense mechanism or a calming one; Millie couldn’t say for sure, either way. “I spoke with her briefly, when I communed with her spirit on behalf of her father. Please, may I enter?”
“Y-yes! I mean, sure; come right on in. I don’t think Stolas would mind, if he’s expecting ya…”
Long, leisurely, soft footsteps drew the attention of Moxxie and Blitz. They said nothing, as the parrot approached the casket, but they did move aside to give him room. Vassago looked down into the casket, his eyes slowly closed, and a gentle exhale trailed from his chest.
“My heart weeps for your loss. It was clear, back at mi casa, that she meant the world to you.” Ghostly, considerate, and gloved fingers traced the top of the glass. “As was expected, Stolas spared no expense.”
“What are you doing here?” Blitz muttered, a sniffle not far behind such dour utterances.
“To offer my services to Stolas, so that all of this may come to a close. Also, to perform the necessary funerary rites…so that you all may leave.”
“Leave?” Blitz crossed his arms and glanced at M&M. “No one’s said anything about leaving. We still need to get Stolas’ kid.”
“A task that he and I are more than capable of accomplishing. You all have already done enough, and risked just as much to do so.” Vassago looked towards Moxxie, to accentuate his point. “But now, the villain is captured, and all that remains is to bring the princess back. She will remain under the highest guard; a task that two princes of the Ars Goetia are more than capable of accomplishing without assistance.”
“How are we supposed to do that, if we still don’t know where she is? She wasn’t in Envy, where we thought she was.”
“That is a concern you shall not need to burden yourselves with.”
Blitz frowned, and tightened the self-hug he had applied moments ago. “What; after all this, just tap out? No, no, I can’t do that to Stolas.”
Vassago sighed, and to everyone’s astonishment, crouched down to meet Blitz at eye level. The parrot removed his golden visor and fixated on the imp before him with great intensity. While his expression didn’t change, the space around his eyes were tight, and an unearthly weight hung about his every word.
“Is his love greater then theirs?” he asked.
Blitz balked, and he glanced over his shoulder at Moxxie and Millie with a tightened throat. At the words that followed, he dared to look back towards the prince.
“Listen to me. You have already lost one family member to this endeavor, and nearly another. I know that you want to prove yourself, to be better than the world perceives you, but if you remain here, it will be tantamount to suicide.”
Vassago raised a warm hand and rested it upon the imp’s shoulder.
“You have more than earned your peace, Blitz. So please, take it, and go; go far away from this place, as far as you can, and don’t stop until all of this is but a faded, unfortunate nightmare.”
“Vassago.”
The parrot rose to his feet, head already turned towards the grand staircase where Stolas stood. He placed the visor back over his eyes, “Stolas.”
“I am surprised to see you here, and so soon, no less. It’s feel as if it were only yesterday that we conversed.”
“You appear jovial; am I to assume it comes from pleasant news?” While Vassago’s words were light, his stance was anything but. It was authoritative, proud, and resilient; as if to ward off a dangerous predator in a show of strength.
“Pleasant events, more like. You’ll be overjoyed to hear that Striker has been apprehended, and his punishment has begun. No longer will he torment the rings; yet, more importantly…” Stolas snapped his fingers, and a shadowy orb spawned atop their joined tips. “I have extracted his memories. With them, I can discern where my daughter has gone.”
“Then by all means, view them, and I shall accompany you in retrieving her.”
“Oh, so you have finally decided to aid me; is that it?” With another snap, the orb vanished.
Vassago cracked a small grimace, then forced it to bend into a half-smile. “It is as you implied; working together would only better ensure Octavia’s safety.”
Stolas tilted his head. That was it; a minor tilt, but something about it insisted there was more. His eyes were wider than usual; deeper, with an almost joyous glow to the wrinkles that flanked them. The gentle black marks, that marked the space below each eye, appeared to stretch; tear even, beneath the force of his smile.
It made Vassago’s skin crawl.
“How peculiar.” Talons dribbled in a flourish upon the metal railing, but he did not descend.
A chuckle, instant and short-lived, scoffed from his beak.
“Very well; who am I to turn away such generous help?” His head shifted, and the uncanny visage dropped off completely. “Blitzy?”
“Yeah, Stolas?”
“While I am gone, be a dear and watch over Striker. We wouldn’t want him to escape now, would we?”
“N-no, no we wouldn’t.”
“Good, because if upon my return I find him either dead or absent…” Three red eyes darted between all present parties; Blitz, Moxxie, Millie, and Vassago, with equal warning. “…someone might just have to take his place.” A heinous little chuckle slipped into a series of hoots, culminating into a snicker that tucked itself neatly into the owl’s chest.
In a smear of blurred motion and black feathers, Stolas went from standing at the top of the stairs, to standing right in front of Blitz; in the blink of an eye.
Copper stench stained the air like rancid, corroded metal, as he pinched the imp’s cheek and gave it a seemingly loving shake.
“I can always count on you, can’t I Blitz?” he asked, a coo half-formed to inject his voice with a semblance of affection. Then, the owl laid a quick, soft smooch upon those red lips, and stood. Silken robes brushed by the present imps, as Stolas crooked a claw back to gesture Vassago to follow.
The shadowy orb appeared and floated above his palm, as if summoned by his hum. Together, he and Vassago exited the foyer through the front door.
No one moved until it clicked completely shut.
It was Millie that broke the silence. “Blitz, maybe getting out of here is a good idea.”
He didn’t respond, head hung towards the ground, his eyes shut. Hands on his hips, his spiked tail twitched in quiet contemplation.
“But, what about Loona, and what about that thing Blitz turned into? We should wait for Prince Vassago to get back; maybe he could tell us what’s going on. After the final rites are over, then we can go.”
“Moxxie, what happens if Vassago doesn’t come back?”
“…what do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t just witness one-hundred end eighty pounds of pure fucking crazy up on those steps. That wasn’t normal, alright; something is wrong with Stolas.”
“Guys.” Blitz shot a hand up and sighed, then placed it at the back of his neck. “I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean you can’t leave; we could leave right now!” Millie moved in front of her best friend and locked eyes with him.
“No, I—” A grimace, a bit lip, a sigh, the drop of an arm. “I made a deal with Stolas’ dad.”
“Sir?”
“A deal? What kind of a deal; when, how, why?!”
“He said he could bring Loona back!” The words snapped out in a blind, feeble rush of helplessness. They hung in the stunned silence that followed, until he spoke again. “Paimon said…that if I helped Stolas get his revenge, he would bring her back from the dead.”
“…Blitz.” Millie’s fingers touched his hand, then raised to support his chin. “No one comes back, you know that.”
“You’ve seen how strong Stolas is. This guy, this is his dad we’re talking about, he’s a fucking king! Who’s to say he can’t do it?”
“Wait, why would he make a deal with you?” Moxxie interjected. “What does he get out of making a deal with you specifically, sir? You’ve seen how royals view us in their heads; so, why would a king, one who stands above all the other Goetia, even notice you?”
“He’s right Blitz; something reeks here, and I don’t like it.”
“I just—I’m not asking you to stay. If you two want to get out, go ahead; I’m not gonna stop you, but if there’s even the smallest chance that this works, that he can bring Loonie back…”
Millie sighed, patted her forehead in agitation, and sighed. “Well, I ain’t about to just fucking leave you here with all of this.”
“Me either; I’ll stay. I would…also like to see Loona come back.”
Blitz gave a tearful nod, “Thanks guys, I don’t know what I’d do without you: honest.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Millie playfully socked him in the arm, then tilted back to look back at the staircase. “Might as well guard this asshole like Stolas told us to. Where’d he say he put him, again?”
Silence fell upon them, and slowly, all three imps realized that he hadn’t told them where Striker was being held.
“…shit.”
Chapter 13: Cancerous Gods: The Cure is Flame
Summary:
Vassago and IMP begin to witness the depths of Stolas' fragile mind, as his rage builds unchecked.
Mira communes with a higher power, in her darkest hour.
Chapter Text
Pentagram City.
Pride; the domain of Lucifer Morningstar himself: King of Hell.
Beneath his view, though he saw through all rings, it was the sin closest to his heart.
Sinners, their mortal souls twisted into demonic and animalistic forms upon arrival, roamed the dirty, debauchery-stained streets. Drugs, violence, sex, cannibalism; all of humanity’s failures packed into a single city, for they were barred from other rings. Of course, like every rule, there were exceptions.
However, most remained blissfully unaware, and were content to stew in their own muck and self-pity upon the highest ring.
The stench alone nearly caused Stolas to recoil.
Vagrants hobbled about on sidewalks, bloodshot eyes and scraggly faces fit to rise as he and Vassago walked past. Some scrambled into dimly lit alleyways for shelter, others were too inebriated to move. Graffiti stained nearly every brick upon every building; no doubt a glib attempt at colonizing a section of the city for themselves.
A crumpled can scraped up the concrete, as Stolas’ foot casually brushed it aside, in the wake of his stride. Striker’s memories had lead him to such an unappealing place; by comparison, Imp City was akin to the golden streets of Gluttony. It was a fitting place for a dirty rat to tread, and the fated jab at his dignity and patience soured Stolas’ beak with a permanent frown.
Far in the distance, a crackling tower of blue steel and lightning pierced the hellish red sky above. It’s presence had been the focal point of Striker’s memory; for those who had had bargained with resided within. The ones who bid him to capture Octavia for their own dubious ends; three unrecognizable names.
Vox, Velvette, and Valentino.
Haggard and decrepit ghettos slowly transformed into well-kept and gentrified shops and apartments; the veins of wealth clearly traced towards the tower itself. Shop windows showcased a trend of goods; designer clothing, electronic devices, and strip clubs. Dancers spun about poles in acrobatic performances of dexterity, despite their rigid confines. The same advertisement played on every television, and faceless mannequins stared into uncaring streets.
Well-dressed demons, sat outside of brimming cafes and coffee shops, lowered their cascade of noise to a dull murmur; at the sight of the two Goetia. Stolas paid them little mind, even as Vassago raised a hand in silent greeting. Then, the edge of a raised phone caught the owl’s eye, and with an abrupt snap of magic, he snatched it from the onlooker’s grip.
Stride halted, he crushed it in a single clench of his fist.
Then, his head snapped to the side, and his arm reached towards the offender.
Metal chairs and tables scraped, patrons clamored in an uproar of surprise, as a magical tether yanked the demon forward!
“Stolas…” Vassago warned, his tone low.
“I am simply going to ask him a few questions.”
A diminutive little gremlin, stout as a pot bellied pig, but no larger than a child’s bedroom nuisance, wiggled in Stolas’ gravitational field. “What did I do?!” it squealed, shirt bullied upwards by the pronounced gut that offensively jutted out. Little stubs for horns jutted from it’s wrinkled, fat forehead, and a spade tipped tail writhed pathetically behind it. Green, pasty skin mingled with streaks of pink; as if the creature suffered from some gangrenous condition.
“Cease your whining. That tower, what is it’s purpose?” Like a ball in his hand, Stolas’ fingers waved to spin the sinner about and point him towards the building in question.
“That’s…that’s Vee Tower! The Vee’s live there; that’s where they run their business!”
“Elaborate.”
“There’s…there’s a fashion studio, movie studio, and a newsroom! Velvette makes the clothes, Vox makes the tech, Valentino brings in the talent! Please, let me down, I didn’t do nothing!”
Stolas clicked his beak with disdain, waved his fingers again, and the swine’s head pointed straight towards the ground. When it’s snout was a centimeter from grinding into the concrete, his descent stopped. A squeal of fear echoed down the street.
“What do you mean, the talent?”
“Actors, actresses; he runs a smut studio; you know, dirty movies and shit! Now let me go, I didn’t mean to--!”
Vassago recoiled as an explosion of blood and bone splattered the street and nearby buildings in gore. Patrons of the nearby eateries screamed and scrambled for safety, their panicked fear a warning to all potential passersby. Where the suidae once floated, there was naught but a bloody smear of entrails and bloated organs.
“Have you lost your damn mind?!” Vassago chastised, his hand upon Stolas’ shoulder in an instant to yank him around. Where he expected an expression of angry rebuttal, the parrot was stunned to be met with a cold, calm demeanor in the face of his distaste.
“You would be surprised at how rebellious and pig-headed the residents of Pride can be. If these ‘Vees’ are watching, this will grease the wheels of their reason.”
“Stolas, you executed an innocent civilian in front of witnesses!”
Idly, the prince dusted a piece of bone from his shoulder, then continued his eye contact with Vassago.
“Didn’t see it coming?”
Mercurial mockery lit the flames of fate upon Vassago’s palms; deadlier than the emerald fires of hell in every single way. In that moment, the immediate air around them burned away all humidity, as an oppressive, scalding veil of steam began to rise from around his feet. Guarded eyes glowed with cosmic force; the unmatched ferocity of the sun.
“When we find Octavia, and you finally get everything you wanted, will she even recognize you? This… thing that you’ve twisted into, all for her sake, can it resemble even the faintest brilliance of her beloved father?”
“As he seethes to incinerate me in righteous anger, the vaunted Lord of Altruism preaches character.” Stolas batted Vassago’s hand away and turned, his stride resumed towards the tower. The entrance wasn’t far; he could see it from where he stood. Only a few more blocks, and he’d stand at the threshold of Octavia’s location.
Excitement swarmed in his heart; a plague of locusts to gnaw and digest. All that mattered, that which he elevated above all else, resided a short jog away.
“I will not assist you if all you seek is bloodshed, Stolas.”
Suddenly, a laugh wracked its way up the owl’s throat and burst from his beak.
Gone was the cold stare.
In its place, a tightrope of frustration and mania stretched thin through each word.
“Bloodshed? You speak that word as if it were the most blasphemous act to ever exist. I do not seek bloodshed, I seek peace. Here, I thought, I had been doing just fine with that; keeping to myself, to my duties, seeking love in the comfort of my own home, amongst my own business, without the wider world at risk of any fallout. But--!”
Stolas wagged a finger, a smile stretched ghoulishly across his beak like a jagged scar of madness.
“It simply wasn’t meant to be. My wife tried to have me killed, Vassago. It wasn’t enough that she made my existence a waking Hell, while all I pursued was peace, but she had to make an attempt on my life as well. Then, after Striker…”
A hooked thumb, gouging and scooping motion, a grimaced and open beak.
“…carved my eye from my skull, and I cried for help in the weakness of sought peace, no one came. Not. A. Single. Person. Came.”
Vassago tensed, his chin down and his eyes forward, as Stolas smothered his personal space with a dark aura. He had seen the prince angry before, to the point of rebuking him from the mansion, but this was…this was different: unnerving.
“I realized, afterwards, that it only occurred because I was an easy mark. Peaceful, polite, submissive prince of the Ars Goetia; he who wouldn’t hurt a fly, he who sings sonnets into the night sky and tends to his garden, he who allows his wife to strike him without reprimand or rebuttal. I allowed, allowed, others to bear the brunt of their strength upon me without consequence, out of kindness.”
The smile sank, sucked into the abyss of happiness that long lay buried in a mound of hate.
“Now, the world will learn to accept my kindness where I deign to offer it, without remark or bitter refusal. I have given them every chance…to be civil, to be kind, to be proper, and they SPIT IT BACK AT ME!”
The final roar caused Vassago to wince, as not only did the prince’s voice elevate suddenly, but his face also jutted too close for comfort. Furious eyes bore into Vassago’s own, as if they could drink the entirety of his power in a whirlpool of madness and rage. A tremble of fear rippled atop his heart, but he held firm; this was not the Stolas he knew. This was something else now: entirely.
“If I choose to bury this tower and everyone in it, that is a mercy. If I choose to only kill three more souls this evening, that is a mercy. If these streets run sanguine, that is a mercy.” Stolas paused, and a grinding strain overcame his beak. “If my daughter is part of some pornographic endeavor, held against her will in a tower of strangers…what I will do shall be the farthest thing from merciful you could possibly imagine.”
Those words chilled Vassago to the bone, and he could only watch as Stolas strode forward…and walked through the automatic doors to the tower.
It was time to meet the Vees.
Warmer. Warmer…you’re getting warmer, my little imp.
Blitz shook his head and tapped the side of his head, right where an ear would be; anything to dislodge the haughty, crooning voice of Paimon. Regardless of its’ help, the sound grated the folds of his brain, like nails upon a washboard. Moxxie and Millie searched nearby, IMP’s latest target a big ass hallway; not like they had anymore rooms to check, might a well start looking at the obvious.
“Why is this room so fucking hard to find?” he asked the voice in his head.
Would you wish someone to find a prisoner of yours and free them from captivity?
“Well, no, but how would I know if they hadn’t slipped free on their own, if I couldn’t remember where I stashed them?”
Fear not, my son’s new acolyte stands guard.
“Can you tell her to shout or something, so we have an easier time with this?”
No .
“Thanks for that.” Blitz groaned, then kicked at something invisible atop the ground; tedium in his muscles. What even was sleep anymore? It seemed that everyday was just a worse shit show, hell-bent on outdoing the one that came before. The urge to crawl onto the carpet and take a nap right then and there permeated every ounce of his being.
“Sir, who are you talking to?” Moxxie asked, his knuckles at work to rap against a wall for hidden switches or loose stones.
“Paimon.”
“Blitz, it’s just us three here.” Millie said.
“He’s talking to me in my head, don’t worry about it.”
A hush fell over his teammates.
“…that seems like just the sort of thing to worry about, sir.”
“Especially after he turned you into a big, freaky dragon…thing.”
“Hey, I shrunk back down. Besides, it’s just until we finish helping Stolas. Then, he’ll get out of my head, Loona will be alive again, and we can take a long-ass vacation somewhere sunny; I’m thinking Tijuana.”
Warmer.
Blitz stopped and stared at an absolutely massive painting on the wall. From top to bottom, it glimmered with fanciful stars and roaring comets. Curious, he stepped forward, and the voice in his head boomed.
Here!
A shrill whistle slipped through Blitz’s lips, which caused Moxxie and Millie to trot over immediately. Upon closer inspection, the painting was clearly not flush with the wall, and something resembling an open doorway sat hidden behind it in the darkness.
“He says it’s through here.”
Tentatively, fingers raised to test the material of the unseen wall. Cold, smooth, but somehow still bumpy; the sensation made Blitz shiver. He stepped forward…and plummeted with a yelp!
“Blitz! What the--?!” Dark tentacles sprouted from the tunnel, seemingly born from the darkness that lay within, and wrapped around both Moxxie and Millie. With a single yank, they were both sucked into the tunnel as well.
And then…the portrait swung closed against the wall to silence their screams.
“Welcome to Vee Tower, the centerpiece of all your entertainment needs; how may I…h-help you?”
Swallowed by the shadow of Stolas Goetia, a wide-eyed and trembling receptionist shrank back into her seat. It wasn’t enough to dig her heels far into polished tile and mash her skirt-covered ass deep into cheap fabric, as a white-knuckled grip seized the edges of her seat.
At her question, the shadow only grew, and three red eyes leered closer. It wasn’t until the owl’s torso stretched unnaturally over the front desk, did his posture bend; if only to pour his malice directly against her.
“Where. Are. They?” he slowly enunciated, voice no louder than death’s softest whisper. Yet, it scraped through the air, each syllable a new wound within the calmness of life.
“I-I-I-I-I-I don’t…” she gulped, chest a white hot blaze of cold, dry pain. “…know who—”
That nightmarish face leapt closer, and the demon unleashed a horrified shriek that threw her arms up on instinct!
“Vox, Valentino, and Velvette.”
She had never heard anyone utter any name with such venom, and it chilled her blood straight into the soaked essence of her bone marrow.
“Upstairs! They’re upstairs…room…” Another gulp, another shudder; she couldn’t raise her eyes or move her arms; legs like lead and knees like jelly. “…f-f-f-floor th-th-th-thirteen!”
All at once, as if a great stain had been swiped from existence, the darkness before her vanished. Cold remained; sickly, permeating, like the wettest winter day imaginable; laced with potent disease and death. Several gasps for air followed, as her entire body went numb. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t move, couldn’t breath…until…an angel appeared.
Heavenly crimson feathers and brilliant, kind, golden stars blanketed her vision, as warmth flooded her soul. Then, the most gentle voice she had ever heard poured into her ears like melted gold honey.
“Run along, my dear. This is no place for someone such as you. Take whoever is important to you, and flee Pride…if you can.”
Tears filled her eyes, laced with relief, gratitude, and hope. Without thought, she embraced the feathery angel before her. In life, she had possessed faith, and to her dismay had still landed in Hell. However, in that moment, the embers of her shed beliefs reignited, and all she could offer was a parting sob; before she ran out the front doors.
Vassago frowned, as he watched her go. Such terror served little purpose; for it bestowed no lesson worth its weight in words. The souls of Pride already suffered, for it was their face to seek forgiveness under the purview of an uncaring deity. To add such misery was not what the Ars Goetia were designed for. Sacrosanct codes, sworn unto by the instant of their arrival in Hell, had been muddied with the traffic of convenience and sloth.
Heel’s skid atop polished tile, all to point him towards the elevators. Floor thirteen, he had heard her say, and Stolas had already entered the elevators to bar the doors open. His presence was regarded with a disappointed gaze of pity and contempt; how low he had fallen, yet, who truly carried the most blame? All Vassago could think of was Lucifer’s fall, and how it all been brought about by a severe disagreement of methodology. Did he even have the right to judge Stolas’ conduct, not having experienced what his fellow Goetia had?
A learned helplessness; it was impossible to fully know everyone’s story, and so shortcuts were taken, assumptions made out of convenience. Better to let those who suffer pick themselves up, so that their hardships may strengthen them to resist the inevitable ones ahead, right?
As he joined Stolas inside of the cylindrical elevator, he reserved all judgement to the confines of his mind. No matter what the circumstances, no matter the sins most foul, Vassago couldn’t find it within himself to simply let Stolas suffer so. At that moment, a new, empathetic question arose; one which he did voice with an even measure of civility and curiosity.
“Does frightening others make you happy? Does it fill the hole in your heart, carved out by others who sought to find relief through identical venues?”
He received no answer; only Stolas’ cold shoulder.
“Once we bring Octavia safely home, what is next for you; brother?”
“Do not call me that.”
“Why not?”
“It is a meaningless title; void of purpose and weight.”
“Are we not bound by shared duty, bestowed to us by our King; he who granted all Ars Goetia purpose in his grand design?”
Silence fell over the elevator once more, save the rumblings of its cables at work and the chime of a new floor being reached. After three chimes, Stolas spoke.
“If what I have suffered is his grand design, then perhaps our roles aren’t as clear as we believed.”
“Careful Stolas, passing your misfortunes solely onto the shoulders of the divine never ends well.”
“If that were true, Vassago, then all of us are pitiful deities unworthy of worship. You do not possess children, so you could not possible understand the magnitude of my weight as a father.”
“…no, but I have seen what happens when it causes one to break.”
Vassago’s head turned to fully look at Stolas, voice soft and steady.
“You are terrified of losing her. All of your accomplishments, all of your suffering, all of your rage and violence…Octavia is the ultimate justification for them. It is a father’s love, unbridled and wrathful; borne of the greatest love that life can know.”
To his small satisfaction, the owl’s head finally turned to look in his direction.
“When I communed with Loona’s soul, I also experienced similar fears within Blitz’s mind; that fear of loss, the fear of failure, but once he learned that she did not harbor resentment for him, it all vanished in an instant. A mistake can be forgiven, rectified, even converted to joyous humor in the future, but if a child cannot recognize what their parent has become…however can they love what is no longer there?”
With a final chime, the doors opened to the thirteenth floor.
Stolas stepped through, his mind realigned to the task at hand, and Vassago followed silently behind. As a pair, their royal fabrics and magical auras made the artistic and flagrant décor appear shoddy. What appeared to be a common area, or a lounge, was filled with potted plants, well-kept furniture, and an abundance of security cameras. In the distance, a towering wall of monitors clung to the wall like an army of salamanders; and wore a cape of a thousand wires, thick and thin alike, that stretched to the floor behind a desk and chair.
Cherry-scented tobacco mingled with potent, fruity perfume and the aftertaste of diesel fumes; all to the presence of seemingly no one.
It wasn’t until Stolas caught sight of a long, purple-hued leg draped over top of a couch that he knew otherwise. Vassago, on the same wave length, stepped deeper into the room.
“Gentlemen!”
A cheery voice roared out, gears whirred, and a desk chair swiveled.
Below the array of monitors, an electronic grin crackled to life upon an unnatural face. A flat screen television, hat atop its head, displayed two massive eyes and a toothy, shark-like smile that stretched from edge to edge. Neon blue claws tapped against each other’s tips, at the ends of lanky arms clad in a fine tailored, black suit. A red bowtie sat atop a striped undershirt, one which lay open in the gape of his overcoat.
“Welcome to Vee Tower! If I had known such esteemed guests were going to arrive, I would’ve rolled out the red carpet for you: ha-ha!”
In a flash, an arc of electricity shot into a nearby visible cable, traveled all the way to a security camera, then shot back out. The figure materialized, no harm done, mere feet away from Stolas and Vassago.
“My name is Vox.” The television raised its hat, then lowered it right back down in greeting. “And my wires are frazzled with excitement to have two Goetian Princes at my doorstep! Might I ask what brings you here?”
Vassago’s pre-planned explanation cut off anything Stolas was about to say.
“We have been informed that a member of the royal family might be here, or at the very least, their location can be discerned from the occupants of this tower. Being that is you and your associates, can you tell us what you know?”
“A girl? Oh, I don’t handle that edge of the business; that’s my business associate.” Vox smiled, but his eyes nor his grin ever left the two princes as he arched a shoulder back and tilted his head. “VAL!”
The purple-hued leg bounced atop the couch, and a cough of red smoke launched into the air above. An odd-looking creature jutted up into view; mismatched antennae at upon a pale, purple face. Slim, beady red eyes peered out through the weight of awakening, only to be covered by a pair of gold-rimmed, heart-shaped glasses.
Stolas turned his head towards Vassago, then back to the one known as Val. He said nothing, but the click of the parrots’ jaw signaled he understood the parallel all too well.
“Did you ‘hire’ any new talent recently?”
“¿En serio estás interrumpiendo mi siesta para preguntar eso?”
Vox ‘s grin tightened, the fidelity of his screen high enough to where pixels visibly tensed. “In English, please.”
Val sighed and stood from the couch with a stretch of his four arms; body draped in a fluffy red robe, with spotted, white fur around the collar to protect the back of his head. The solid tap of heels echoed off the ground, as the demon sauntered around the couch.
“No, none that were fit for the stage, anyway.”
Vox’s brows rose above a satisfied smile, “See? No girl, but perhaps if you gave us some more details, we could help you find her. I’ve got eyes all over Hell; wherever there’s a screen, I can see.”
Stolas affixed both demons with a murderous gaze, fit for a horde of ravenous crows. Their feigned ignorance boiled his blood, and every cell bubbled into the glow of his three remaining eyes. Its heat radiated out, and the two sinners must have sensed his intent, for a nervous chuckle slipped from Vox’s ever-smiling face.
“Is that…not what you were looking for?” he asked, a firm side-eye locked onto Stolas.
Valentino crossed his topmost set of arms, while the lower two wrapped about his waist. “Parece un buen policía, malo policía dinámico.”
“Si sabes algo, te lo ruego, díselo rápido.” Vassago responded.
It caused a glance to occur between Vox and Valentino, and a silent moment of communication was achieved between them. Whatever went through their minds, it apparently was in agreement.
“There was one leftover, but as I said, she wasn’t fit for the cameras. She lacked the panache to thrive in this business.”
Faster than Vassago could see, let alone stop, Stolas’ hands shot out and seized both sinners by the collars of their coats! Arcane strength thrummed in the muscles of his arms, to the audible pop of tendons and the strain of muscles. Dark wings stretched wide, bathed in an even darker shade of crimson that heralded the owl’s true, demonic nature.
“Where is my daughter?”
Unholy power caused his posh tone to crackle; a beast beneath the veil of civility and refinement which salivated at the gates for prey to consume. Tendrils of shadow draped down in a shroud of smoke which quickly occluded the floor. Television screens flickered, frost formed at their edges and glass cracked as they fogged up.
As such, Vox’s visage began to crack and glitch as well, his hands wrapped tight about Stolas’ wrist. For the first time, the smile dropped completely from his face, and as he answered, his voice stuttered and buzzed with malfunctioning technical issues.
“Alastor; she’s with Alastor!”
Stolas’ grip audibly tightened, and he pulled both sinner’s closer to view the shifting nature of his grim visage.
“Take me to him: now!”
“Can’t!” Valentino choked, the collar of his coat wrung tight against his throat by shadowy, bloody talons. “He’s…hidden…by magic…”
An earsplitting, rage-filled owl’s screech shook the foundations of the tower; unleashed from the gaping, multi-toothed maw of Stolas’ beak. Talons stabbed into the screen that was Vox’s face and began to peel back, the sinner’s mechanical chords abuzz with screams of agony.
“Wait! Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait! There’s a hotel that he goes to; burned down shitty thing, atop the highest hill of the city. He might be there; I don’t know!”
“Stolas, enough!” Red threads, lined with the life of stars, coiled around the owl’s monstrous talons and yanked them back. Both of the Vees fell backwards, their lives intact, and scampered for the nearest bit of cover they could find. Stolas shot around and unleashed another grass-cracking screech, one which Vassago stood firm in the wake of, even as his clothes whipped and fluttered. “You go too far! I will not stand here and watch you torture these souls, damned as they are.”
Still wrapped in the half-formed blanket of his true form, Stolas’s foot slid forward, only for a blinding light to thrust itself between him and Vassago. A fiery blade blazed with the heat of the sun, flames licked at every inch of thick, black stone, and billowed from the carved sigils of Vassago which decorated it. Primal, yet refined in the majesty of destruction and hope, the sword kept the darkness at bay.
“We are leaving, Stolas.”
Within the ruby-red sheen of the owl’s eyes, half-transformed as they were, danced amusement amongst the reflected flames.
“You think…”
…fluttered a deep, alien chuckle.
“…to strike me down, brother?”
“I said we are leaving!”
Carved sigils bent the hungry flames within their elegant lines, then glowed with incandescent strength. Without muttering any incantation, two pillars of fire enveloped both Goetia, and after a singular moment of unchecked, elemental power…whisked them away from Vee Tower.
Blitz, Moxxie, and Millie awoke to the sound of chanting.
A groan slid from Blitz’s mouth as he blinked himself awake, limbs trapped in a ball of other limbs. “You guys okay?”
Another groan, this one from Millie, replied in kind. “Not too bad, but…didn’t expect to get grabbed like that.”
“Are we dead?”
Together, they began the arduous task of untangling themselves from one another. Arms, legs, tails; name it, it was stuck under something else. Normally, Blitz would’ve cracked a crude joke about how he’d always wanted to be smothered beneath them, but the surrounding darkness smothered his enthusiasm for joviality.
They appeared to be in some sort of smooth, ink-black dome; one which allowed no light to shine inside, yet they could still see. As their attention was drawn away from their immediate predicament, the chanting grew louder, and all three imps slowly turned towards the singular source of noise.
There, chained to the floor upon his knee, was Striker.
His horns lay shattered down to the stumps. The flesh upon his face had been carved up, and deep, purple lines glowed with unknown purpose. Like crescent moons, deep gouges arced along his cheeks and neck; some even managed to mar his shoulders, but reached no further. It looked as if whatever work had begun didn’t get the opportunity to finish.
Where one of his legs once was, a bloody, ugly, burned stump of tissue remained. Around his neck, wrists, and ankles; magical chains glowed to illuminate the outlaws face. A permanent sneer of pain had overtaken it; trapped in the depths of agony, forced to linger on the precipice of something far more mortifying, his cheek twitched nonstop.
Knelt before him…was a robed monk. One that neither Blitz or Moxxie recognized, but Millie did.
“Mira?”
The chanting stopped, and a concealed head slowly turned, yet it did not fully face the trio.
“…hello Millie. It heartens me to see your husband well.” A dead tone, drained of all color, droned from her lips. “Have you come to claim your pound of flesh? I am afraid that Prince Stolas took the lion’s share, but there might remain a… scrap of satisfaction to share amongst the three of you.”
“…Stolas did this?” Blitz asked, voice weak enough to shatter if left out any longer.
“Oh yes…” Mira’s arm extended out, and the rough, straw-like fabric of her sleeve slid down her arm. Bloodied hands, fingers caked in crimson until the fur was matted to appear as skin, hesitantly curled with embalmed grace. “…I watched him do it. I watched him carve these lines with his bare talons…ever so slowly…”
Ever-cautious, Moxxie padded forward to peer closer at Striker’s maimed body. Life remained in his eyes, however dimmed, and flickered in Moxxie’s direction.
A bloody, taut grin stretched with agonizing slowness across the outlaw’s face. His chest rose to push a singular breath upward; one that struggled all the way to his lips. A sickly hiss of air rattled in Striker’s throat, at home with the bubbles of blood that kept it submerged in a series of chaotic gurgles.
At the sound, Mira’s head turned away from the group and focused on Striker; her gentle hand quick to rest softly against his bare chest.
“It is all my magic can do to keep him alive. His body has experienced more trauma than most could ever handle…” Her fingers traced along his torso, as she spoke. “Puncture wounds, broken ribs, severed leg…” The steadiness in her tone wavered, as her thumb rose to gently trace along the edge of his brow. “…an eye w-was plucked from his head …to be carved..!”
Millie stepped forward and placed a hand on Mira’s shoulder. “He made his own bed, let him lay in it.”
Blitz stared silently at Striker, keen to take in every wound on his body. He had killed Loona, kidnapped Moxxie, tried to kill Stolas, and worse. Seeing him in such a fucked up state should have brought happiness, satisfaction; but he felt nothing but pity. It was beyond what he thought Stolas capable of, and the destruction of such innocence brought with it an indescribable emptiness.
“I know…I comprehend his sins; the weight of them…the severity.” Mira’s shoulder sagged, then rose, as a choked sob caught in her throat. “But I cannot bear this pain in my heart, to see my friend be tortured like this; no matter the reward…no matter how right!”
She fell forward, hands at the ground before Striker’s good knee, as if he were an idol of torment to haunt her waking hours.
Poor little thing.
Mira gasped, and shot upwards so fast that Millie stepped back in surprise.
“Who’s there?!”
Blitz blinked in equal surprise, as Moxxie and Millie huddled closer together nearby. “Can you hear him?”
Oh yes, she absolutely can. Acolytes of my spawn are acolytes of mine, in the end, for they owe their succor to its ultimate progenitor.
Mira spun about, ears folded back, and it finally allowed the members of IMP to get a full look at her face. Matted fur scraped down the space below her eyes; a waterfall of tears that had long stained her pelt.
Do not be afraid my dear; I speak from within the imp. He has been a most suitable and accommodating vessel, for his pain and capacity to inflict it are nigh-irresistible. Would you like to be unburdened by your misery, to feel the agony within your tender heart vanquished; to better serve your divine master?
“Blitz, what the hell is happening?” Millie asked, as she pulled Moxxie closer protectively.
“Paimon is talking to her; she can hear him too.”
It would be but a simple matter, and all of this anguish, all of your doubts, your guilt, your grief; it all…vanishes, like wisps of smoke amongst the clouds.
Blitz raised his arm and offered a hand towards Mira…but not of his own will.
“H-hey…what the hell? I didn’t…”
Take his hand, and everything will be fine.
Wide eyes stared at Blitz’s hand, even as his teeth grit and his torso bucked back, as if to slip from the unseen influence that had possessed his arm. His fingers stretched, thickened and blackened; no longer his own. Moxxie and Millie, in a shocked panic, rushed forward and each grabbed half of his forearm, in an attempt to wrangle control back.
“Sir, don’t change back!”
“I’m not doing this!”
Hooves dug in against the featureless floor, muscles strained and backs arched to the point of straining spinal columns. Legs hooked back to the inside of Blitz’s thighs to add extra resistance. From his skin, black feathers began to sprout; first as white spikes, then as shimmering, ebony streaks of space that twinkled in the omnipresent light of the room.
At the sudden transformation, Mira’s eyes widened further, and an awed tremble of a gasp collapsed from her teeth. “So, it is true…King Paimon himself speaks to me…”
“M-Mira…”
Striker’s voice, worn and ragged, silenced them all.
Stunned, brow and cheeks sunk into abject horror, her head slowly turned back towards him. Through his injuries, through a single eye, the diminished, once-legendary menace of Wrath summoned a single breath to utter a warning.
“Don’t…you can…choose…resist them…”
Don’t you wish for this pain to end? His pain?
Two desperate hands clamped over her furry ears, and Mira’s knees bent alongside the arch of her back. She crouched and stared at the floor, face wrought with anguish over the sounds within her mind.
Trust in me, my dear…as your ancestors have, as you always have. Touch the imp, grip his hand, and accept my gift!
Divinity had extended its hand. Belief had faded in the face of hardship, yet the embers rekindled the flames of faith; with the arrival of The Father. Trapped between two choices, choked by her mortal woes and unbearable conscious, Mira writhed atop her heels with the most difficult choice of her life.
It was fear that ultimately decided for her.
A clawed, bloody hand slapped against Blitz’s avian gauntlet, and its talons immediately clamped shut around her wrist.
Shadows exploded outwards in pillars of bubbling smog, from Blitz’s back. Like serpents, they arched and coiled through the air; their destination signaled by their rapid, short-range trajectory. Around Mira, they spun and spun again; ever-changing shape as the bond between her hand and Blitz’s glowed in deep, red hues.
Then, every trace of darkness formed into two tendrils of smoke, curved upwards…and slammed directly down into the monk’s eyes.
An immediate shriek leapt from her lungs, but the joining of hands couldn’t be released! Malicious, gluttonous tendrils burrowed, undulated, and sucked about the insides of her skull; the entirety of her body seized with agony. Mira’s head made a vain attempt at resistance, but was held firm by the magic she had sworn fealty unto.
Her cries doubled, as a crimson glow traced itself over her face, and the sigil of Paimon seared its way upon her fur and flesh; as one would brand a slave.
Now, my child; the mysteries of Earth, Wind, and Water are yours to behold. Gaze upon the canvas before you, and bear witness to my son’s artistic vision once more; for now you see, with eyes to truly comprehend its beauty. Forevermore, I shall be with you…in mind, body, and soul!
Runic carvings upon her horns glowed in red light, as Mira collapsed onto her knees, neck tilted back towards the heavens. A few final pulses of shadow poured into her head…and then stopped. Where green eyes once shined, red had replaced them, as the glow of Paimon’s sigil sizzled across her face.
Then, finally allowed to part, the shared grip released.
Blitz, Moxxie, and Millie flew backwards into another pile upon the floor. The monstrous avian arm had vanished, and his own arm had returned. Paimon had fallen silent, as had Striker.
All that remained…was Mira’s revelation.
“I see...” she began, tips of her fingers upon her face to trail along the freshly scrawled sigil. “...I see everything!” Magic erupted from her palms in a flash to create a brilliant starfield amongst the darkness of the hidden chamber. Eons of endless lights, multiplied into the billions, spread into the night; under which the monk’s arms spread and her head tilted back. “I see it all! How small we are, how miniscule, how weak and fragile and... and..!”
She spun on her heels towards the imps, eyes specifically drawn onto Millie, who gazed back with a downturned brow; an expression of worry, concern, and fear. From those newly red eyes, dark roots spread down through her fur which sapped the vibrant purity around them. Where there was once beautiful white, a dingy gray formed; one that further sank into black specks; as if ash upon snow.
“...how little this all means.”
In a single flourish of her wrist, a curved dagger materialized above her palm. Wicked, polished to a fine sheen, and cast in the deepest purple hue that no light could dare dim. All along its face were arcane sigils that glowed and thrummed; their pulse felt in the air, as well as in the ground below.
Then, she turned towards Striker.
“Fear not, my old friend.”
One step.
“You have been granted a grand and most illustrious honor.”
A second step; the glint of a blade, cast in the glow of her crimson stare.
“I was blinded by its radiance, but now, thanks to King Paimon, my sight has been elevated.”
A third step. A final step.
The dagger raised to tap its’ talon below his chin.
Striker grimaced. “Mira...please...”
“While Prince Stolas is away, the task of preparing you falls unto me.” Slowly, with all the grace and tenderness of a former love, the dagger’s tip traced a shallow line of blood from his chin to his sternum. Against his grimace, she did not yield, nor turn away. “It is why I was brought here; why we met, so that I could keep you alive through this moment. Our friendship was fated...as was your sacrilege.”
“Mi--!” Millie began to shout, but stopped, as the hard floor beneath began to sink like quicksand. She tried to sit up, but her limbs weighed a ton, restrained by the transformed rock. With each second, she sank deeper, along with Blitz and Moxxie.
Come along now, little imps. You have gawked long enough. Let us grant them a little... privacy.
Despite the fact that neither Millie or Moxxie could hear Paimon’s words, dread filled their hearts as the darkness slowly swallowed them whole. Their final sight, before being whisked out of that dark, hidden, unnatural chamber, was Mira’s unsettling smile.
Chapter 14: Sanctuary
Summary:
Vassago and Stolas seek out Alastor within the ruins of what was once the Hazbin Hotel.
IMP have a conversation with Paimon, as they grow increasingly wary of Stolas' behavior.
Chapter Text
Fresh from the fires of teleportation, Stolas and Vassago found themselves face to face atop a massive hill. From there, the entirety of Pentagram City could be seen, in all of its hellish splendor. Lights abound, with thick divides to separate the districts; all triangles within a star, beneath the gaze of Lucifer himself.
Half of Stolas’ body, wreathed in the rage of his true demonic form, twitched at its new surroundings. Far from the objects of his spite, all that stood before him was an uneasy ally, and the charred corpse of a towering building. Blackened with soot and ash, without a speck of life to be felt from within, the multi-layered structure groaned with the wind.
Unyielding, Vassago stood fast, but snapped his fingers to dispel his blade. At the display, Stolas’ spiked emotions slowly calmed and blackened, demonic feathers shrank and faded.
“Fighting each other will bring you no closer to your goal, nor mine.” He turned at the shoulder to glance at the torched, decrepit building. “This is where Alastor supposedly resides, and Octavia alongside him, according to the overlords. Let us go retrieve her, for everyone’s sake.”
Quietly, the vibrant prince strode towards the door-less entryway, and Stolas could do nothing more than pace behind. Like a shadow, he stalked Vassago as they entered the ashen grave that used to, supposedly, be a hotel. What its name was, or who ran it, was unavailable. Naught remained but mounds of cold ash and melted furniture. Once, perhaps, it had been a grand establishment; but now, it was a ruin.
Towering stairs climbed to a higher level, and it was to them that Stolas’ attention gravitated. From where he stood, those unseen upper levels held all manner of possibility, but as he moved to investigate, he was stopped.
“Wait.” Vassago said, hand raised. At his fingertips, golden starts sparkled and shot forward in a trail of brilliant light. They snaked and swerved about the hotel lobby for several seconds, both Goetia quick to follow, until it plummeted straight down into the floor. Right behind a bar, or at least the remains of one, was a wooden hatch; seemingly untouched by the flames that had ravaged all around it. “Down there.”
As the Seeker of Truth and Displayer of Hidden Things, finding someone was an easy task. It was to Stolas’ immediate shame and aggravation that he had not thought of it before. The hatch creaked, dust, debris, and soot cascaded away, as a magical, conjured hand was summoned to hoist it open.
At the thought of his daughter being held in a dusty cellar against her will, he flew down the steps in a ball of feathers and dark magic. As he reached the bottom, a fierce wind blew against him, and a shining light forced his eyes to squint. Instead of the scent of mold and death, humidity touched his skin and face. When he reopened his eyes, the blinding glare had faded, and he no longer resided in the hotel…but in a swamp.
Insects chattered to the call of birds and grumbles of ancient reptilian life. Thick, choking heat clung to his clothes and feathers, as algae-filled water stretched out into the infinite before him. Above, stars shined in the night sky; their splendor the same as if he were still in Hell. In the middle of the swamp, a shack sat, connected to the land by a lengthy dock of wood that stretched for what appeared to be an entire mile.
A surge of light from behind bid Stolas to turn, and as he did, he saw Vassago appear. Bewildered, the prince’s expression quickly shifted into inquisitiveness. “Dios mío, it appears to be a pocket realm! I have not seen such acts since—”
“Since the creation of Hell.”
Worried silence fell between the princes. They possessed, now, more questions than ever. Who was this Alastor, and how had he amassed enough power to imitate such a divine act? A lead pit formed within Stolas’ stomach and sweat formed upon his brow; a condition he placed upon the oppressive humidity. If such a powerful being held his daughter…
“At least the path ahead is rather obvious.” Vassago said, a single finger pointed at the dock.
“A trap, perhaps, to snare unwanted guests; for who knows what lurks within these waters.”
“If that worries you, we could simply fly.”
A sound idea, save the numerous trees that jutted up from the swamp. Thick veils of leaves concealed who knew what, and it was with caution that Stolas spoke. “It would not be the first time I have tread into a obvious entrapment, and it shall not be the last. The dock, at least, we can see; so let us trust our eyes.”
Wood creaked beneath his foot, as he stepped onto the dock. Together, they tread forward, and the frequency of creaking wood intensified twofold. On either side, rancorous bubbles foamed at the surface of the water to disturb the insects and algae, but the Goetia didn’t allow it to slow their gait.
The closer they drew, the more details about the shack came into view. A simple hovel, one with a window, a deck, and a smoking chimney. Light shined behind the glass, and a single door sat in the middle. As far as hovels went, it was the epitome of basic. Yet, it possessed one defining feature; a mounted set of elk antlers upon the deck’s canopy, just above the door.
“Do you have a plan?”
“No.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll get to thinking up one then, fóllame…”
With each step, the lights above died. Star after star vanished, the closer that they drew to the shack. Trees stretched towards the heavens, as if to pull down what they could salvage from catastrophe. Soon, all that remained was a void canvas, blackened to pitch by loss. It was then, that…things emerged from the water and crawled upon the deck.
Twitchy, soaked, boney cadavers possessed of cervidae features; antlers, elongated skulls, hooves, appeared with the posture of men. Bloated meat bulged with swam water, insects and snakes crawled from beneath loose eyes and empty sockets, and unnatural claws rattled upon their hands. Cracked, snapped antlers draped with loose plant life and impaled fish; long since rotted beneath the boiling swamp.
Vassago clicked his beak, “Cadáveres, con un maestro a quien proteger.” As if infuriated by their existence, stars appeared at the parrot’s behest once again, and formed into two singular, solid stars upon each hand. Edged with fiery red and filled with royal gold, they shined with glorious strength.
Corpses rattled, creaked, groaned, and moaned at the sight; a chorus of truly repellant noise to voice their distress. Repelled by the light, they stepped aside, but did not leave. So close, their stench could upheave any stomach, and the repugnance of its foul existence brought a frown to Stolas’ beak.
“If we destroy them, will it accomplish anything?”
“No, I sense that their souls have been bound to this place by contract. Even if we vanquish these vessels, they would simply return to their torment…”
Stolas planted a hand against the door, and found that with a simple push, it swung inward. “It appears we are expected.”
Within lay a well-decorated and homely space. Antique oak cabinets and bookshelves lay decorated with all manner of reading material and knick knacks, flanked by towering taxidermy statues. A runed bear, a stony hellcat, a gargantuan bird of prey; all marked with hellish features and devilish intent. Thankfully, all were frozen in time, stuffed and mounted seemingly long ago.
Over the sound of a crackling fire, static played from a old radio that sat nearby. Above the stone hearth, a bulky cuckoo clock ticked with the passage of time; another layer to the song of the hovel. Animal pelts lined the floors, and the air smelled of moth balls and fine liquors.
“Is this a hunting cabin?” Vassago wondered, as he followed Stolas through the door and heard it close behind him.
Stolas narrowed his eyes and fought to focus through the ambient noise, in search of any clue as to the whereabouts of his daughter. More than he trusted in most things, he trusted Vassago’s magic to not have led them astray; as such, she had to be there somewhere.
Metal clanked from a nearby doorway that lead deeper into the home, and his head tilted at the sound. It’s heavy thud was too cumbersome to be the sound of silverware, but also not the rattling of wheels or anything else commonplace in a private domicile. From around the vacant doorway, a metal hand, cast in gold, grasped the wooden frame.
A gray-skinned figure stepped into view, its entire arm comprised of golden metal. Elaborate and grand engravings traced every inch of it; all the way to the shoulder where they realized its true nature: a prosthetic arm. Blazing white hair cascaded down and shined in the hearth fire's glow, behind a sharp and striking one-eyed visage. An x-marked eyepatch covered the maimed socket, sat atop a jagged and ugly moon-shaped scar. Beneath that; a blanket of burned skin that stretched down to the figure’s exposed collarbone.
Thick muscle, marred with scars, trailed from the shoulder down; muscle which tightly gripped an ornate spear. More than a mere hunter’s tool, it radiated faint magical energy that opposed the fabric of Hell. Metal scales covered her torso and legs, topped with furry animal skins that tried to hide the militaristic nature of the attire. One of her legs, the one that correlated directly with her prosthetic arm, had also been replaced by a metal leg of identical design.
Beneath a cold brow, an even colder gaze shot through the room at both Goetia. Mired with a killer’s instinct, it shined with the sort of brutal, calculating intensity that only the most seasoned and traumatized veterans of war carried.
Stolas and Vassago recognized the faint glow, tarnished as it was.
They stood before a fallen angel.
For several minutes, no one spoke; they did not dare. While their pedigree as Goetia carried great weight, the fallen of heaven were not to be casually trifled with; for they possessed immense power. While it could not surpass the raw magical might and prowess of a royal demon, it could, at the very least, rival it.
Then, right as Vassago dared to even consider speaking up, the figure’s wrist flicked the spear around and snatched it firm, tip pointed at the ground. A single finger raised to her lips for silence, and she looked towards the far window.
“Were you followed?”
“No.” Stolas replied.
“How did you find this place?” her tone was low, sharp as a serrated edge, yet carried a brute crassness in its foundation. It was as if her natural state was raised, but was restrained with practice and dedication.
“A spot of magic and accurate information.” Vassago answered.
“You do not belong here.” Angelic metal scraped against the wooden floor, as she drew her weapon to her front. “This place is not for you; either of you.”
“Easy, senorita, we only seek—”
“I will not surrender up anyone that he seeks.” The spear scraped along the ground again, then shot upwards to point directly at Stolas. Far apart as both parties were, it was nowhere near being dangerous, but the aggressive and guarded intent behind the gesture was anything but friendly or hospitable. “I’ve seen what happens to those who give themselves to The Bloody Prince of Stars.” She twisted the spear, as if to inflict agony upon an imaginary wound; perhaps one intended for Stolas himself. “Leave, now.”
“No.” Stolas hissed. “Now, hand over my daughter, before I tear you asunder.”
“Many have tried. None have succeeded.”
Vassago stepped between the two, before they could come to blows, arms outstretched and head quick to whip left and right. “No! There will be no more violence today. I have had all I can stomach!” Wide, red eyes rested upon Stolas, “Mi amigo, listen to me. If there is any sanity and reason within you, please, listen to me. I understand that you are tired. I understand that you are angry, and I understand that you are scared, but you need to stop.”
His head whirled towards the warrior at his right.
“Señora, él no es más que un padre amoroso que desea a su hija. Si no quieres hacerle ningún daño, por favor, déjale verla.”
At his words, her singular eye flicked towards him, then back to Stolas. The spear spun upwards, its pommel planted to the ground. A singular breath expanded her chest and shoulders, then left them to relax every muscle on display. Despite it, her solitary eye seared with enough ferocity to scorch the very sun. “Very well.”
The spear’s pommel slammed against the floor with three paced strikes. A deep rumble scraped through the ground beneath their feet, and the stone hearth slid back into the wall to reveal a staircase of stone.
Stolas eyed the new pathway with suspicion, but Vassago stepped forward to take a peek. A dim light glowed at the bottom. While he couldn’t detect his tag-along’s thoughts, there was an aura of caution that radiated from the parrot. It did not matter what dangers lay in wait, if any; Stolas of the Ars Goetia would sweep them all aside, for the safety of his beloved daughter.
Without fear, he descended, tailfeathers and cloak behind him as to prevent kneel hipping and display power through regality. The light at the bottom grew, as he willingly traveled deeper into the unknown. Even with the sound of footsteps that accompanied his back, the journey felt no less lonesome. Vassago, after all, wasn’t motivated by love, but terror. He could turn in an instant; this, Stolas knew all too well.
All the magician had done was question his methods, slow him down…but he was more necessary than Stolas would ever admit.
The light below brightened, enveloped, and calmed, as he and Vassago both walked into what could only be described…
…as an opulent palace.
A red and brass foyer, tarnished by the dilution of its golden heritage, stretched like the jaws of a hungry serpent. Tapestries clothed chipped, stone pillars that shed from the support as dead skin; bathed in the shadows of flickering tongues. Markers without a master, too faded and worn to proclaim their vows of loyalty, flanked a wide foyer that ended in a grand staircase. Signs of life littered it; stacked books on every step, empty cloth strewn with fragments of food, and melted candles.
Not a cathedral, but something akin to one; perhaps one long converted into a hidden domicile. Stolas swept his gaze across every crack, the echoes of his talons slow to return, as if the darkness at the staircases’ precipice was thick enough to swallow sound.
“What is all of this doing beneath a shack in the middle of a lake?” Vassago asked.
“Clearly, it is some sort of hideaway.”
“Secrets within secrets; and secrets within those. What could they possibly have to hide that requires so many layers?”
“Nothing good.” Stolas strode straight towards the steps. In his mind, clearly, their destination lay at its peak.
It was then, from that same peak, a multitude of pink eyes creaked open. A chaotic assembly of slit irises, some high and some low, hovered and slithered in a horizontal manner. Before either Goetia could make a move, a voice accompanied their presence.
“New facessss…” Hefty, smooth mass dragged along stone; the sound of stretched muscle enough to paint a picture of something quite large. “…did Vagatha grant you entry?” A pensive hum bounced in an unseen throat. “She must have; otherwise, how could you have gotten in?”
Stolas and Vassago said nothing, their curiosity and caution far too great to tempt a negative response.
“Not jusssssst that, but the swamp let you pass as well; how curious.”
“Whom do we address?” Stolas asked, chin raised high and haughty. “Where is Alastor?”
“Alasssstor? You seek Alastor; hah!” Disappointment marred the unseen figure’s tone. “Alwayssss playing games: Alastor. Always picking at things better left unpicked, but that explains how you got in. If you seek him, it is because he seeks you; and if Alastor seeks you, then…you are welcome here, for a time.”
Vassago peered into the dark, but not even he could truly divine what lay beyond; and so, the obvious question that brimmed at his beak was uttered. “If you’re not Alastor, then who are you?”
“Me?” the response was filled with just enough genuine surprise to make the birds exchange a sideways glance. “I am but a humble steward, here to better myself by helping those who have sought this sanctuary.” Slowly, features emerged out of the dark. A flat face with two pink eyes and a mouthful of golden fangs. A top hat, adorned with a cycloptic face all its own, rested above an open hood, lined with four large eyes. The creature’s neck was thin, but its shoulders were broad; human-like, save for the serpentine body that constructed its lower half. A scope of eyes appeared to wrap about the entire tail, their attention directed solely on the birds below. “I am Sir Pentious, and I welcome you…to the Hazbin Hideaway.”
“This is bad; real, fucking bad.” Millie paced through the lobby, thumbnail between her teeth. The constant and brisk tapping of her hooves to tile only heightened her already agitated emotional state. As Moxxie and Blitz sat nearby, their own emotions were only dragged along for the ride. “I know he’s a piece of shit, but that…that ain’t right.”
“Honey…he—”
“I know what he did, Mox.” Her steps halted entirely, but her teeth continued to gnaw. “I know…he’s done us dirty more times than can be forgiven, but I just wanted to put a bullet in his head or cut it off; not whatever’s going on down there.”
“I can’t say I feel good about it either, but we’re not the only ones involved.” A pointed glance fell in Blitz’s direction; one which he returned with the lowest of gazes. His body count was high, higher than most demons, but the sight in that chamber refused to vacate his mind. The acidic stench of fresh demonic blood, and all of its pungent, nose-curling clinginess, soaked his throat. Cracked and shattered horns; their pieces strewn upon the ground in pools of black blood, haunted him even more. To think Stolas would go that far…to humiliate an imp by destroying one of their most cherished features.
Subconsciously, his fingers were quick to touch at his own horns. Had he been the one to give Stolas that information?
Is that pity, I detect?
Paimon’s voice chuckled condescendingly, within his head.
What would poor, little Loona think, if she could see her father balking at her killer’s punishment? Do you need a visual reminder of what he did to your little girl?
Tendrils of darkness hugged the edges of his vision, but Blitz quickly squeezed his eyes shut and forced them away. In their wake, an icy miasma cackled at his resistance; all to bequeath the imp with a parting sting.
“Any thoughts, Blitz?” Millie’s voice served as a hot, comforting knife that sliced clean through the phantom in his mind. Interlaced fingers bent at the joints to squirm and rub amongst ridges of bones and smooth skin; a practice designed to calm and organize his emotions.
“…We should leave it alone.”
“I expected as much.” She sighed, hands heavy as they thumped against her hips. “Still…he ain’t dead, and that was the whole point of this, wasn’t it?”
“The point was to find him and give him to Stolas; we’ve done that.”
“Look, all I’m saying is this; every time we think we’re done, some new shit happens and we’re right back where we started. You got nabbed, we got you back, but as soon as we did, Octavia got nabbed; and when we thought we had found her, we hadn’t. Now, we’re sitting on our hands, while the prince is out there cracking even more heads, and Striker still ain’t dead. When does it end?”
“It ends when Stolas has his kid back.”
“And what about your kid, Blitz?!”
The outburst caused his eyes to finally raise from the floor, with a snap so swift it threatened to paralyze him from the neck down. Misty eyes were all that awaited him, and the somber grip of Millie’s tight lips.
“Was all of this worth losing Loona over? Did she die, just so that Stolas could have a rat in his basement to torture; so that he could feel better about the shit he went through, while we all sit in the background, feeling like we’re never gonna be good enough to make up for what we’ve done?!”
Despite the water in her narrowed eyes, Millie’s voice didn’t waver. Wrath surged through her tail and tightened every muscle; whips and clenches in equal displays of frustration and anger.
“We almost lost you, we almost lost Moxxie, and Stolas hasn’t lost anyone! How long until we lose something else? I say we go back down there, put Striker out of his fucking misery, and—”
“Millie!” the sharp bark of his tone stopped her words, and drew a perplexed, surprised look in their place. Vassago’s words felt no different coming from her mouth; cut and run, save themselves, cash out and count their losses, but that was all easier said than done when he’d been the only one to make a deal. “If we do this, Loona will come back, Striker will get what’s coming to him, and we all go home happy. If we fuck around with this; start making our own calls, then we really might just lose everything.”
The reminder of Paimon’s deal caused her expression to relax somewhat; although concern replaced the anger. As if she had swallowed something bitter, Millie’s eyes closed and her jaw tightened, all to the tune of a slow, audible inhale and exhale. “You know I want Loona back, as badly as you do, Blitz; but I can’t get this feeling out of my gut. Do either of them have any reason to give us anything; Stolas or his dad?”
Yellow eyes gazed back to the floor in contemplation, an answer unfound, even in the deepest reaches of his mind.
“We’re the reason he lost his eye. We’re the reason his daughter got kidnapped. Whose to say that after Striker’s gone, he won’t look towards us afterwards?”
New, shameful fear sprouted in his mind, as Millie’s words clicked into place. It made sense, as a possibility, but a part of him denied the thought altogether; the part that held onto his love for the prince.
“And we don’t know enough about Paimon to trust him. He’s promising a lot, but we’ve got no proof that he can deliver when the time comes. For all we know, he’s just using us.”
Blitz blinked once, then twice; a sharp disturbance, fresh to life within his eye. Then, his lips moved, but the voice that jumped from them wasn’t his own.
“Oh, pish posh little imps; do you require elucidation as a sign of trust?”
Moxxie and Millie jumped, their wide eyes fixated on Blitz as if they beheld a complete stranger. He touched at his own throat; his hands, at least, his own, as a regal and deep tone spilled forth again.
“Don’t act so surprised; my power is leagues beyond what your tiny minds can comprehend, unversed in the magical arts as you are. The simple act of placing my voice wherever I wish is as simple as breathing. Even the act taking place in that dungeon is but a fraction of what I am capable of.”
“What the--?! Blitz, are you alright?!” Millie asked, with a firm advance forward. Before he could answer, Paimon did so in his stead.
“He is quite alright; fully possessed of his own faculties, as it were. I have simply assumed control over his vocals, not his entirety. However, if you’d wish to see what that looks like…” The amused venom in the king’s voice sent shivers down everyone’s spines, and they all threw their hands up in unison to bid him halt.
“No!” Moxxie exclaimed, his facial muscles quick to twitch and form pause-worthy sounds. “Y-your highness, there is no need to show us that; we can imagine it pretty well.”
“Finally, someone with a modicum of manners to spare for their betters. I like you already, small, freckled imp. ‘Tis a shame that your corporeal form is too small for possession, otherwise I’d consider hopping ship, as it were, for a more submissive vessel.” Blitz touched at his face constantly, as if some invisible pressure point or dimple would be enough to dispel the enchantment. Yet, to his misfortune, Paimon continued to speak. “Shall I tell you about the rites being conducted upon your shared enemy? The details are rather delightful, if perhaps, above your mental paygrade.”
A nervous glance was exchanged amongst the members of IMP, and after a handful of seconds, they nodded.
“Every demon is possessed of an infernal soul, for they are borne from the essence of Sin. Each ring holds a ruler, and those rulers are responsible for the many species of demon which stalk the realm. As you all should be aware, Satan is your progenitor. Everything you are, you owe to him; for he is your creator. Normally, such souls are but beholden to their creators; however, we, the Goetia, are angelic by nature, and as such are able to morph infernal souls in manners unknown to you. What my son is doing is nothing short of art; for he is whittling and carving away at that imp like a piece of unsullied wood. What was once blunt, naturalistic and base, shall become refined, pliable, and majestic.”
“Wait…you’re saying that Stolas is…he’s changing Striker?”
“You catch on quick, little imp. It will be a sublime metamorphosis, one that shall turn rubbish into something far more unique and useful. Yes, there is great pain involved, but only through the destruction of ourselves can we be reborn anew. Your little friend should be honored that my son did not immediately kill him, for he would have died as he lived: garbage.”
“That don’t look like a mercy to me.” Millie said, as she crossed her arms; the chill of Paimon’s voice enough to render all breath visible.
“One good turn deserves another; as the saying goes. He thought to kill Stolas and make Hell a better place, but all he succeeded in doing was empowering my wayward offspring with purpose. Now, the favor is being returned; albeit with a leash.”
“Is that…what you did to Blitz earlier?” Moxxie asked, as he scanned his boss’ body from horn tip to toe. That monstrous and draconic form had yet to sear itself clean from their memories, and perhaps Paimon could help them understand it on a better level. While the king could always lie, Moxxie couldn’t think of a concise reason as to why he would; there was nothing to gain.
“That was simply a product of our contract. True evolution is often permanent, but what he experienced was a mere taste of what he could become, should he choose. The shifting of shapes and forms is one of my many specialties; and is, as such, a trivial matter for me to produce. For my son, however, such a task requires far greater resources and effort…unless, of course, he obtains my grimoire.”
Blitz, Moxxie, and Millie looked to one another; all with a shared thought between them. Stolas was already far more powerful than most, the only potential demon who stood against him being Vassago, but if he somehow received even greater power, what would stop him from shedding even more blood?
“So…” Millie began. “…is that sort of thing easy to get?”
“No, it is not.” Paimon chuckled. “I sealed it away long ago, far beneath these very grounds, for few could ever hope to withstand the power that lay within those hallowed pages. While Stolas has come far, he is not ready. Such arcane knowledge would shatter him completely, like a brittle blade left in the cold.”
Relief swept through all three imps; one less danger to worry about.
“Yet make no mistake, power is pure temptation of possibility. If he were to divulge it’s location, as well as collect the proper materials to pass through the woven wards, he may still make an attempt to harness it.”
Just like that, their worry resurfaced in force. All of the talk about whether they were truly safe around Stolas rang in their ears; for it was true that they were ultimately at fault for a significant portion of his trauma, despite intentions to make amends. His near maniacal tendencies were difficult, nay, impossible to overlook. They all knew, in that moment, he couldn’t be allowed to access Paimon’s grimoire.
It was in that moment, that Moxxie conjured an idea. “If Stolas, hypothetically, knows where the grimoire is and tries to get it, he can’t do anything if the book isn’t there.” Pointedly, his attention shifted onto Blitz, as if to speak to Paimon directly for confirmation. “And if a king sealed it away, then that means a king can easily pass by the safeguards.”
“What are you trying to say, hun?”
“I’m saying that if Stolas can’t handle the grimoire, that means whoever can is safe from him, in theory.”
“You…want to steal a magic book, as an insurance policy?”
“Just in case things get ugly.”
“But none of us know how to do magic; only one who ever had a mind for it was Loona.”
“True…” Moxxie’s gaze narrowed, and a tiny twitch came to life upon Blitz’s lips. “…but we have someone right here who does.”
Chapter 15: Hollow Bones
Summary:
Stolas and Vassago delve deeper into the Hazbin Hideaway to locate Alastor, but before they can; one final obstacle stands in their way. They must traverse a realm known as "The Dark Place".
Notes:
Tried some new things with this chapter. Also, try and spot the easter egg I included. Let me know what you think of the stylization, amongst other things, as all comments and feedback are appreciated. They help me grow as an artist and keep me motivated to create. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Flanked by candlelight, the Goetian princes exchanged a dubious look. “The Hazbin Hideaway?”
Sir Pentious slid forward, his thick, multi-eyed, serpentine body slow to slither down the tone staircase. “Long ago, in a span of which would only be a blink to beings such as you, Princess Morningstar constructed a facility to harbor, rehabilitate, and redeem the sinners of Hell. Many waved the venture off as a fool’s dream, but she soldiered on, and culminated quite the distinguished entourage: myself included. Despite the proclaimed foolishness of the venture, Heaven saw it as a threat, and Adam himself arrived with his Exterminators to kill us all.”
There was grace, in the serpent’s descent. Amongst the many hisses of his forked tongue and shivers of his hood, the hellish cobra’s eyes focused on everything, everywhere, all at once. Whenever they turned in Stolas’ direction, an odd prickle rushed across his feathers; not unpleasant, not familiar, simply odd. Was it a sort of magic, a natural trait of his nature; he was unsure, yet unafraid.
“I took to the skies in my mighty battle blimp, equipped with a weapon of my own design, and charged with enough angelic energy to reduce the First Man to ash! I was so close, to tantalizingly close; it would have pushed them back, it would have been enough to repel the forces of Heaven and prove that I, Sir Pentious, am an Overlord that even angels should fear!”
The top hat upon his head frowned, a distinguished look of distaste, as if the memory were fresh and bitter on its tongue. That previous veneer of mystery had rubbed away into the telling of his tale, all to display what could only be registered as anger and regret.
“I take it that is not what happened.” Vassago said.
That thick, leathery cobra’s hood shook; its scales a glittering cascade of polished gemstones in the dim candlelight. “No; Adam was cocky, but it was deserved. He turned and fired upon my vessel, and—”
“Pentious.”
A woman’s voice, shot from the dark above, upturned every head in the foyer. Perched atop a tarnished chandelier, coated in hardened candlewax and cobwebs, was a shadow. Right at the edge of the fixture, a mono-monstrous gaze glared like a wounded sun; quick to set upon an initial acknowledgment. Metal creaked, chains rattled; the shadow plummeted down, with a mighty rush of air. It slammed upon the ground, right beside Sir Pentious, voice clear as the purest ocean.
“Quit chomping your fangs, they’ll die from all the expoisition’in.”
Cherry blossom hair cascaded down one side of the woman’s face, braided into rows on the other. A loose, red leather jacket covered her shoulders, arms and sides; peppered with pyramid stubs. Her midriff remained exposed, save for the short cut, tight, leather chest piece that zipped up the middle. Tattered jeans and spurred biker boots rounded out the ensemble…save for the bandoliers that wrapped about her waist, loaded to the brim with round-shaped bombs. A single eye, like a spotlight, zipped between the princes, but ultimately stopped and fixated on Vassago.
“Another sinner, I take it?” Stolas clicked through his beak.
“Gentlemen, this is Cherri—” A balled fist whipped forward, like a viper’s strike, and struck Pentious in the arm; the force of which ruffled the state of his sleeve and drew a yelp from the snake. “—YEOW!”
“Don’t just give out my name, you fucking half-baked embryo! This ain’t fuckin’ tea time!” Eye narrowed, somehow made all the more harsh by the x-shaped iris that sat at its center, and the bombs at her waist rattled as her weight shifted. “You weren’t paying attention to the front door, were you?”
“It was not my turn! That was delegated to Va—”
Another raised fist caused him to flinch, hood flared outwards in reflex.
“Just how many names are you going to drop, like you’re spilling all of our fucking beans?!”
“You said my name, why can’t I—”
“You shouted it to the fucking bloody rooftops, Pent! I practically felt that shit vibrate through the floor, you crowed out so loud.”
“But, Miss Bomb—”
“Ay! Miss Bomb fuckin’ nothing; the fuck did I just say, you—” Cherri gripped the edges of Pentious’ hood and stretched them outwards, which pulled a substantially pathetic yelp of pain from the Overlord. Yet, he made no move to stop her, and she made no move to stop.
As they quarreled, Vassago leaned over towards Stolas. “They remind you of anyone?”
“Yes.” Without any further elucidation, he turned his gaze without his head. “Care to tell me how you knew the woman back there spoke Spanish?”
“Would my answer matter? It worked, didn’t it?”
“What exactly did you say to her?”
“You’ll just have to trust me that it won’t come back and bite us.”
Stolas slowly turned his attention back towards the two demons, patience thinned to a fainter bevel with each second that passed. “Very well.”
Vassago cleared his throat, loud enough to quiet the cloud of commotion that had sheltered all other words from all other ears. “It’s always nice meeting new faces, but we really need to see Alastor now.”
At the name, Cherri’s lips visibly tightened, and she released Pentious; who quickly soothed his sensitive skin with calm rubbing. “What do two princes want with that raggedy ether huffer?”
Sharp feathers extended, honed by anger and frustration, as Stolas took a single step forward. “Must I explain this to every soul that crosses our path?!” he growled, only to stop, in the wake of Vassago’s outstretched arm. At its presence, more for the safety of the sinners than himself, the owl sighed and retracted his foot.
“We have been told that my colleague’s daughter, Princess Octavia of the Ars Goetia, is with him.”
Cherri’s leg muscles tightened, her stance shifted, and a palm planted itself to her hip with a smack. Fingertips dangled dangerously close to the rounded shells of her ordinance, and a bulge ran across the inside of closed lips; as if she had drawn her tongue along her teeth. Similarly, Pentious’ hood fell flat against the back of his head, the eye of his hat glanced downward, and the cobra himself adjusted the bowtie that sat upon his neck. Come to think of it, none of his eyes were focused on the present avians.
That was, until Cherri took a step of her own.
Wordless, the spurs on her boots clinked, then again, and again. Distance shortened, her bandolier belt rattled, bombs clacked together, all while her eye fixated on Stolas. Cherri didn’t stop until she stood right in front of the towering sorcerer, head craned back to stare him square in the face.
“She’s your daughter?”
Vassago, tilted his head, confusion apparent on his face. “Yes, this is Prince Stolas…and Princess Octavia is his only daughter.” Caution slowed the pace of the parrot’s clarification, as he warily eyeballed the cyclops.
For a moment, Cherri’s nostrils flared, then her throat tightened. A brutish, guttural inhale dredged up internal gunk, congealed deep within her most essential and disgusting interior…
…only to spit it directly onto Stolas’ bare foot.
Stolas stared. Vassago stared. Pentious stared.
Cherri, however, glared. She glared at Stolas with an intensity far greater than any flame that Vassago could summon; perhaps even more fearsome than the unholy green fire of Hell itself. “So, you’re the piece of shit who bashed in my friend’s head.”
Rage barely contained, crimson hues edged to a disintegrating light, Stolas responded with a cold tone. “I’ve bashed in many. You will need to be more specific.”
Sharpened teeth bore themselves, like that of a bloodthirsty piranha, and clacked out a name. “Angel Dust. You dragged him and his man into your bullshit, and when they did their best to hold up their end of the deal, you beat his fucking head in and ripped his teeth out, after you almost got Husk killed.”
He felt the burn of two shocked expressions sent his way; hailed from Vassago and Sir Pentious both. “Your friend refused to accept the kindness that I offered, and instead chose to whine like an impudent child at every turn. I gave him numerous chances to fall in line, to see things my way, but the stubborn idiot refused. He disrespected me and the sacrifices that those who loved him made for his own sake…so, believe me when I say that the punishment wasn’t unjustified.”
Cherri’s jaw tightened, brow downturned with the weight of rage.
“I warned him…” Stolas leaned down to hover over Cherri and meet her fury face to face. To her credit, she didn’t step away, but instead dug her feet in further to withstand him. “…but I have grown tired of trusting sinners to be reasonable. Ignorant of the blessings bestowed upon you, and the advantages that come from showing respect and kindness where it is due; I am done warning you, be it Overlord or no.”
“Cherri…” Pentious warned, his presence abrupt as he slid up behind her. Gentle hands gripped her shoulders and tugged her back, while Stolas blinked at a similar sensation upon his own. Yet, he resisted, only for Vassago’s strength to pull through and ease him away.
“Stolas, calm down.” Those words, meant to soothe, were only half-absorbed, as Stolas watched Sir Pentious lower his head and whisper something into Cherri’s ear. Tension melted from her shoulders, and silently, both of her arms rose.
A thunderous set of claps echoed through the chamber, and then… a scuttle of limbs, a giggle, the rapid patter of feet against hard stone and tile. It was akin to a child’s giggle; fiendish and twisted, but playful and carefree. From atop the stairs, a flash of white and red slid down the bannister, then plopped down at the feet of both Goetia.
It was another cyclops; this one possessed of vibrant red hair; neatly brushed, curled inwards at the sides, and dressed in a poodle skirt dress. Faded bloodstains sat upon the white that adorned her dated attire, matched by the wide and sharp grin which split her face in two. She stared upwards at Vassago and Stolas with unabashed wonderment and awe, “Oooooooo, new guests!”
“Nifty, dear.” Pentious began, as he slithered to block Cherri from view. “Could you please escort our temporary guests to meet Alastor? They are here to see the Princess.”
With what could only be described as cockroach-gremlin energy, the demon scuttled up Vassago’s leg faster than he could blink! From seemingly nowhere, a tiny bottle of cleaner and a white cloth emerged, and she sprayed at the star-clasp around his neck; a nonstop giggle out her throat. With fervent energy, she rubbed that piece of practical jewelry to a shine, then leaned in and planted a sudden kiss upon the parrot’s cheek! “Which one?!”
Stolas watched Vassago’s expression with veiled amusement. The prince appeared absolutely flabbergasted by what had just occurred in the span of about five seconds, and a gentle warmth blossomed in the owl’s chest. Although small, it was nonetheless treasured; what a sight.
"The one that’s an owl, dear; and don’t climb all over the princes!”
“But they’re so pretty!” Nifty reached out to trace the edge of Vassago’s scant few, purple head feathers. “Their feathers would be perfect for my collection!”
“If you take us to Alastor, we will each give you a single feather.” Stolas said.
“Really?!” The manic little thing hopped down, only to whisk over towards that spit-splattered talon for a quick clean up. One rapid rub, almost like a massage from an electronic chair, radiated down Stolas’ talon, then vanished just as fast. When he looked, the sign of disrespect had completely vanished. “Come on, I’ll show you; he’s up these stairs!”
As Nifty sprinted past Pentious and Cherri with manic energy, Stolas experienced a surge of satisfaction. “Finally, we are getting somewhere.”
Through barren hallways, the two princes followed the trail of that singular little demon. Archways of mossy stone sheltered them from the world above ground, capped with high-hanging sconces which cast phantom shadows across stone and over wood. To the tap of talons, and the much quicker tapping of tiny feet, nothing responded in kind. For all that they had witnessed, save the occupants they had already encountered, the hideaway was well and truly barren.
It reminded Stolas of an old castle or keep, more than a cathedral; all to the point that his curiosity swelled. “What do you hide from?” he asked the tiny cyclops.
“Hide?” she asked in response, without a single glance back.
“Buried beneath ground, shielded by magic unable to be rivaled by most; surely you wouldn’t go to all the trouble for nothing. Is it the angels you fear, or something greater?”
“We aren’t hiding; this is just where we are.”
“Then why don’t you move above ground, if you have nothing to fear?”
“Because we don’t want to.”
Stairs appeared, from around a corner at the end of their traveled hall, and Nifty stepped up one without hesitation. Narrow, winding, like that of a spiral to the sky, her tiny feet echoed alongside stone with each step. So large were the stairs, compared to her, that each step was practically a jump.
“And why don’t you want to?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
The bluntness and innocence in her delivery almost made Stolas stop in his tracks. While it failed to bring a reaction out of him, Vassago wasn’t as resistant, and chuckled at her words. “He simply wishes to understand the purpose of this place.”
For the first time since the escort began, Nifty turned her head. “Down here, people get better. We like it when people get better. They get to eat, smile, and stab plenty of bugs together. It's warm and quiet, and sometimes, there is singing. There used to be a lot more singing. I miss that.”
“By people, who do you refer to? Aside from you, we have only seen three others.”
“That’s because everyone else is hiding. They are scared of you, and that makes them sad. They don’t want to be scared anymore.”
Vassago blinked, “Afraid of me?” A scoff of uplifted disbelief hopped from his beak, and an equally confused smile rose. “Why would they ever be afraid of me? I have never met them, nor done anyone any wrong.”
Nifty looked back towards the stairs, “Because you smell like angels.”
At the appearance of a rickety iron door, she stopped, then jumped up and gripped the smooth, ring-like handle with a grunt. One foot on the door and the other one off, she kicked off and pulled back at the same time, which sent a harsh squeak down the narrow staircase. Through the doorway, all they saw was darkness.
“Alastor is past the dark place.”
Vassago narrowed his eyes, lifted his visor, and frowned. Could even he, a Seer of Sight, not see into what lay ahead?
“And what is this dark place?” Stolas asked.
“It’s different for everyone. Some people don’t like going through it, but Alastor does. I do too; it’s cozy, and there are plenty of things to stab.”
“There are things in there?”
“In mine there were!” Nifty giggled.
Another obstacle to overcome. Another nuisance to impede him. Stolas steeled himself and strode forward; this would not keep him rescuing his daughter. No matter what lay inside, he would conquer it: for her. As Vassago’s words began to form in his ears, they vanished, as a vast, yawning void swallowed the owl whole.
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“Daaady!”
Silken sheets. Darkness. A dim field of stars.
Where was he?
Ruffled feathers. Faint perfume. Alcohol.
What?
“Daaaady!”
An understanding. A jolt.
Drapes. Tile. Bedsheets. A light.
A terrified voice.
Drapery. Sigils. Armor. Knights. Starlight. Portraits.
“Daaaaaady!”
The voice again. A sob behind it. A pain in his chest. A tightness.
Cold metal. Twist.
Tears. Tiny hands. Watery eyes.
The eyes of a child. His child.
Atop her bed, arms outstretched. In the light, she looked his way…and froze.
Terror.
“DADDY!”
He reached out, and she recoiled.
Confusion amongst chaos. Each screech a nail. Each tear a poison.
Then, through him, another stepped.
Broad shoulders. White hair. Pink skin. Striped horns and spiked tail.
“What’s wrong, sweet potata’?”
Striker.
Stolas stared. The imp was fine; not a scratch. If anything, rejuvenated. Young features, no golden fang. Concerned eyes…as he sat upon the bed…and Octavia scrambled into his arms.
“There’s a monster!” she cried, and buried her face in the imp’s chest. Sweats and an undershirt: domestic.
“A monster?” he asked, a gentle hand upon the back of her head. “Where’s it at?”
Without looking, she pointed towards the doorway, right at Stolas. “Right there…” she whined.
Striker looked in the exact spot that she pointed to, and raised his arm. Bottom fingers in, top fingers point forward, thumb bent towards his palm. “Don’t worry darling, daddy is gonna get rid of it for ya.”
One second…
-what was happening-
…two seconds…
-what was-
…three seconds…
-why was-
…four seconds…
Striker clicked his tongue, and flicked the faux-firearm back as if he had just fired it.
“Monster’s gone, darling; take a gander.”
Slowly, Octavia’s eyes emerged. Slowly, her fear drained away.
A smile. A hug. A little feathery face buried into the nape of a murderer.
“Thank you, daddy! I love you.”
-what-
“Love you too, my little sweet pea.” A kiss on the forehead. A child’s delighted giggle.
-what-
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𒋝
Hollow wind.
A dead elm.
An empty grave.
An egg.
Between his hands. A hard thing. A cold thing.
A faceless city stretched into gray. No sun shined. No birds sang.
A place to mourn. He was alone.
A tiny thing…an innocent thing…
He stared, and stared, and stared, and stared, and stared, and stared and stared and stared and—
A crack.
Hope.
He gasped.
The egg crumbled. Fine dust in his fingers.
It drifted into the grave.
Stolas looked towards the tree…
…it appeared sturdy enough.
𒋝
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𒋝
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip…drip…drip…
Crunch.
A figure squatted in the dark. It hunched above a thing.
That thing enraptured the figure.
Why, he did not know.
In the darkness, he approached. Step by step, a feature appeared.
A long mane of hair.
Tattered clothes.
No eyes to be seen.
“Hello?” he called out to the figure.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
“Hello?”
He drew closer, atop nothing. No ground, no light, no surface; he simply moved.
The figure stood. The blood possessed its’ own light, its own sheen; to let him see.
Bone pierced through rotten flesh. Hair cascaded aside. A spinal column, flanked by open, permanently stretched flesh, bent towards him.
A snap. Its head flopped backwards. Rotted eyes, broken jaw; decay and rot long settled in. The shape of a hound. The shape of one he knew. The shape of one he lost.
“…hello, Stolas.” It gurgled.
At its feet, a body. A red body.
Outstretched, a hand filled with thick, steaming gore and intestines rose towards his face.
“Want some?”
-what is this-
Moisture drained from his face. He could feel his skin stretch and tighten against bone, at the sight. Reflections in that crimson essence reflected light from within itself; a deathly pallor that illuminated his nightmarish reality.
Bone creaked, snapped, and clacked, as the skeletal being tilted its limp head. The spinal column took over, and swung the skull around in an arc, which left the jaw broken and left to dangle by a single hinge.
The voice distorted, and repeated the question.
“Want some?”
It was only then that Stolas caught a better look at the barely visible corpse that lay atop the dark void. Long black jacket, fingerless gloves, skull choker…white-scarred skin…large, curved horns…
“Want some?”
Drip.
Drop.
𒋝
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𒋝
Stolas shot awake, body drenched in sweat.
Breathless: heaving, desperate inhalations sucked in air. Each was a firestorm within his chest that stoked the embers of thought.
-where, where, where, where, where -
“Stolas?”
His left!
He whipped to the side, the harsh sting of salt in his eyes, and found himself face to face with Vassago. Draped beneath a thick blanket, no attire to be seen from the chest up, the red-feathered parrot squinted in his direction; as if having just been rudely awoken.
“Vassago? Where…” In the darkness, objects began to appear with time and concentration. A bed, a dresser, a nightstand, a square of night nestled in the floor; it was a bedroom. Yet, there were no windows. “…where am I? What is this?”
Stolas shifted his weight to move, and immediately felt a tug of resistance pull against his waist from the right. Arms were wrapped about him, bare and warm, with skin of mingled red and white; arms that he recognized. Fingers trembled as he reached down to touch a serene, slumbering face, in the desire to confirm its authenticity. Soft skin carried the imp’s gentle breath into Stolas’ very being, and he pulled his hand away against a sudden swell of tightness in his chest.
-He’s alive. Blitz is alive-
That tightness increased, molded into a ball of iron, and shot up from his lungs; to the touch of another. Talons like his own, an energy that exhumed safety, guided his head back around. Vassago lay there, sat up in bed, with all the domestic comforts that came from a life that Stolas never knew. Ruffled feathers, peaceful, glowing eyes, and an aura of relaxation that graced the air with flecks of natural male scent; he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He was stunned.
“Did you have a bad dream? You’re in the estate; everything is okay.”
“The estate?”
“Yes, the vacation estate in Gluttony. The one we’ve been staying at for weeks?” Vassago’s hand rose, and the back of his talons slid against Stolas’ forehead. “You haven’t caught ill, have you?”
“I am…” Stolas inhaled, what broadness his chest possessed bloated by the act. “…unsure.”
What concerned him most, in that moment, was the lack of dread. Everything that he had just witnessed…had it all truly been a dream? What had he even seen? By comparison, his new reality was peaceful and warm, but shadowed by utter befuddlement; borne of an addled mind.
“Do you remember the way to the restroom?” Vassago’s breath was so much closer than before; it’s phantom tendrils quick to soothe the base of taut, scratchy feathers. They bequeathed a gift of warmth, a warmth so deep and fulfilling that it stole the owl’s breath away. His heart thundered, and the storm only befuddled him further.
“No…no, I don’t.”
“It’s right here in the bedroom, just over there.”
Vassago shifted, and Stolas took the opportunity to scoot out of bed. As had been said, a door with no light rested in the far wall, and the need to be beyond it was too powerful to ignore. Within seconds, the harsh, yellow and white lights of the bathroom blinded Stolas with a glare unlike any other. It took but a moment for his sight to return, and when it did, he sought a mirror with all due haste.
Within, he saw himself.
With four red eyes, he looked upon a vision of what he had once been.
Four.
Not three: four.
In disbelief, he reached upwards, unable to calm the quaking in his hand. There was no eyepatch, no phantom pain to stab into his brain, no heaviness which signified the immeasurable weight of vengeance and rage to be found. Even his feathers appeared brighter, softer, and no dark shadows rested beneath those vibrant red rubies.
“What is this?” he exhaled.
Stolas touched his chest and felt the soft, plush give of his feathers. He could feel them. They must be real. Both hands roamed upwards to trace along his slender neck and jawline; all tangible, all responsive to his touch.
“Was it…” he began to speak, a dam of emotion strained to its limit within him. “…was it all just a dream? One long, terrible, prolonged fabrication of my mind?”
A date: he needed a date.
The Goetian prince whipped about on his heels and strode out of the bathroom. Beyond it, nothing had changed; the bedroom still existed, as did the dual occupants in its large bed. His eyes locked on Vassago, who was still sat up, likely in anticipation of good news.
“I need a calendar: where?”
“There’s one downstairs, but why would you—” Stolas rushed past the bed, and his motion stirred the air, as well as the slumbering figure of Blitz. “H-hey, Stolas!”
From behind, as he rapidly descended a spiral staircase, he heard the imp’s familiar voice groan out from the open space above. “Vassago…what’s going on; it’s too early for bullshit…”
Invigorated by the need for answers, reckless speed overtook the displaced prince. The winding nature of the stairs spun his vision at such a rate, that by the time he reached bottom, dizziness forced him to pause and dispel it. A lavish kitchen, joined with a living room possessed of both a sectional couch and an in-ground fire pit, met his gaze. Just within the boundary of tile that marked the kitchen apart from the carpeted walking space, a calendar hovered; pinned to a refrigerator by a magnet.
Every date up to the current day had been scribbled out by a red marker. The month: July. The day: ninth. The year: twenty-twenty-four.
Stolas touched the calendar, just to ensure it wasn’t another illusion. Twenty-twenty-four, June; those two measurements of time forced him back against the kitchen’s island. Somehow, someway…he was a year and two months into the future.
“…ha…ah-hah…haha…ah-hahahahahahah…”
Flashes of his dream, broadcast against the theatre screen of closed lids, bombarded him at rapid speed. Striker, his eyes, the Overlords, bound together by sinew, and blood, and bone. Unprecedented violence, monstrous transformations, pacts, and deals, and loss; it all flew across his sight, clear as day. A sickness fueled the mania behind his laughter. Stolas clutched at his own face; to steady his mind, to contain his runaway thoughts that sparked chaotically like lit fireworks within a closed, filthy dumpster.
“…ahahahahaha...Hahahahahaha…”
Blitz; kidnapped by Andrealphus.
Octavia; kidnapped by Striker.
Striker; captured by himself. Put beneath the artist’s knife, the sculptor’s blade, the architect’s chisel.
Buckets of blood and fragmented bone, spilled and broken by his own hand.
An innocent girl, who only wished to save her friend, shattered by a great fall.
“…HAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Stolas wrapped both arms around his waist and doubled over, his gleeful insanity directed at the tile below. Unstoppable, laughter rocketed from his chest and vomited its way from his mouth, in a mighty tide that overpowered all sense of control.
It was as if his entire existence, the entirety of his suffering, had been extinguished from existence. Merely a bad dream...merely a bad dream…merely a BAD DREAM!
How could he not laugh at the absurdity, the pointlessness, the vapid meaning in such a thing?
But then, at the height of his rapturous revelry, the pinnacle of revelation, a single thought struck his mind like crimson lightning above a desert sky.
What if…what if he hadn’t woken up? What if this was simply another dream; the real dream? What was reality, but the current thing which never ceased?
“Stolas…” a wary voice called out from the stairs; close enough to be right there in the room with him. “…are you alright, Pretty Bird?”
His head snapped around, and his body stayed in place. There stood Blitz, breathing, in nothing but an undershirt and some boxers. He looked exactly as Stolas remembered him, but that tangible weight of loss, the loss that he had afflicted upon the imp, was entirely absent. How could that be the truth? How could such a guttural, primal, truthful thing have been naught but a fabrication of the mind? All of that pain; all for nothing?
“You’re naught…” Stolas chuckled, as his spine slowly and steadily straightened to his full, massive height. “…but a fabrication.” Hand outstretched, he willed his natural borne reserves of magic to the surface; intent to blast away the illusion which shackled him to the present reality. Instead of a familiar rush, he felt a void, and stared at his hand as nothing emerged.
“Blitz, what is going on?” Vassago asked, as he appeared beside the imp in an ivory night robe; expression just as wary.
“Something’s wrong with Stolas. He’s talking crazy, and I think he just tried to cast a spell on me.” Blitz took a slow step forward, hands cautiously outstretched. “You think it could be because of the ritual?”
Worry flashed across the parrot’s eyes, as he too took a hesitant step across the floor. “It was a mentioned side effect in the grimoire, so it’s highly likely. Stolas, take a deep breath and come here; tell us what’s wrong.”
“Wrong?” The owl’s head tilted at a ninety degree angle, hand lowered back at his side. “This place…is wrong. I do not know you two, as I should.” Eyes locked upon a nearby knife block, his hand shot out, grabbed the hilt of its largest blade, and unsheathed it with a vicious flash of steel. The scrape of metal scratched the air, which caused both Blitz and Vassago to halt their advance.
“Hey, hey; whoa, hold the fuck on, Stolas. Put the knife down.”
“If I am to escape this dream, I must destroy the wardens within it.” He staggered forward, blade raised and pointed in their direction. “To escape this imprisonment of the mind, I must shatter my chains.” The knife rose, it’s reflection a gleam in the light of night that poured in from the kitchen window, as he pointed the tip at both demons. A decision had to be made; which to dispel first. Blitz was a highly skilled assassin, but Vassago was a mighty sorcerer of the Ars Goetia; neither would be easy to vanquish.
“What the fuck is he talking about?”
“I don’t know, but he is obviously going through some sort of psychosis. He may not even be conscious.”
“You think he’s sleep walking?” Blitz hissed, eyes locked between Stolas’ quad-gaze and the knife’s edge.
“It’s a possibility.”
“Yeah, a pretty fucking small one, if you ask me!”
Hesitation threatened to seize Stolas’ hand; the resemblances were uncanny to their real life counterparts. Their involvement with one another, in such an intimate and alien place, anchored his mind with resolve. If he couldn’t use magic, perhaps Vassago couldn’t either; it would explain the seer’s lack of magical action. Had this ritual they had spoken of drained his powers as well? If so, the choice was clear.
Stolas exploded forward, blade poised to strike directly at Vassago’s heart.
Surprise, laced with a thread of fear, flashed across their eyes; startled by the owl’s speed. “Look out!” Two red smears of motion disengaged from one another, in a blast of motion, and Stolas’ blade pierced nothing but air.
His forward momentum was turned in upon itself, as he braced his talons at their outermost curve of the foot and spun himself around. At the apex of his movement, right as his sights set upon Vassago once more, Stolas launched himself forward with murderous intent! He slashed at the air in wide, violent swipes; each glint of the knife a wound upon the estate’s homely atmosphere. One after the other, his strikes gained speed and harvested ferocity from the sting of every miss. Vassago was quick, his slender body combined with short, nimble movements that put him out of harm’s reach with little room for error. Wide crimson eyes balked at the owl, as even in the depths of shock, he possessed the skill to elude his attack; and not a single strike was returned in kind.
Rage boiled in his arm and fueled his stamina; nothing would stop him. Nothing would impede him. He would be free!
Right as his elbow cocked back for a stab, he used the motion to sweep his left leg out at the same time. To his immense satisfaction, he managed to hook the parrot’s heel, which turned Vassago’s gaze away as he began to fall. That same rage coiled back into his shoulder, then shot through every muscle on the way to his hand, and propelled the knife forward as Stolas threw his bodyweight into the stab.
“Got you!” he cried out, eyes narrowed with relief at his imminent victory.
That relief shattered, as a blunt, immense weight slammed into the side of his skull! Stolas’ brain reeled as he felt bone creak and crack; a sound that scarred his ears forevermore. Then, a hot liquid spurted free inside of his head, as if he had urinated on himself, and a force he couldn’t repel snapped his neck to the side. The world spun into chaos, gravity seized him, and he tumbled across the ground. Patches of hot pain shot across his body, and even as he wrenched himself free of motion’s wheel, they throbbed.
“Thanks for the save.”
“How is he still moving? That punch was supposed to knock him out!”
Stolas yanked his head upwards and glared at Blitzo, a horrid pulsation within his head. He grit his jaw, and felt shards of his own skull prod against his brain; like broken chips in a bowl of guacamole. The sensation, although an agonizing one, birthed a harsh laugh from his beak. “So, that’s what it would have felt like, had you struck me back then.” Shakily, he struggled to stand; a sudden wave of fatigue which forced him to a knee. Another laugh, another attempt to stand, another crack and pop of bone. “The rage of a father; I know it all too well!”
Air roared out from the owl’s beak, as he forced himself through the pain in his body and charged forward a second time. At first, his blade aimed itself upon Vassago once again, who tensed in anticipation to dodge its’ deadly strike. Yet, early into the swing, Stolas flipped the knife into a reverse grip, and feinted. Blitz flinched, his body already committed to moving, and Stolas’ foot talons wrapped around his face in a tight squeeze.
Body weight slammed forward, powered the strength of his lengthy leg, and slammed the imp onto his back. Blitz’s momentary immobilization and subsequent injury drew just the reaction Stolas expected; Vassago’s fist swung towards his face. The owl grinned, twisted his nimble spine, and dodged the strike; satisfaction on his scalp as he felt it sail harmlessly behind his shoulders. With guided and purposeful momentum behind the twist, Stolas’ blade finally tasted blood, as he stabbed Vassago directly in the upper arm!
Black blood sprayed outward, steaming hot with all the potency of hellish tar, and splattered the ground below. Vassago cried out in pain, and Stolas scraped Blitz along the floor, underfoot, as he pivoted behind his magical counterpart in one, smooth motion: knife at his throat.
Below, his foot squeezed around Blitz’s face; and even as a powerful dual grip tried to wrench him away, the Goetia’s weight was too great. Above, Vassago’s hand latched itself against Stolas’ and brought its own strength to bear, in order to keep the blade at bay.
“Stolas!” Vassago strained, the edge that would spell his doom dangerously close to his neck as it trembled in a contest of strength. “Stop this! What has come over you?!”
“I must give credit where credit is due; Alastor weaves a potent enchantment, but I shall not be deterred! If I must kill you to shatter this illusion, then I shall dispatch as many fabrications he dares to send my way!”
Warm, soft fabric and the intense heat of another body squirmed against him. It all felt so real, from the brush of head feathers against his face, to the smooth rub of fuzzy, royal fabric against his inner elbow. Yet, none of it made sense; he was whole, in a time far into the future; it had to be a falsehood!
The knife shook closer. Only another inch, and he’d be one step closer to breaking his chains.
“Stolas!” Vassago pleaded, the salty stench of sweat fresh on the nape of his neck. “You are not in a dream! Wake up, for Lucifer’s sake!”
Through the heat of battle and the fear of death, Stolas inhaled every fume of it with natural savagery at his side; guided by a higher intellect. Quite a convincing illusion indeed; he could smell, he could taste, he could feel, just like the most lucid of dreams. Of course, Vassago would beg for his life; such a thing was only natural, and meant to keep him trapped. As the knife jutted another centimeter, a puff of Vassago’s frantic breath materialized before his very eyes.
The air around them tightened, its moisture sapped, and the immediate prick of a potential nosebleed flicked the interior of Stolas’ face.
*BANG!*
Pure cold, potent enough to sap the coloration from one’s body, ripped into one side of his neck and exploded out the other.
Stolas gasped in agony, air already too far gone to recapture, and dropped the knife. Blood gushed from a gaping hole in his throat. He stumbled backwards, hand clamped around one of the holes, but couldn’t raise his hand to cover the other. Thick, chilled black; rotten fruit pulp between his fingers. His vision blurred, and only under gravity’s harsh pull did it break, as the Goetia collapsed onto a single knee.
The more he tried to gasp, the more blood poured from his open wounds. Heaving, ragged wheezes pumped more of his life essence to the surface; each cruel enough to leave a newfound hollowness, ravenous in its hunger to be filled. With every spurt, his muscles weakened further, and it became increasingly painful to breath. It wasn’t until he found the strength to raise his head, that his vision cleared.
In the doorway, Andrealphus stood; smoking flintlock pistol in hand: Blitz’s pistol.
“Andre!” Vassago exclaimed. “What have you done?!” Genuine fear laced his words, and their presence perplexed Stolas. Why did it sound as Blitz had sounded, upon the discovery of Loona’s body? That raw grief, that ragged pain…
“That is not Stolas.”
“What?” Blitz gasped, as all eyes in the room landed upon the supposed imposter.
“That is a shade.” Sharp footsteps drove skull fragments deeper into his brain, with every tap. Andrealphus kept the firearm aimed forward, unwavering in its target. He stepped forward…only for the “real” Stolas to appear from behind him and stare at the scene.
“Are you all alright?” he asked, voice a pitch perfect replica. Young features, all body parts intact, and just as bewildered as everyone else; he looked just like what Stolas had seen in the mirror.
“Stolas!”
“Satan’s shit, you’re okay!”
Both Blitz and Vassago rushed forward and smothered him in a group hug, the energy of which radiated throughout the entire house.
Stolas stared at himself…and felt something snap within his mind.
“..heh-heh…heh-heh-heh…hahaha-ahahaha…”
Andrealphus grimaced, as all other eyes returned to stare back at the mortally wounded mimic. They huddled close to him, arms upon one another as a barrier against the thing that had somehow slipped into their home.
“…Hahahahaha….hahahahahaha…. hahahahahaha…. AAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Blood spouted from the neck wound with every laugh, but he couldn’t help himself.
What was he seeing?
What did it all mean?
Would he ever wake up?
Would he ever be free?
Was he even still alive?
Was it all a dream or just a new form of Hell?
Liquid drowned his vocal chords, and turned his chorus of insanity into a sickening gurgle.
Stolas laughed until he felt the final dregs of consciousness slip from his body and the world slip away; his bloody hand outstretched towards the trio, coated in the essence of his cruel, desperate, lonely heart.
𒋝
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Chapter 16: An Egg Dropped Upon the Head of Devils Sounds Like Echoes of Unwritten Present
Summary:
As Stolas continues to travel through The Dark Place, in order to reach Alastor and Octavia, Vassago seeks his own way forward.
Notes:
Let me know your thoughts on this most recent chapter. Comments are always read and appreciated. More easter eggs have been placed in this chapter, same as the last. Readers of my other stories are likely to spot them.
Chapter Text
“Stolas, wait!” Vassago reached out, in an attempt to stop his friend from stepping into the unknown with such reckless abandon. He was only able to watch as that foreign darkness swallowed the owl whole; not even a footstep to be heard beyond the doorway. No matter how deeply he peered, no measure of concentration was able to pierce through the veil.
Braced upon the door, Nifty giggled. “I like him. He’s fun!”
“That is not the word I’d use.” Agitation ground down his beak; that blind confidence was going to get Stolas killed one day. “Nifty?”
A little purr, followed by a single blink; almost like she had just batted her lashes his way, returned the sound of her name.
“What exactly is The Dark Place?”
“Why?” Her head tilted in a feline-like manner; lips dropped down in a show of curiosity.
“I like to know what I’m getting myself into, whenever I need to.”
Realization struck, in the form of open lips and a raised eye. “Ohhhh.” Another giggle left her lips, and suddenly, an arm shot outwards to hold its open palm skyward. “One feather, for safe passage!”
Vassago balked, albeit briefly. Was he being forced to pay a toll?! Perhaps it was more like a bribe; greasing the wheel, so to speak. So, he slipped a hand beneath the raised collar of his cape, and winced as he plucked a feather from his neck. It would grow back, eventually, but that momentary pinch and sting was unpleasant. Dazzling crimson sparkled in the dim glow of that stone staircase, as if the feather were possessed of magic and the elemental power of fire. “Why didn’t you offer this deal to Stolas?” he asked, as he extended a hand in offering.
“Because he’s supposed to go through, and you’re not.” Greedy little fingers stretched out and groped the air, but once they reached the feather; handled it with all the delicateness that one would a newborn. Its starlight twinkled in the cyclops's eye. “So pretty…” she gasped in awe, so much so that a surge of embarrassment purchased itself in Vassago’s breast. “Thank you.”
He hadn’t expected any gratitude, and so its presence struck him harder than he expected. Oh, what a shame it was, he thought, that these Sinners were hidden away; they had such light to give.
A sharp inhale, and the expansion of Nifty’s chest, reeled Vassago from his lake of emotions. “Kee-Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Shadows from beyond the door slithered across the floor, like the roots of a mighty tree, then extended above the ground itself. Tiny bubbles of black levitated into the air, their texture not so thick as tar, but not thin as water, coalesced into a single bubble. Within seconds, that popped open into the shape of a…cat? Immediate confusion was dashed, as the creature swung its weight backward, as if to swim through the air, and turned its one-eyed gaze in his direction.
“The pretty bird wants to see Alastor, can you take him?” Nifty asked, as Kee-Kee’s single eye honed in on that glamorous feather in her hand. A rumbling purr pulsed in the walls around them, as the cat playfully batted at the single piece of plumage from below. On closer inspection, Vassago noted its lack of a mouth, and overly large tail. He had never seen a creature quite like it, and thus the nibbles of curiosity nipped at the back of his mind once more.
“This creature can show me the way?”
“Yup, Kee-Kee is special. All you have to do is follow her!”
A dubious brow hiked itself upward. “Is she fast?”
“Not when she’s walking.” A playful hand assaulted the feline’s stomach for a moment, and it responded in kind with a flurry of harmless feet kicks. Then, Kee-Kee flipped out of the embrace and landed on the floor next to Vassago; her warm, furry body against his leg in an instant.
“What did you mean by I’m not supposed to traverse The Dark Place?”
“Alastor can explain. Alastor can explain a lot of things.”
Tension curled the parrot’s brow and beak downward, as a new question formed in his throat. It was one that he hesitated to ask, but also, he felt, needed to be brought into the world regardless. “Will Stolas be okay?”
Before Nifty could answer, a loud, soft meow resonated from below. Then, from Kee-Kee’s eye, a brilliant glow began to cast a wide cone of stark light in front of her. Tiny paws pattered towards the wide-open door, and the darkness withered away. In its place; a hall of arched stone.
“He’ll show up.”
“What does that mean?” Vassago ripped his attention away from the newly unveiled hallway, in the hope that he could discern some manner of meaning in Nifty’s words through eye contact. Yet, when he turned, she was gone. “Nifty?”
A second meow, followed by a little trill of light noise, turned Vassago’s head back around. Kee-Kee had already begun to travel through the door, and without complaint, he followed. Far from the mossy and musty scents that had filled the Hazbin Hideaway, the air beyond the door was dry and light; infused with a sort of crackling sand that salted its flavor. Ancient sandstone lined the hallway, its’ melding uneven and jagged, and as he reached out for an experimental touch, a curt meow from his guide made him think twice.
Within the rock, large holes began to appear; whether built by man or nature, he was unsure. Through them, he dared a glimpse into what lay beyond the passageway, if anything. He saw only a void; an endless expanse of nothing that radiated no life or light within its abyssal fields…but then, he heard a sound emanate from the dark. It was a familiar, but distorted voice; one that trailed after him, even after he abandoned the hole in the wall to not fall behind and suffer some unknown fate.
The voice was his own.
“You make it sound so noble of me; you would surely want the same, if you ever lost your powers.”
Clear as day, as if he stood in front of himself, as if it were absolutely normal. Without reprieve, the sound played in his mind, and then another followed; but this one was not his own. It was a soft, deep voice that carried a harmony he barely recognized.
“There are times where I might wish to be without them. Just as your flame invigorates you, my ice numbs me. I find myself increasingly unmoved, day by day, as those left around me are more than eager to create distance; to escape and sequester themselves away from the cold.”
It was Andrealphus’ voice.
The Mighty Marquis, Stolas’ detested brother-in-law; a rather pompous, arrogant soul. How could such serene, sad, and sincere sounds be produced by that voice? That squawking peacock did little else but taunt and prod, so how; how, was he hearing vulnerability in a conversation he never had?
Then it was, once more, he heard his own voice.
“You loathe me, without even knowing my name, for I have done in this moment of need what you think you must also do. I say these words not out of spite, for it is my hope that they may reveal to you a hidden truth. Andre’s life has always been rife with violence. He does not require a protector. We often forget that violence is simply a means of survival, and that love is a means of living.”
Who was he talking to? Surely, it wasn’t still Andrealphus. If not him, then who? He had no knowledge of the Goetia having taken any lovers…
Questions whirled about in his mind like agitated hornets, to the point that Vassago raised a hand to his head to try and quiet the voices. With no idea of their nature or source, he could do little else but enforce his own discipline and willpower into lowering their influence. Thankfully, before anymore voices were heard, he sensed Kee-Kee’s steps cease.
Vassago looked up, only to find that he stood before, what appeared to be, an exit. Fresh air, laced with floral scents, whistled against the ancient stone archway. Stone steps climb upward, without barrier or menace to deter anyone who wished to ascend upon their sturdy spines. More importantly, sunlight; warm rays of gold peeked down from above that instilled a youthful sense of awe within him; one that had yet to fully germinate.
“I am unsure if you speak in a language that I could ever understand, Kee-Kee, but…” Vassago looked down at the cat, who sat upon her rear and paws with royal dignity. Her single, unblinking eye turned his way, to absorb his words. “…thank you for leading me through safely.”
A spirited spring of motion launched Kee-Kee upon the first step, then the fifth, and finally out of his sightline entirely. She vanished into the light above, and it was with that single act of courage that encouraged Vassago to do the same. The stone hummed beneath his feet, cooked beneath the sunlight, as he ascended. With each step climbed, the air grew fresher, the sun shined brighter, and the breeze ruffled through his feathers as a parent would affectionately rustle their child’s hair.
Out from beneath the soil, he rose into a field of flowers.
Tall stalks of green, donned in bells of white, stretched into a vacant horizon. As far as Vassago’s eye carried, foxglove barred the path forward. Vibrant wings, bathed in deepest blue, fluttered throughout the air to carry their hosts from flower to flower: butterflies. Monumental clouds, larger than giants, rested upon violet skies; and the sight of them stirred a sense of awe and confusing sadness within Vassago. The sun, where he had assumed the warmth radiated from, was nowhere to be seen; yet, there was still light.
Ruins peeked out from the valley of toxin; dots of civilization long faded into mere mention. Forest green stone, their markings rubbed smooth by the flow of time, littered the fields into the ever-distance. Even upon them, nature knew no mercy, and choked what remained in the embrace of thick vines. It was in his observations that Vassago came to a silent, profound conclusion; he had tread upon a place where he should not be. A drape of wrong, that unsettling coat weaved from self-preservation and the superstitious tidings of what lurked in the unseen places, smothered his form.
Yet, all of it settled, as Kee-Kee gently bumped her head against the side of his face. The feline levitated, as if it was born to do so, and waited for the sorcerer to heed her attempt at comfort. “Where exactly have you brought me…” he muttered, only to watch as the cycloptic cat trilled and spiraled forward. Beneath her, the foxglove sank into the ground and left a clean trail of tilled earth in its wake.
Like a faerie out of Old Gaelic tales, Kee-Kee flew through the air with merriment, beauty and grace, but also a sense of freedom which enchanted Vassago to follow. Bare talons tread across sunbaked soil; soft enough that each step gently sank into it, yet provide ample support to maintain proper speed. In the wake of guidance, he threw himself forward at a speed that made the fields around him naught by a white smear of paint. On and on, and on he ran, that long furry fan of a tail and sleek black fur his entire world.
He ran with such speed, determination, and focus that he didn’t see the edge, until it was too late.
Gravity seized his foot, a sharp drop and the rush of falling seized his body, all as Kee-Kee flew forward. A desperate hand reached up, as surprise finally burst from Vassago’s beak in a cry for help; but that black spot of fuzz only grew smaller. Air whipped violently through his attire; sleeves a roaring cacophony as his feathers were forcibly pushed back. Rescue had abandoned him, and in his desperation, eyes turned downward.
A sea of thorns lay beneath, intertwined like the scaled coils of a serpent. An endless bed of misery, pain, and bloodletting slithered along; it’s thorns as massive as jagged mountains. Endlessly, the motion of shifting, living nature played before him; an unnatural smoothness in its pace which caused Vassago’s eyes to lock with fear. Arms, once again, thrust upwards to attempt ascent; fingers splayed as if to clutch the heavens themselves and find purchase in the tapestry of air. Upon witness of his plea: nothing.
From below, a great and terrible blaze darkened the sky; from an uncanny violet to violent shades of orange and black. Crimson lightning cracked across the sky, with a thunderous death knell and the creaking of wood to sunder whatever hope remained. Unbearable heat sank its claws into Vassago’s heels and scaled upwards; yet, he continued to grasp for salvation.
Searing fangs impaled his ankles, and forced out a cry of agony that boomed across the stormy clouds. As if pleased by his suffering, lightning struck close by, and all of reality flashed with a white light. Vassago looked down, and saw a tendril of black thorns wrapped about his ankle; their skin bathed in a glossy sheen from the freshness of his own black blood. As if a thirsty predator in the orgasmic throes of bloodlust, another tendril shot upwards from below and seized his wrist!
Vassago’s beak grit down as his blood boiled, as his skin seared and his feathers burned beneath the presence of brambles. Muscles tensed, both with fear and with pain, and he attempted to wrest himself free of that unholy rope. Another thorned tendril clamped around his waist; its’ teeth sank deep within walls of muscle and organs. Their grasp pulled him farther away from the sun, from the beautiful lands above, and ever closer to the den of agony that dwelled beneath.
Pained gasps and grunts of strained effort exploded from his beak, muddied amongst torturous cries. In the midst of his torment, the sea of thorns shifted, slid, and rose. Out from them, the head of a great serpent yawned wide; it’s size capable of swallowing the world. Eyes of blazing hellfire glowed within woven sockets of wood, a tongue of faded souls slithered out from its scaly lips, and as the beast slowly opened its maw; fangs of Hell’s dead screamed in the flash of red lightning.
Beyond fear, beyond reason; a primal and eldritch dread sparked to life within Vassago’s eyes. His heart seized, his eyes bulged, and his beak stretched to cry out, at the mere sight of such an unholy titan. Tangled in thorns, the scent of his blood cooked in wrathful, tempestuous skies, he realized what he was.
Prey.
Vassago screamed, as out from a blinding flash of white, he stared into the gaping Hell of the serpent’s maw…
…and all went dark.
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Fire.
Ash.
Fire.
Ash.
Fire. Ash.
Fire. ASH.
FIRE. ASH.
Goetia Manor was ablaze.
Tongues of fire danced high into the night sky, amongst jeers and the shattering of glass. Wood cracked and snapped; ripped like meat from bone and flung across shadowed cobblestones. A crowd of noise, a crowd of red bodies cast in the glow of darkness and flame, stabbed makeshift weapons and wagged their fists skyward. Objects of wealth lay in the yard, piled high in mounds of greed; dressers, armor, weapons, perfumes and alcohol alike.
“Tis a revolution, I say, I say!” A manic voice, bloated with zealotry and glee, roared out above the crowd.
To Stolas, the sound helped his world snap to focus. What had been a chaotic, fragmented picture clicked into place, and the tightness of angelic rope registered around his arms and ankles. He looked up, forced to squint in the light of fire, and froze.
“For too long have we suffered beneath the yolk of Stolas Goetia!” the voice cried out, only to be met by a roar that shook the sky. “For too long have we cowered in fear of his power, his influence, but no longer! We, the bedrock of Hell itself, have risen to break our chains of oppression! Today, we sunder them forever!”
Stolas struggled against his bonds; a sea of faceless demons stood before him; backs turned. Their attention was too focused on the figure onstage; a figure which he didn’t recognize. Yet, he recognized the murderous fire in his eyes, the snarl in his teeth as he spoke, and the aura with which he bewitched everyone in the crowd.
“For today, we wipe the bloodline of Stolas Goetia from Hell: forever!”
“Let go of me!”
Stolas gasped, rooted to the spot, as he watched two demons drag his daughter from the shadows and onto the stage. Clothing torn, blood on her arms and face, dusted by ash and dirt, she resisted nonetheless. An animalistic flailing, heels dug in, whipped her shoulders about to try and dislodge her captors. It wasn’t until one of them slammed a foot into the back of her knee, did the princess cry out in pain and crumple.
“Octavia!” Muscle cried out against the might of angelic material, and flesh ripped to unleash rivers of black, demonic blood. In his wrists and ankles, Stolas felt the bitter bite of hot pain, yet he continued to try and break free.
The white gleam of angelic steel flashed across his eyes.
The figure onstage held a massive angel’s weapon in both hands: an axe.
Octavia, gripped by the feathers upon her head, was forced to her knees. A large boot pressed itself against her back and bent her forward, all while the demon with the axe loomed close by. “Never again shall the people suffer a tyrant! Never again shall we whimper and bow, out of fear for our loved ones! A reckoning, one designed for all those of royal class, has come!”
Deep within, Stolas willed magic to his fingertips with all of his might; but, the nature of angels kept him from channeling. Like a dammed up river, the flow of power was stemmed, and a stake of helplessness stabbed into his very being. “Octavia!”
They were going to kill her.
They were going to kill his daughter.
Hot fear burned at the back of his eyes, as the fires of desperation raged within his chest. He had to break out, he had to be free, he had to save her! Intense, searing pain infected his cries of effort, as holy power cut through muscle and touched bone; and yet he still couldn’t break loose.
“We, the People, have a message!” That same voice roared again. “What is that message?!”
“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!” Hundreds of voices screamed out in rage, bathed in the aftermath of their righteous decimation.
The demon angled his stance; elbows cocked back.
No.
Its’ arms raised, along with its’ elbows, and brought the axe high.
No .
With delighted rage, the thick blade swung down…
No.
…and sliced clean through Octavia’s neck.
The violent strike of metal against wood thundered across the yard, as the strike embedded the axeblade deep.
Stolas trembled, as he watched her head drop from her shoulders and roll across the stage; a river of black blood left in its wake. His entire world shook, and a screech of horror and sorrow tore from his throat until it rubbed every last inch of moist muscle raw.
“OCTAVIAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Woe and rage empowered his roar, that slender body left to quake and heave in bondage: helpless, useless, depowered. Her severed head stared at him through the crowd of murders, above their ecstatic flailing, with soul-obliterating ferocity. Faced with the ultimate failure, the ultimate loss, a newfound source of strength boiled in his gut; bloated with a fury that he couldn’t control.
An explosive burst of inner strength snapped the ropes, and the Goetian Prince forced himself to stand; his entire body taut and searing hot. Magic swarmed around him in violent drones of red, abuzz with unlocked malice like that of a thousand hornets.
The crowd cheered in jubilation; their bloodthirst thick in the air.
It made him sick.
Talons clutched at his face; rocks around the waterfall of tears that poured and crashed to earth. Blackened emotions, singed by grief and shock, surged into his soul, as his neck tilted back to howl at the sky. Damn his comfort, damn his throat, damn his body; it wasn’t enough to protect his daughter; only a vessel to witness her unjust demise. Spiritual outpouring, wreathed in vengeance, manifested itself in swathes of deepest night; a growing tempest of pitch abyss that threatened to swallow him whole. Scarred by tragedy, Stolas’ magic reacted, as it surged deep beneath the earth...
...and a second after, the first scream erupted.
High into the sky, high enough for Stolas to see through splayed fingers, an impaled imp’s body wiggled on a thorny stake.
Then, another scream penetrated the egregious cheers from the death of his daughter. Another, then another; until a chorus of terrified screams filled the night sky. Flesh ripped with visceral clarity, the stench of corrupted blood wafted through the air as a mist of sick, and chest cavities burst to litter the ground with bone and organs alike.
At the sight of their suffering, the sight of their punishment, Stolas’ eyes tightened and widened. His beak trembled, as the sight and sound of Octavia’s final moments fueled the very carnage he inflicted upon the mob of commoners. It wasn’t until the final sounds of rebellion shifted to despair; did he look upon them. A swarming mass of horrified demons scampered and scurried away for safety; their weapons discarded upon the ground. At their attempts to flee, spite festered in his heart.
“You… monsters!”
Stolas shot his bloody hand outward, the sheen of bone bright in the light of his estate’s demise, and swiped his talons through the air. Those in the midst of running were sliced in half, right at the torso, and cried out in shock as they tumbled to the ground. Amongst the swelling dead, he stomped, his magic empowered with pure hatred.
“She was just a girl! An innocent child!”
His attention snapped to a clump of fleeing demons, and his hand splayed out; their far-off figures framed in the palm of his hand. Gravity bent to his whims, and as he raised his talons to the bloody night sky, that cluster of souls rose as well. With a single, furious clench of his hand; distorted screams rent through the air, as bone cracked, flesh popped, and limbs twisted, all to be mashed into a ball of corpses. A sickening crunch accompanied a shower of blood, yet it wasn’t enough to quench his fury.
They needed to die.
Every last one of them needed to suffer.
“You think you are just?!”
Earth wailed as it stretched wide to consume the living; a savage surge of rock to yawn wide.
“You think you are free?! ”
Demons tumbled into the depths, their last moments that of sharp, bitter stone, as it mashed, impaled, and cracked their bodies into mangled paste.
“YOU WILL NEVER BE FREE OF ME!”
Their tainted blood saturated and nourished the ground; mired in pools and rivers that stained the royal ground forever. Droplets of blackened essence rose from the slaughtered remains and congregated into a single point, one that was nestled in the vacant embrace of curved talons.
“Borne of my blood, Goetian blood, blood that you have spilled this night; forevermore, no lower demon shall know peace! From every hound, to every imp, to every soul borne of Hell; may your descendants spit upon your names and wail at the stars without reprieve. From the skies of Pride, to the bedrock of Sloth; a great, foul, and terrible curse upon you all!”
Over the howls of the dying and croaking of death rattles, Stolas' body wreathed itself in the guise of his true, demonic form. Malevolent feathers of black and red, cast aglow by the powers of Hell, launched into the sky; and a screech of pain and mourning rang out for all to hear, an eternal curse clutched in scornful talons.
Those who dared to turn their heads skyward would see a dark streak, almost like that of a comet, as it blazed through the night sky and straight towards the full moon.
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“Another cup of tea, my dear?”
“Yes, please.”
Gentle rushing, that of water being poured into a cup, floated through the dark.
A sip.
A happy sigh.
“Did you brew a different batch while I wasn’t looking?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“It’s fantastic!”
A pensive hum.
A light, distorted chuckle.
“I had a feeling you would. It’s meant to soothe irritation in the throat; one of my favorite blends on the market.”
“It’s so sweet, but it’s okay to drink; even if you don’t have a sore throat?”
“Why, of course. Although, I tend to end up with one too many bones lodged in my throat to not have it around. The flavor is simply a benefit of preparedness.”
A giggle. A woman’s giggle.
“When I was little, I apparently went through a phase where that happened to me a lot. Rats are a lot crunchier than they look.”
“Growing pains are often packed with pleasant little surprises, aren’t they?”
The light clink of glass. The creak of a chair.
“So, about our mystery man…any idea when he’s going to wake up?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, my dear.”
“Well, I hope it’s soon. I want to know who he is.”
“I could simply tell you.”
“You already know; how?”
“Inspect the finery. You can discern much about an individual by their tailor, or lack thereof. Gilded clasp at the collar, silken gloves, thigh-tall boots; not to mention that…” A pressure, a shift, a tap. “…brazen choice of face wear. Subtlety has never been a priority of royalty, especially those possessed of a magical nature.”
“He’s a Goetia?”
Goetia…
Goetia…
Goetia…
Stolas…
Octavia…
“Octavia!” Vassago shot awake, only to find himself seated at a small, circular table. A small plate sat before him; a cup of steaming tea left untouched. To his right sat a grinning man, with red fluffy ears and hair to match; dressed in a crimson, pinstripe jacket, black bowtie, and gloves to match. That same man looked his way, a teacup’s handle gripped between two sharp fingers.
“My, my, my; it appears as if we won’t be kept in the dark much longer!”
Rotten, polished yellow teeth, like that of a squash, gleamed beneath bloody pools for eyes; the humanity that remained left to float as a single pit of black. Pasty, corpselike, gray skin formed the man’s face, yet two little black antlers jutted atop his head, right between a pair of unmistakably inhuman ears.
To his left, the feminine voice from before spoke. “Why did he say my name?”
Vassago’s head whipped around towards the sound. Crown patterned beanie, soft black cardigan and vibrant, pink, star-patterned shirt, dark feathers, and a face of purest white. Cautious, red eyes and dark eyeshadow regarded him with silence.
“Octavia…” Excitement, awe, relief; all of it boiled inside and threatened to overflow.
There she was; safe and sound.
Finally, all of the madness could end!
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”
“I am Prince Vassago, and I have been traveling with your father. He has been desperate to find you ever since your capture, and—” Happiness grew too powerful and compelled the parrot forward. Yet, he couldn’t move further than an inch. Too caught up in the development and swept away by his own words, he had failed to notice his bindings. Hands of shadow gripped his ankles and wrists, all of which appeared to connect to a singular, larger shadow.
A fiendish, jester-like grin stretched across that shadow, and vacant eyes blinked upwards from the ground.
“Apologies, but we weren’t about to let an absolute stranger wander about freely.”
As the shadow was sucked backed into the feet of its host and took up a position of guardianship, memories of Stolas and his newfound magic leapt into his mind. Was it of the same source? Had this been the man whom Stolas had learned such an art from? No; no, it wasn’t possible, considering they had gone to great lengths just to locate him. Vassago rubbed at his wrists; unsullied by puncture wounds or burned feathers. It was as if all he had experienced moments ago never occurred.
“Where am I?”
For the first time since his awakening, Vassago turned his gaze upon his surroundings. Long gone was the sun, the sky; not even the gentle embrace of wind was allowed to kiss his face. Smooth, white stone constructed the walls; traced with spindly threads of black. Books, piled in haphazard and uneven stacks, sat upon the floor near a weathered, red leather couch. Large candelabras stood in several locations to fill the room with light, flanked by shelves of books that cowered behind ivy drapes. Vassago looked upwards, and was greeted by a canopy of thick, dangling roots; trinkets, charms, and wards hung about their girth.
“A place few have ever entered.” Alastor responded, teacup raised to his lips and pinky finger extended. “Do not fret, anonymity provides many comforts: undisturbed seclusion is one of them.”
“So…” the parrot’s head turned back to look at Octavia, mind rife with a horde of questions. “…you’re not a prisoner?”
The scoff that jumped from the young witch’s beak hinted at a sort of gained annoyance from the inquiry. “No, Alastor saved me.” Her fingers slid together, then her palms did the same, and Octavia propped her elbows on the table. “Well, technically, some big moth and a dude with a TV for a head did; but they didn’t give me their names. They showed up on the train right before it reached the station in Envy, told me that my father had sent them to rescue me and that they were going to take me somewhere safe. The same day, Alastor showed up and brought me here.”
Concern folded Vassago’s face into a concentrated grimace; her description matched that of Valentino and Vox, the very same Overlords that Stolas had recently assaulted. So that was why they had divulged the information so readily; they had a direct hand in her rescue! Confusion mounted, until a pulse of blood strained the vein in Vassago’s temple. If that was the case, then something potentially far more dangerous lurked in the shadows; a danger he was wholly unaware of.
“I take it there’s an important reason that you didn’t deliver her directly back to her father.”
Alastor sat his teacup down; the connection of glass upon class enough to cause his red furred ear to twitch. “More than one, but yes; her safety was my primary concern. She had just been snatched from the security of her own home, while in the company of her father and a group of assassins-for-hire, no less.”
Vassago shifted in his chair, voice softer, filled with an inquisitive tone, but laced with suspicion just beneath the skin. "How did you even know she had been captured in the first place to facilitate such a rescue?”
Wide, knife-like teeth grinned with feral joy, “Her father’s work associates asked for my aid, and I provided it.”
“And The Vees are involved, because…”
“I am an honorary member.”
With more pieces to the puzzle given, Vassago’s posture relaxed somewhat. All in all, it was a lengthy web of connections, but one that he started to make sense of. “So, you have kept her in this place, without informing Stolas, for her safety?”
Alastor’s eye shifted across the table and rested on Octavia, who returned it with a gently tilted head. That jagged smile of his remained, yet the young Goetia appeared entirely undisturbed by its uncanny and malevolent implications. "Vox and Valentino provided him with our location.”
“Only after much—” Chastisement froze in his throat; he could not enlighten Octavia to her father’s actions. That knowledge would be cruel to impart. Sympathy won over his reason, “—time and effort had been spent elsewhere.”
“Yes, I suppose all that effort was shed in abundance, wasn’t it?”
The manner in which Alastor enunciated the word brought a sour frown to Vassago’s beak. Had this demon witnessed everything Stolas had done, in pursuit of his daughter? Had he somehow been watching, pulling the strings from behind the curtain, to bring everyone to his doorstep? Paranoia wasn’t his strong suit, but something in Vassago’s gut heeded him to pursue the topic.
“Well, once Stolas makes it through The Dark Place, all of that effort can end.”
“The Dark Place?” Octavia’s intrusion stopped Alastor’s mouth mid-formulation. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.” Her chair legs scraped along the ground, albeit briefly. “That doesn’t sound safe. Why is my dad in there?” Expectantly, she turned towards Vassago, but when she found no hidden knowledge behind his eyes, her attention turned to Alastor.
A twitch of the demon’s lips caused his grin to downturn slightly. It was the smallest of declines, but for such a gargantuan sneer, the motion was magnified tenfold. “Do you recall, my dear, any news about an Extermination that took place a few years back?” Alastor removed his monocle, gently exhaled upon its glass, and rubbed it against the outer lining of his folded collar. When Octavia didn’t answer, he re-equipped the singular piece of eyewear and cleared his throat. “Every year, the Angels of Heaven descended upon the top most ring of Hell and slaughtered as many Sinners as they could. This continued for centuries, all without retaliation or consequence. Then, Princess Morningstar, the only child of Lucifer, decided to put an end to all of that. She constructed a shoddy hotel, gathered a rag-tag ensemble of irredeemable souls, and sought to prove that even the blackest of hearts could enter Paradise.”
Everyone remained silent, as Alastor spoke. Over his words, a sharp veil of cold seemed to descend upon the air, but his face did not waver. Although, by close observation, Vassago swore that he saw the grayed skin beneath those blood red eyes dip down.
“A ludicrous notion, but I was incredibly bored at the time, so I offered her my services. She accepted my proposal, and together, we set about to make The Hazbin Hotel a widespread institution. However, in her attempts to reason with the Angels, they doubled their yearly visit, and attacked us only six months after the hotel had been built. Adam, the First Man himself, lead the charge.”
“And Sir Pentious attempted to remove him from play.” Vassago interrupted, already knowledgeable of what came next.
“Yes, but he ultimately failed. The weapon he attempted to use on Adam was reflected back upon him, purified by angelic magic.” For a moment, the well-dressed demon stared into the distance, fingers gently interlaced upon the table. Yet, that smile never fell from his face; almost as if he were a lifeless doll.
Spurred by the nip of unknowing, Octavia’s head jutted forward; enraptured by the tale. “And then what?”
At her voice, consciousness left the demon’s haunted grin, and his eyes narrowed alongside his smile. “Princess Morningstar protected him from the attack, with a magical shield she had built specifically for the battle. She pushed him out of harm's way, but in doing so, took the brunt of Adam’s might herself. Her bodyguard, Vagatha, attempted to rescue her…and lost a good deal of her body in the process. The attack swallowed the princess, burnt the hotel to cinders; those of us who remained only survived due to Lucifer’s poorly timed arrival; too late to aid his daughter when she needed him most.”
Shock rippled through Vassago’s body with debilitating effect. He pushed to the edge of his seat, hands gripped upon the curve of the small table. How had he never heard of such a thing?! Regret bubbled in his chest and curdled in his throat; the Princess of Hell herself…and he had never…
“She’s dead?” Octavia gasped, any strength in her voice neutered from the news.
Both of them watched in stunned silence, as Alastor stood up from his chair. Green energy sparked and snaked through the air like lightning, then zipped towards his hand. From it, a red, rounded cane was formed; a single eye in the middle of its’ red, egg-shaped tip. The bottom of its shaft tapped against the ground a single time, covered, clawed hands wrapped about its neck.
“No, far from it; however, what remained of the original ensemble have spent the past few years in search of a way to bring her back. We discovered that Adam’s attack had pierced the ground of Hell and saturated it with his magic. Within, we discovered a new realm, in which we made swift use of and repurposed for our own ends. Angel Magic is pure light, and just like light, it dictates the flow and nature of time itself. The greater the light, the greater the shadow that it casts; The Dark Place is that shadow. Like a reflection of one’s self, it bounces from the mirror of what we are, and envelopes us in a new reflection; one that shows us another version of ourselves.”
All of Vassago’s magical studies that he had conducted throughout the years surged to the forefront, as Alastor spoke. As it was his duty to divine the future and see the unseen, the topic of time had always been of high priority. Such information sparked within his mind, and with a burst of epiphany, he surged out of his chair and knocked it over.
“It’s a gateway to other realities!”
“Exactly!” Alastor snapped his fingers and directed his grin towards Vassago, and for the first time, it felt genuine. “Princess Morningstar is lost within an infinite maze of worlds, where every soul’s fate is laid bare; Saint and Sinner, Pauper and Baron, Mortal and Immortal, she witnesses every path that everyone could ever take! It is within that realm that Lucifer has traveled, in eternal search for his only daughter; to bring her home.”
Leather tightened with an audible squeal, as Alastor strangled the neck of his cane with a single hand.
“But it has been years, and the King has yet to return.”
“Wait, what does any of this have to do with my dad; with me?” Octavia asked in a hurried tone.
At her question, Alastor turned. “Tell me Octavia, how much do you know of your grandfather?”
“My grandfather?” she blinked. “Grandpa Paimon? I never saw much of him, so not much, and Dad doesn’t really talk about him that often; so, I guess, nothing.”
“King Paimon was one of Lucifer’s most loyal subordinates. It was said that he was, and still is in fact, the most loyal to him. Paimon adopted Lucifer’s penchant for shapeshifting, in honor of his King, and became One of Many Things. He was so trusted that, it is said, special incantations and rituals were granted to him, and only him. It is also said that Paimon inscribed all of these secrets into his own personal grimoire, which he locked away in a vault deep beneath his estate. Only those of Goetia blood can open it, and only by the will of his immediate heir; which just to happens to be—”
“My father.”
“But why not simply contact Paimon himself and ask for his aid? Surely, if he knew of Lucifer’s plight, he’d—”
“He was one of the first to know. Unfortunately, he disappeared shortly afterwards, and no one has seen him since.”
“You are aware that anyone who attempts to harness the power of that book will likely be ripped apart, correct? We are not simply talking about a Goetia’s power, but that of the King of Hell himself. Even if you obtained the grimoire, what good would it do?”
Every last one of those sharpened teeth vanished behind a tight smile. It was such a change in appearance that Vassago couldn’t help but experience a brief dose of uncertainty about the conversation. Clearly, there was even more information that he wasn’t privy too. That was a problem.
His silence carried over the room for several seconds, to the point that no one was certain as to exactly why. Was he stumped? Was obtaining the grimoire as far as his plan extended, or was he simply being coy as to not expose his hand? Vassago couldn’t tell, and his thoughts quickly shifted upon the fabrication of events.
“So, let me see if I got this right.” Octavia said, with an upwards wave of her hand. “You needed my grandfather’s help, but since he’s apparently missing, you needed my dad. But, before you could ask him, I was kidnapped by some asshole cowboy, almost got blown up, and this entire time my dad has been trying to find me; and you didn’t tell him because you needed to bring him here…to tell him the whole story about what happened to the hotel and showcase what’s going on?”
“Correct.”
“And, not only do alternate universes actually exist, but the Princess of Hell and the King of Hell, are lost in one; needing you to get grandpa’s book and use it to bring them back to this universe?”
“Correct.”
Octavia slapped the table and pointed towards Vassago. “Then why the fuck is he here and my dad isn’t?”
“Because, my dear, your father has turned into a menace.”
“…what?”
“You have no idea what has been going on outside of these walls, and I do wish to spare you the grim details, but all of these questions are backing me into a particularly sharp corner that I do not care for in the slightest. If I simply allowed your father in here, he would have assumed that I had simply taken you hostage, as this one assumed when he awoke; and that would be rather…unpleasant: shit, even. As such, I needed to buy time, and that small section of The Dark Place was the perfect, momentary deterrent while I conversed with someone far tamer and more reasonable.”
A brisk snap of his fingers echoed through the room, “Nifty my dear, I need you!” he called out. At his call, rapid scampering rammed against Vassago’s ear, and he practically jumped out of his feathers, as a sudden weight dropped onto his shoulder! Heart lodged in his throat, the parrot whipped his head to the side, and found it obscured by a bloody maid’s outfit.
“Yay, you made it!” she cheered. Suddenly, Vassago felt the pull of two tiny hands against his cheeks, just behind his beak as Nifty affectionately tugged them. Tiny feet jumped up and down on his shoulder, then launched off to land on the table; the clatter of teacups and kettle an impromptu welcome committee. She reached into the front pocket of her apron and withdrew a blazing, brilliant red feather; the very same which Vassago had granted her for safe passage. With a giggle, she handed it to Alastor, who then raised it into the light.
“So, Prince Vassago of the Ars Goetia, from one reasonable being to another…”
Alastor extended his opposite hand, claws stretched wide, palm like the pressure plate to spring a bear trap, and smiled once again; those ferocious teeth on full display.
“…how’s about you and I make a deal?”
Chapter 17: Reflections, Regrets, Resolutions
Notes:
There is heavy use of italicized sentences with quotations to represent mental conversations between two chatacters in the first half of this story. Basically, telepathy.
In the second half, italicized sentences without quotations are also used. HOWEVER--> {These sentences in Part 2 are one-sided conversations within Blitz's mind, as opposed to a back and forth between him and Paimon. Any use of italicized sentences with quotations, in Part 2, are unique to King Paimon, and reflect the unnatural nature of his voice as it is spoken verbally. For reference, see the second section of Chapter 14, where Paimon first does this.}
Chapter Text
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High above the skies of Hell, a dark omen spread its wings. Spurred by vengeance, spite, and mania; they cast the topmost ring of Pride in an all consuming blanket of shadow. To the Sinners, the Hellspawn, and the vermin borne of their foul blood; the air tasted unnatural, far from any common flavor that regularly graced their senses. As all heads tilted skyward, each bore witness to a similar sight; a comet’s tail of blackened blood and the unsettling glare of three, massive red eyes.
Unblinking, seething, rife with a potent curse; they swirled and twisted in chaotic patterns. Like a den of rat kings, swathes of deepest crimson roiled inwards upon itself to form an infinite maelstrom of hatred. Throughout the dilapidated and gentrified streets alike, guardians ushered their children indoors, while those with no home merely stared upwards in transfixed, paralyzed dread. Far atop the hill that supported Goetia manor, towers of winding corpses, impaled upon roots and vines, cast their shade upon all that sat below. Cast by the light of the moon, as the flames which had claimed Stolas’ home withered, their bodies heralded a warning of what was yet to come.
Hung in the vast cradle of stars, the moon shined with a powerful glow; a sacred and occult aura for those practiced in the ancient ways of arcane magic. Its brilliant and incandescent aura shuddered, at Stolas’ approach, as did the canvas of stars which gleamed in the distance. Air thickened the further he climbed, but he would not be deterred; for unparalleled sadness fueled his desire for justice. He pierced through the defensive wall of Hell’s atmosphere and crashed against the face of the moon, then reverted to his formal guise amongst the crater his landing formed.
Abject silence smothered his sense of hearing, as moon dust rose all around. Within that sealed vacuum, where no sound could be heard, Stolas’ beak parted in a mighty roar. To the very Heavens, he screamed, and raised his hands; cursed orb of magic clutched between them. Magic, unfiltered and unrestrained, raged from his core, through his shoulder, and straight up into a single hand. One arm lowered, as to intensify the flow of power, and he held the orb aloft as it swelled in size. Swirling smears of crimson, explosions of black, and a brilliant gleam of violet joined in an unhinged orgy, at his command.
With the final ounce of his anger summoned, Stolas spoke to the stillborn skies, to the dead gods that floated within their cold embrace, and to the thread of existence itself. It was a message delivered not with words, but a single act.
He threw his arm back, then swung it forward and down, with all the might he could muster…
…only for his wrist to be seized by an unknown force!
A metallic hand clamped down upon flesh and bone; a searing jolt of pain that was only accompanied by damage of an internal nature. His head whipped to the side, to see who had stopped him, but only saw the palm of a second metal hand, just before it clamped over his face!
Rock smashed against the back of his head, then the rest of his body. Jagged stone stabbed and slammed across his scapula, lower back, and hips, as immense strength forced him across the moon’s surface. Stolas’ beak opened to scream, only to be rendered mute into that cold, smooth metal, as pain ignited in his wrist; snapped with a swift twist. The flow of magic dissipated entirely, and his curse withered into nothing.
Enraged, he clutched at the wrist of the hand upon his face with a single grip, only for a blinding light to burn directly into his eyes. Cerulean; cosmic, beautiful, elegant cerulean erupted in a great blast of flame and enveloped his entire head.
AGONY. PAIN. STOP!
Instinct copulated with confusion and fear; formed into black spikes that shot outwards from his flesh to prevent further harm. It was a pain unlike any Stolas had felt before, and he trembled in the throes of misery as his feathers burned. Fragments of himself drifted away, devoured slowly by blue fire, to become dying stars in a galaxy of countless others. He clutched at his snapped wrist, eyes clenched shut; even the simple act of opening them was absolute agony. Nails upon the deepest reaches of his skin, of his soul, made every movement an unimaginable torture.
But move, in fact, Stolas did.
His head shot upwards, and his eyes bulged open.
WHO?! WHO HAS DONE THIS?!
Before him, there upon the surface of Hell’s moon, stood a figure; their face concealed beneath a thick, hooded cloak. Two metallic arms crackled with bright flashes of electric might, as their hands twitched and snapped into place. Smoke drifted from the palm of one, yet to cool in the abyssal cold of space. The gleam of a metal breastplate peeked through the folds of their cloak, clothed by an angled drapery of blue fabric, and leather padded greaves of similar make stomped deep into the moon’s surface. In absolute silence, a thick, curved blade suddenly jutted out from one of those metallic arms…and Stolas heard a voice within his mind; one which did not belong.
“I understand your anger, but I can’t allow you to harm these people.”
His response lashed out, in an instant, before his mind could consider the words.
“People?! They are not people!”
Telepathy, as natural for one skilled in the ancient arts of magic as breathing was to a mortal; but no widely used. Such practices were prone to enact a heavy toll upon one’s mind, and keeping its depths entirely out of reach was a skill even the most skilled Goetia lacked proficiency in. Yet, once the extension was offered, resistance was ill-advised; better not to have one prodding about unsupervised.
“Do not sacrifice the innocent to spite the guilty. They have done nothing to you. Those responsible have already perished, and by your own hand no less; spare the rest.”
“Nothing?! Any one of them could have protested! Any one of them could have stood up and said no; we will not allow this to happen, we will not act like animals, and yet they stood by and allowed an innocent girl to be slaughtered for peace of mind!”
“What has been done…cannot be undone. Only by mitigating any further damage, can this new wound heal.”
“This place…these vermin…they are an infestation; a sickness, a blighted pus! Let them wallow in their own filth, forever cursed by their nature. It is either this, or cleave off the appendage to spare the body and mind!”
The curved blade raised, attached to the side of the stranger’s arm, as an elbow cocked back and a fist formed in waiting.
“Nothing less than her unjust death could have brought you back. I am sorry, that you must experience this pain. With you, I grieve, and I mourn, and my heart tears at the seams; but Octavia loved all of Hell’s people…so I cannot let you kill them out of vengeance.”
Bile boiled in Stolas’ heart, enough to muscle through his physical agony.
“You dare to deny me? What do you know of my daughter?!”
In pause, as if in consideration of the question, the figure slowly raised their hand and grasped the front of their hood. Gray hair, woven into a single, thick braid, tumbled from its confines. Equally gray and cloudy eyes, scratched with flecks of pale pink, stared ahead; atop an angular pointed muzzle of white and gray fur. The figure was a hellhound.
“Because I had the honor of being her sibling.”
Stolas froze. Not even the cracked, soul-deep pain of his burns twitched, in that moment of elongated time.
“But…no, I—” he mentally stammered, mind wiped clean by the revelation of who stood before him. It couldn’t be; it simply couldn’t be. “—I saw your corpse. I held you, lifeless and shattered, in my arms! You died!”
A single step back. A skip of the heart; not one of love, but of terror. Another balm for his physical pain; substituted with mental anguish. The features were then unmistakable, the voice slipped back into familiarity at the reveal of her face. His past had returned to haunt him; a mistake which had infested his heart; a sin birthed by his own poor decision making; an unforeseen tragedy that would forever haunt his unending days!
“Five years amongst the dead have tarnished your memories, spirit.”
“Spirit? Five years?” Befuddled; another lash to wrack his devastated mind.
“Shall I remind you? My loving father, Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia, died upholding the oaths of our royal house, and the lives of his only daughters. He always taught us, from our youngest days, that magic was meant to safeguard the people of Hell from threats larger than themselves. When he perished, the entire Ring mourned, and how they surely weep now…seeing the wrathful shade that has come to curse innocent children.”
Loona’s metal fists gripped in solidarity; a sight which produced no sound, yet their creak and subsequent grind played as a phantom noise within his mind. She was far too altered from the version that Stolas knew; so different in fact, that is was almost laughable: absurd, even. How could such a drastically different person be the same rebellious girl he knew?
Visions of her demise raced through his mind, and a profound guilt writhed at the center of his blackened heart, to shed what red hues of life and passion remained.
“You are here to punish me, as I am here to punish them?”
“I am here to stop you, and bring you peace; by sending you back from whence you came.”
The glow of a cobalt furnace fumed to life between the links in her arms. Slowly, flames licked upwards, until that her limbs became weapons of pure fire; wreathed in magic. Even the curved blade was enflamed by their spread, and Loona’s arm raised it in front of her body, so that the weapon parted her face.
“I am truly sorry, father.”
At those words, she vanished; naught but an impossible breeze of kicked up dust left in her wake.
In the void, in the harrowing silence which crushed him from all angles, Stolas experienced a most peculiar thing. A tiny laugh sprouted in his chest, and its roots traveled beyond the freedom of his beak. Up above, in the starry night sky, an infinitesimal expanse of possibility hovered with cold indifference towards the buckling of his mind.
The dead do not come back.
It was the ultimate dismay and solace of all who lived. Once gone, none could ever return from the grave. Their clock had ticked its final tock; their time with those they loved and hated dried to its bedrock of sand. It was a fact which anchored his sanity, through the tumultuous waves of madness that crashed against the bow of his mind.
All which he had been forced to see, to experience; from the sight of his infant daughter seeking comfort in the arms of his sworn enemy, to the devouring of the man he once loved, to the sight of himself in a commune of companionship, ravaged his being. So great was his emotion, that his muscles seized and the laugh in his throat elevated to a cackle.
Now, after it all, Stolas couldn’t help but notice the irony: the cruelty…
…and whipped around just in time, to halt Loona’s fiery blade, mid-swing.
Reinforced by the protective shell of his true demonic form, Stolas gripped the blade with fervent glee; his revelation a gateway to funnel forth newfound will. He stared into Loona’s clouded, blind eyes; face finally calmed, as the two demons lay locked in a contest of strength.
“I am not your father. You are not my daughter.”
He squeezed, and watched as she tensed further; tight temples, perked ears, and the sensation of increased, diverted force.
“A world that cherishes me? That adores me?”
Again, he squeezed, and Loona’s posture pressed harder against the moon.
“Never, not even since the day I hatched, was I ever cherished. Not once did I feel the loving warmth of a father or mother; shackled to a feckless harpy in eternal matrimony, so that I may produce a sire and continue on the family line. My only friend sought my hand for power and the benefit it would gain him, and when it was time for him to stand by my side, he abandoned me.”
Fierce gouts of fire spouted from both of Loona’s arms, and in a bid to force his grip to release, she swung at Stolas. With the power of his mind, an ethereal, floating blade of pure magic formed and blocked her strike; it’s presence another ward against her trained might. As he glared down upon her, a vicious snap of bone set his broken wrist back into place.
“That is how I now know this is but a nightmare. The universe has sent you, the daughter of the demon I once loved; whom died as a consequence of my choices, to show me a world where she yet lives. A world where I am not only loved by two daughters, but by the whole of Hell, where I died a hero. This place, this vision, this fantasy; it could never be.”
Loona grit her teeth, her prosthetics wavered beneath his might, and the ground cracked beneath her feet. Fragments of the moon floated upwards, seized not by the low gravity, but by the influence of Stolas’ magical strength.
“I am not the father you say I am, but I would never allow Octavia to die, so long as life remained in my body.”
Muted pain leapt to the hound’s lips, wracked plain as day across her tense features, as Stolas’ grip dented her arm; just as his conjured blade bit deeper into her inauthentic flesh.
“I refuse to be tormented any longer. If this is to be my penance, cast upon me by unforgiving hands, then I shall swat at them with all the strength I can muster.”
Seized by an inescapable will, Stolas grasped it within the curled palm of his vacant hand. His entire form screamed, raged, and wanted for a singular outcome. He wished to leave.
That sensation, that desire, took root within his magic and sprung to life upon his talons. Dark streaks of lightning crackled and snapped into existence; draconian and vile, as they cast his visage in flashes of dull reds. Those same talons formed together into a single tip and stabbed into the air at his side, upon which the fabric of nature cracked and tore around its new wound.
“The universe wishes for me to slay you, as some form of karmic justice for the lives I have taken and the punishment I have dealt. I feel it in my gut.” He leaned in close, close enough to smell her breath, to hear the hammering of her heart, and close enough for her jaws to latch around his neck; should she wish. “And in response…I say no.”
With a single slash, his talons parted and ripped through the strands of space. A doorway to another place, a brutish relative to the portals he once so-elegantly conjured at will, tore open a means to escape. He did not know where such a passage lead, but in his heart, he bid it lead to his freedom. Stolas then lifted his hand, the very same which crackled with sparks of magic, and trapped his index finger behind his thumb.
“Now, return home, daughter of Stolas Goetia; with tidings of victory and sadness in your heart. Mourn for you sister, bury her with the upmost respect, and sleep well knowing that on this night you did not glimpse the vengeful ghost of your kind father…but of a monster that you shall never see again.”
His blade dissipated into nothing, his transformed hand released her sword, and before Loona could move to strike, speak, or blink, Stolas flicked her right in the forehead. As if struck by a train, the hellhound’s body launched backwards; flung across the rocky expanse of Hell’s moon. Within seconds, she vanished from view entirely.
Stolas stepped towards the jagged portal, stared into the darkness which lay in its infinite depths, and paused at a pang of nostalgia and sadness that leapt across his heart. A final remnant of guilt clung to his ankle, with all the temperament of a weeping child, and bid him stay; for her, for them both. In the end, he could not find the strength within himself to bury his only daughter; and so, Stolas tread into the unknown once again, vain hope left to dance atop his heart that he’d see the end at last.
𒋝
In the depths of Goetia Manor, the three surviving members of IMP explored a moss-dotted tunnel of stone. Above the sound of their footsteps, the steady and faint flow of water coursed into their ears from a place unseen. The very air reeked of age, but where claustrophobia would have gripped those with a fear of being buried alive, an idyllic aura of content accompanied the stale scent.
Blitz’s stride, carried by Paimon’s inner guidance, pushed him ever forward; Moxxie and Millie close behind.
“Just how many secret chambers does this damn mansion have?” Millie groaned; her voice an echo which bounced between stones. “I’m starting to think Stolas is smuggling an elevator somewhere.”
“Royals often do possess dumbwaiters, which is like an elevator.”
“Well, I ain’t ridin’ in no damn dumbwaiter.” A sigh slipped from her lips. “How much farther, Blitz? “
“Just a bit more, Mills.”
“What happens if Stolas gets back before we get this book? If he knows we’ve got it, hiding it from him is gonna be a bitch and a half.”
“He’s not gonna find out, because just like Paimon said; if he gets that book, he’s gonna get himself killed, and I’m not gonna let that happen.”
“I’m more worried about what he’d do to the three of us.”
“Honey, relax; Paimon will get us to the book, then all we have to do is hide it in a place the prince will never think to look. If he ever opens the door, the book will be gone, which means we’ve made all of us safer.”
It was then, at the confidence in Moxxie’s voice, that his wife’s tone shifted into the depths of severity. “Moxxie, he’s best friends with a guy who’s known for finding shit; specifically, shit that’s really hard to fucking find! How do you hide something from someone you can’t hide anything from?”
“That’s…a really good point. Maybe King Paimon can help us figure that out? He’s one of the most powerful Goetia, after all; so surely he knows plenty of secrets to work around the others and their powers.”
I really like this little imp; tell him so.
Blitz ignored that regal, sultry voice in his head and kept focused on the path ahead. A natural light had filled the tunnels up to that point, a property of the stones that formed the hallway: maybe? It wasn’t until said light dimmed further ahead, that his pace slowed. In the dark, the lines and edges of something peered through, but without getting closer, he had no way to know what it was. Safe, unsafe, hostile, passive; alive, even?
He stopped and held an arm out to the side, as a signal to stop.
“What’s up Blitz?”
“I see something.”
“You do?” Millie’s inquisitive and pensive mumble dangled in the air. “I don’t see anything, just a bunch of black.”
He stared ahead, directly into the face of the unknown; where the mind’s deepest, darkest manifestations of terror spawned into being. His throat dared not sound, his lungs dared not expand, and his body dared not move; for he did not know if any such thing would spell his immediate and grisly doom. Vision magnified by intense focus, the darkness only grew deeper, but something definitely stirred within, as the hallway itself rumbled.
“…okay, did anyone else just hear that, or am I nuts?” Moxxie shuffled closer to stand at Blitz’s side, and peered into the dark just as intensely. “I still don’t—”
Stone scraped against stone, dust fell from the ceiling, and the sound of roaring wind blasted through the hallway. All three imps tensed on reflex; lower bodies dug into a firm stance upon the ground, as arms raised with weapons at the ready.
“What the hell is happening?!”
“I think it might be a hellquake!”
“There’s no such things as hellquakes!”
From the darkness, two gargantuan arms of rock shot out and slammed their hands against both walls. Fingers curled, as the ground rattled and shook, which attempted to knock the imps off their feet. A massive red eye snapped open, its hue a monstrosity of mixed shades and hues. It quivered at the sight before it, as if disturbed by their presence, and snapped to each of the assassins in kind.
“What the fuck is that thing?!” Millie roared above the windstorm, her hair blown back as Moxxie’s coat likewise billowed in wake of its power.
Bestial, chaotic horns scraped against the ceiling and conjured a hail of dirt to rain down from above. A thick crown of thorns surrounded them like brambles, while twin stalactites jutted from an equally bestial muzzle. It was a creature unlike anything they had ever seen; ancient and possibly out of long lost legend, and its presence appeared to command nature itself! Its maw parted; a void that shimmered with depths so deep that the mere thought of being swallowed nearly ruptured their hearts. A forked tongue stretched out, and rock cracked once more.
Then, it spoke.
“TRESPASSERS!”
The singular word carried for what felt like an eternity, as a new gale of force gushed from the creature’s gaping maw, and clawed hands gripped the walls.
Oh, did I forget to mention the guardian?
Paimon’s snicker echoed in Blitz’s brain like the rattle of a child’s toy, packed with an innocent malice that was borderline sociopathic.
“You dare to desecrate these sacred halls?! Scampering little lizards, dutiful dregs of the Draconic Sin; you have burrowed to your doom!”
With a mighty heave, the beast inhaled and reversed the flow of the wind’s currents. Instead of blasting forward, then pulled in the opposite direction, effectively dragging Blitz, Moxxie, and Millie towards an abyssal grave! Heels dug in, tails lashed out for anything to grip, but were ultimately futile.
“BLIIIIITZ!” Millie cried out, as she rapidly slid across the ground.
“Millie!” His tail shot out and coiled tight about her waist, but keeping her required greater pressure to be put on his heels. Blitz clenched his core as hard as he could, but centimeter by centimeter, he too began to slide. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of black fabric flapped past, and he instantly threw his arm outwards to catch Moxxie by the hand. “Hang on Mox!”
“I’m…trying sir!”
Fragments of stone, pebbles, and dirt all swirled freely into that vacant maw of death; bits and pieces which slapped against the back of Blitz’s body as he fought to save his team. Gouts of volcanic adrenaline bubbled in his veins, amongst a cauldron of fear and rage that boiled out of control. He held onto them with all of his might, even as he too slowly drew closer to the end.
Would you like some assistance, Blitzo? Do you require the strength to save your family? I can give it to you again; simply say the word and I’ll be more than willing to provide.
“Paimon, you fucking asshole, talk to this thing!”
I daresay it likely won’t remember its creator. It has been millennia, after all. The only thing it likely remembers are the edicts that I carved into its being. Besides, words aren’t your forte’; so I surmise that a more blunt approach will be sufficient.
Blitz stared between the monster that threatened to suck him into its supposed stomach, and his two closest friends he had left in the world. They couldn’t hear Paimon’s voice, so their own minds were wracked with a plan at escape. Millie’s head whipped around the room, in an attempt to find some sort of secure foothold to resist the pull. Meanwhile, Moxxie fired round after around at the stone goliath, with rather predictable results; the pops of his pistol mere gasps in the wind.
“It’s not working!”
“Just hang on Moxxie, I’m thinking!”
“It’s getting closer!”
“Fuck; Blitz, what do we do?!” Millie looked back over her shoulder, desperate for an answer. Blitz had seen that look before; she had no clue what do to. Abject helplessness wore itself with pride upon her face, unable to do anything beside seek a solution in someone she trusted. “Blitz!”
Your loved ones are depending on you, my dear boy. Are you going to watch their devastated faces as you allow them to perish, having failed to conjure the love required to barrel through adversity; or will you shut your eyes in the final moments, as you snuff out their hopes and embrace oblivion?
Blitz’s heart thundered a million miles a minute. Crackles in his head, heat in his temples, numb tingling in his fingers; he couldn’t breath, he couldn’t think. Panic drilled its way through the exterior of his professional poise, and squirmed like a ravenous leech through the squishy membrane of his heart to gorge itself full. The maw hovered above them all, the shadow of death come to reap their souls and damn them to the deepest pits of whatever punishment lay beyond the bounds of what they knew.
Don’t fail them as you failed your daughter.
-Thump/Thump-
-Thump/Thump-
-Thump/Thump-
“NO!”
Every fiber of Blitz’s being swelled with newfound, eldritch strength, as he accepted Paimon’s power into his body and soul. Monstrous muscle bulged in a surge of primal strength; shielded by a hide of impenetrable scales that bled with nature’s fury: volcanic magma. His tail swelled eight times its regular size, curved and malignant gut rippers stretched out in the form of draconic claws, and his skull metamorphosed to accommodate a much larger, elongated jaw. Moxxie and Millie both cried out in surprise, but held on fast; one coiled in his tail and the other clutched protectively in his monstrous hand. Black smoke billowed upwards from his scales, and with the explosive fury of Satan’s closest kin, Blitz slammed his free hand up against the guardian’s tooth: gripping it with murderous fire in his slit eyes.
“NOOOOOOOO!”
Defiance carried every guttural undulation of his decree, as the bellow of his gut brewed an awful flame of darkness and love. Now nearly as large as the creature he resisted, Blitz allowed the fire within himself to surge into his chest; then, with a second mighty roar, a pillar of flame erupted from his jagged mouth!
“LEAVE…THEM…ALOOOOOONE!”
Hell’s fury engulfed the stone guardian’s insides, its ravenous hunger fueled by the air which whirled within, and forced the suction to cease. A howl of pain rumbled throughout the tunnel, followed by a second as Blitz snapped one of those colossal fangs in half! Momentum, spurred by the massive amounts of newfound muscle that stretched and seethed with hellish heat, whipped that makeshift weapon around and rammed it directly through one of the two hands that gripped the hallway. Obsidian claws curled against a scaled palm, and slammed a fist into the other fang; which cracked it in half at a lopsided angle, as he felt Moxxie wiggle free from his grasp and flee to a safe distance. A gentle slip in his tail heralded the same for Millie; a faint, but freeing confirmation that they were free from being swallowed whole.
That sibling tooth, hewed in twain, served as a crucifixion nail in the guardian’s other hand, as stone impaled through stone; a cascading landslide, delivered by meteoric means. Bound to the very grounds it protected, the beast convulsed in agony; a sensation it had long forgotten after an eternity of loneliness.
Wet flesh squelched, as a tormented howl rattled the world; gone was the bravado, replaced with the void of bygone rage and the hapless screech of pain that came from only the most acute wounds. Molten-hot claws pierced into either side of that singular eye, like an over ripened fruit, and a spray of crimson showered Blitz’s monstrous form from crown to foot. Mountainous back muscle rolled back against a hide of black scales, as he wrenched back with all of his might; and tore the eyeball from its masters head, at the apex of its screams.
Maimed, but still alive, the bestial visage twisted and contorted in ways which stone should not, by natural means, form. Like an uncorked bottle of fine red wine, steaming blood gushed from the open wound, but Blitz was not finished. Unsatisfied, he turned his grip upon the edges of the eye socket itself and pushed outwards with dual force. Resistance lasted but a moment, and then…
…a horrendous rip cascaded down the hallway, as the stone guardian tore in two.
A canyon of bone and viscera piled upon a kingdom of steaming entrails; the stench otherworldly, like that of rotted produce and ripe, unfiltered piss. Blitz filled it with the rumble of his animalistic snarl and the tempo of his heaving breath, as Moxxie and Millie trembled in the protective veil of his wide shadow.
They had seen the form before, but never had they witnessed the destruction it was capable of. With their first ever look at his transformed back, they kept clear of the valley of spikes; thick enough to impale an imp with ease. Spikes upon his shoulders, spikes upon his arms, and back, and tail, too many to count; each surrounded by a veil of tar and smog. Droplets of magma sizzled in air, as Blitz turned around to face them.
The heaving had ceased. The anger was gone.
In its absence, the beast crouched before them.
“Safe?”
Stunned faces stared into the glowing field of embers that marked half of the beast’s face; a replacement for his burn scars. At their silence, a gargantuan hand lifted, and a claw gently extended down, as if to nudge a small, infant animal.
“Family…okay?”
Thigh deep in blood, Millie was the first to feel the tender brush of Blitz’s draconic claw along her cheek. It radiated warmth like a space heater, and was as smooth as velvet; little it did, however, to remove the shock from her eyes. To have seen it once before without knowing what it was capable of, and then to witness a mere speck of the carnage such a form could cause; a myriad of questions swarmed into her head.
To her friend, she offered a soft smile and a quiet voice. “Yeah, big guy, we’re okay.” Right beside her, Moxxie reached up and cautiously touched the side of Blitz’s transformed face; either for reassurance or to sake curiosity, she didn’t know. “Can you shrink back down again?”
The span at which that animalistic, fantastical head shook forced the tiny imps to take a step back through the river of blood.
“I suppose…that means the only thing left to do is go forward and get this book.” Moxxie commented, his attention turned towards the tunnel of gore that delved deeper down the hallway.
Ripples of crimson sloshed around them; close to waist high on the imps while its’ meniscus barely tickled Blitz’s ankles, as they traveled down a cavern of meat and bone. Intestinal steam radiated outward and smothered them all in a net of oppressive humidity; every step another opportunity for their clothes to be corrupted by the unholy stench. Flayed remains of Blitz’s trousers floated upon the thick, hot, liquid surface like banners of a felled military regiment; their presence a reminder that with every appearance of the beast came destruction. At the end of said destruction, IMP stepped into sanctuary, or at least, a place which had once been protected.
Sparkling, maroon liquid flowed amongst a multitude of miniature aqueducts that traced and snaked about a stone chamber, from wall to floor. Sand filled the space which rock and water did not; erected in mounds which lay speckled with the glint of rubies. Amongst them, the heads of ornate mirrors; some lined with glossy metals, while others sat shattered, with naught but their vacant faces left to howl in the throes of eternal sleep. At the center of the chamber, a cylindrical structure, one with several wounds that scaled up its body, stretched towards the ceiling. There was no visible light source, yet, everything was visible, as if the sun shined through soil and sediment.
“Who wants to bet the book is at the top of...whatever that pillar is supposed to be?” Moxxie asked, hands planted upon his hips and head tilted backwards.
“Seems like the obvious place to stick it. Any bird could just fly up there all easy like.”
“And here we are, not being birds.”
“A damn shame, ain’t it?”
“A damn shame, indeed.”
“I toss.”
The declarative rumble turned both Moxxie and Millie’s heads. “What was that big guy?”
Blitz pointed upwards at the wide pillar.
“Family small. Family not weigh much. I can make family fly.”
Millie squinted, as she tried to gauge just how tall the structure actually was. If they flew too fast, they’d likely miss the target altogether, plummet down, and smash into something. “Or, maybe we just try walking through the sand first?”
“It could be deeper than it looks; maybe trying to climb the aqueducts would be safer.”
“How about this; there are three of us, so you try your idea, I’ll try mine, and then if neither of our ideas pan out, we go with Blitz’s idea: sound good?”
“That sounds reasonable. So, how should we--”
Moxxie yelped, as Blitz suddenly scooped him up with a single hand.
“No separate. Stay together.”
Before Millie could object, she found herself scooped up in a similar fashion to her husband; like a kitten in the arms of a kind-hearted caregiver. The crack of stone, the symbiotic sensation of tensed muscle far below, and a rumble from Blitz was all the warning they received before he leapt across the sands. In a single jump, they soared towards the pillar; momentum used to scale vacant air, like a bird of prey with its sights set upon a field mouse. Instinctively, they shrank and tensed into his scaley hands, their own held fast about the stability of barbaric claws and ridged scales. Monstrous feet smashed into the pillar’s side. Stone cracked and tumbled to the sands below, but the beast was clever, and through its strength created makeshift footholds. Just as he carved a place for himself, Blitz leapt again, but this time he shot straight upwards towards the tower’s peak.
In mere seconds, they shot above the pillar’s highest point, and beheld a sight most strange.
Three corpses sat in wooden chairs of royal make. Upholstery, long decayed by the ravages of time, supported the backs of mummified remains. No wrappings to speak of, they each wore tattered robes, sharp jewelry hung around their necks and hugged their skeletal fingers. The strangest part of all, was what they had gathered around; not Paimon’s Grimoire, but a mirror.
Blitz landed between two of the chairs with a thunderous crash; his arrival enough to disturb the silent dead, as they rattled in wake of his vibrations. Gently, he crouched, and placed his companions down. They stumbled, vertigo having taken hold from their rapid ascent, and bumped into one another for support.
“Cheese and... fucking crackers, that was fast!”
“I think I can taste my lungs...oh, that’s not good...”
“Flying easy. Climbing hard.”
Careful not to swing his tail into any of the sitting royals, the behemoth paced about the circle; its attention locked on what details it could see. Dusty bone and musty clothing filled his nose with sour notes, and at the curl of his muzzle, fangs bared. Each skull was a bird, and upon every brow rested a jeweled adornment of some sort; a tiara, a crown, and a chained veil.
“Birdies...”
“Is it just me, or is--” Moxxie muttered to his wife, then planted both hands to his lower back with a grimace as it popped with a crisp crackle. “--his speech getting dumber?”
“Dunno about that; his brain seems to be working just fine.”
“Three...dead birdies...”
Blitz grunted, then turned his gargantuan, scaly head towards the mirror; only to see his reflection stare right back.
“Mirror...”
“He’s definitely working on something.” Wanting to get a closer look at the mirror, Moxxie approached. By all respects, it appeared to be an ordinary, rich-demon's reflective glass; fancy trimming, tall and imposing, but nothing more. He raised a hand and inched it closer, his mimic within matching the movement’s pace. “A mirror...three dead birds...on top of a tall platform...” When his finger finally tapped against the glass, and nothing happened, the imp’s shoulders sagged. “Rats, I’m stumped, honey.”
“Would you like a hint?”
Everyone jumped at the sudden intrusion of a third voice; all save Blitz, who simply tilted his head. Immediately, Moxxie and Millie collided, back-to-back, and drew their weapons. A laugh, rife with amusement, echoed through the chamber and ended with an appeased sigh.
“My, my, I must say; you three are an endless fount of entertainment. Watching you try to wrap your little imp minds around Goetian rituals is oh-so amusing.”
“Wait...Paimon?!”
“How is he doing that; Blitz’s mouth isn’t moving!”
“Look at the mirror, little ones.”
Their heads whipped about, feet frozen in their patrol, and beheld none other than King Paimon himself, standing within the glass.
“Oh, come now, don’t look so shocked. Out of everything I have done thus far, I’d hope that merely occupying a mirror wouldn’t rattle your brains.”
As the king spoke, a massive, draconic claw rose towards the mirror and gently tapped at the glass; upon which Paimon immediately shuddered, scowled, and then sighed in irritation.
“Refrain from--”
-Tap-
“Refrain--”
-Tap-
“I said sto--”
-Tap-
“Do not break the mirr--”
-Tap-
“Blitz!” Millie barked, which caused the altered imp to stop and turn his head, with an inquisitive rumble. “Quit it.” Dejected at being scolded, Blitz’s arm plummeted and his head hung.
“Sorry...”
“Thank you, my dear; that was...” from beneath his cloaked robe, one of Paimon’s large, ebony arms rose and dusted off his shoulder. “... rather irritating-- Now then, back to the matter at hand.”
“Umm, your highness, could you please first explain why you’re in a mirror to begin with?” Moxxie asked, as he holstered his pistol.
“Fortunately for you, my favorite little artist, my explanation of the ritual will also reveal the answer to that very question. Now, tell me, have you two ever heard of The Exterminators?”
A confused glance was exchanged between M&M, followed by a perfectly timed shake of their heads. At their lack of knowledge, an equal measure of smugness and hapless drudgery morphed upon his beak.
“They were a legion of angels who were assembled with the singular task of thinning the overpopulation of mortal souls within Hell. Every year, a gateway to Heaven itself would open, and thousands would perish in their wake; rather boorish work, amateur in its creativity, but effective. Their leader was Adam, the First Man. Now, after a time, Charlie Morningstar herself; the Princess of Hell, grew tired of this yearly slaughter. So, she attempted to parlay with Heaven. This, rather predictably, ended up being a failed venture; so catastrophic in fact, that The Exterminators decided to add an extra culling day to the calendar year.”
“Wait a sec; this was every year, on the same day?”
“Indeed.”
Perplexment riddled Millie’s face, as she looked at Moxxie. “Ya think that those invasion dates were always during the company mandated vacation week?”
“As I was saying. Their last invasion was quite some time ago; years, in fact. I will not get into specifics, as I see that they appear to bore you, but simply know that the balance of power within Hell shifted on that day. I was approached by our glorious king, Lucifer, to discover a way into Heaven without invitation. Now, they say the path to Heaven is a stairway; this is false. It is, in fact, a mirror.”
Dark, crimson magic sprung to life upon Paimon’s hand, in the shape of a smooth, floating orb.
“Now, class; what does a mirror do?”
“...it reflects objects, your highness.”
“Correct; now, what is a reflection?”
“It’s...umm...fuck.”
“A reflection is an image of unscattered light that bounces off a smooth surface. What our eyes perceive is a copy of ourselves: a mirror. That is, of course, a rather loose and brief explanation of the scientific aspect; but what of the philosophical and spiritual? After all, we are speaking of the divine and the damned, salvation and eternal torment; whose mere existence remains unproven to human minds and drives them to great acts of ignorance.”
Upon the floating orb, a speck of white appeared.
“While the reflections which we see, scientifically, are the same; philosophically, they are opposites. Heaven is constructed of light. Hell is constructed of darkness. To enter the light, one must travel through the dark, as they each exist to spite one another; forever tethered by each other’s mere existence. It’s oddly poetic, in a futile sort of way.”
That white speck spread across the dark, and soon, half of the ball was coated in bright, pale, and swirling hues.
“The ritual, amongst whose remains you stand within, was created as means to reach Heaven. Through the earliest forms of ancient penance and worship for the divine above, I sacrificed three of my own children; a blasphemous act by today’s moral compass, and so, a sin. A damnable act, reflected by the eyes of Heaven, became a holy one; and thus, their hypocrisy allowed a gateway to open. I ventured through, but in doing so, became trapped amidst the gray. If it hasn’t been made clear by the copious amounts of generous aid that you have been offered, my magical talents allow for a modicum of influence in Hell, but I cannot tread amongst you as I once could.”
Paimon’s explanation weighed upon M&M’s minds with the brutality of molten steel. To them, it felt innately wrong to possess such knowledge, but by the grace of a king; they knew. Newfound sadness for the unknown names of the dead Goetia filled their hearts, alongside another newfound sensation of wariness. For him to sacrifice his own children...Had they agreed to do so willingly, or were they unknowingly coerced to their doom? Yet, despite the elucidation, one other important question had yet to be answered.
“So, where’s the Grimoire?”
“Safe, behind one final obstacle.”
“Which is?”
“The reconstruction of the ritual you see before you.” Inside the glass, the ball atop Paimon’s hand began to undulate, and within seconds, transformed into a hefty, leather-bound grimoire. “Three Goetian souls is the toll for my freedom; no more, no less. Once they are acquired, I can utter the necessary incantations from within my grimoire and reopen the gateway.”
Moxxie’s brow knit tightly, in thought. “...apart from Prince Stolas, we only know of Prince Vassago and Marquis Andrealphus. That makes three, but that wouldn’t--”
“Do not worry; for you see, I already have a solution in mind.”
An inky blackness bubbled upwards, between the cracks of the very stone they stood upon, right below Blitz. Before anyone could cry out in warning or move an inch, the liquid surged upwards and wrapped the beast in a sturdy, net-like pattern. In a flash, just as a surprised roar leapt from the monster’s jaws, he was sucked into the pool; which quickly vanished back into stone.
“Blitz!”
“Your Highness, what just happened?!”
Paimon raised a hand for silence and calm. “Do not fret, your companion shall be fine; he is simply acquiring the first piece of the puzzle. The both of you shall set out to retrieve the other two.”
With a snap of his fingers, two portals opened up beneath the imps and swallowed them whole; quick as a wink. In their absence, King Paimon was once again left to silently lament beneath a kingdom of stifling tranquility; with only his dead children for company. While not a single word left his beak, a vast concentration of sheer willpower pushed against the universe.
He would be free.
He would be free.
He would be free.
Chapter 18: What We Do, We Do For Love
Summary:
(Make sure to read the notes at the end of this chapter for highly important information.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Miss Bomb?”
Cherri stopped gnawing on the flavorless ball of gum which sat in the lap of her jaw, eye fixed on the lake below. It had been a good bit of time since the two fancy princes sauntered their way to see Alastor, and it had been radio silence since. She still couldn’t believe Husk had struck a deal with one of them; what a stupid fuckin’ thing to go and do. Landed his ass in the hospital, and for what; just for the problem to come knocking on her door?
Problems weren’t supposed to reach them, at the Hideaway.
“What is it Pent?”
“Have you noticed anything down there? You have been in this tower for quite some time.”
Hidden high above the swamp, nestled in the thicket of weeping willows and vine-coated trunks, a stone tower sat in eternal vigilance. How long had it been since they’d arrived and found it, lurking on the shore? Years, give or take about a decade maybe. Keeping track of time was a pain, and ever since Angel left to pursue a more lucrative life with Husk, it wasn’t as if she needed to.
“Nah, all’s quiet; well, ‘cept for the fucking birds.”
“I don’t suppose you’d mind some company?”
“Only if you’ve got eyes to spare.”
“I’ve so many, I could be my own audience.”
A cheeky smile twitched at the edge of her lips. Pent was a good egg, despite the fact that he followed her around like a lost puppy. After all the scrapes they’d given each other over the years, and recently, she figured that wouldn’t be the case. Guess some shit was just unshakable; destined to fuck around and find out forever, until something bigger stepped in and decided enough was enough. Cherri leaned against the edge of the vacant sill; eye fixated on the algae-ridden water below.
“Do you suppose things with Alastor and the princes are going well?”
“How the fuck should I know, Pent? You know how Alastor is; never gives up anything without some kind of bargain.”
“With Sinners and Overlords, sure; but two royal demons?”
“He’s fucked with Charlie and her dad plenty enough.” Itchy humidity tickled her bare skin, and with a small grown, Cherri slapped at her arm; just in case it wasn’t just the heat. “I just hope whatever he does doesn’t land us in any deeper shit.”
“Well, if the shit does indeed stack higher, you and I can simply blow it to smithereens.”
“Yeah, and end up buried under shit bricks.” Anxiety wiggled into the back of her foot, right at the heel, and forced it to beat rhythmically upon the ground. “We fucked with Heaven, we lost Charlie. Now, we’ve got another princess, ‘cept her daddy isn’t here to help, and he brought a friend.”
“Alastor hasn’t let us down yet. Remember after the Extermination, when we thought he was going to leave; instead, he stuck around. Have a little faith, Miss Bomb.”
The sheer irony of his word choice compelled Cherri to turn, yet her elbows didn’t leave their perch. “You do know we’re still in Hell, right? We didn’t travel to some magical bullshit realm when that giant-ass laser beam cooked the hotel inside and out. It still sucks tit down here.”
“Marginally less so, with friends.”
A dour cloud sank over her features; mind immediately diverted to two particular faces. The tapping of her heavy heel ceased, but her chest rose at the behest of a powerful inhale. “Yeah,” she sighed. “Right; just wish all of them stuck around.”
Pentious slithered to the window, his hood neatly tucked back behind his head. In the dark of natural night, where illumination from the stars acted as their main source of light, his bright crimson eyes shined. “I’m sorry that I’m not an adequate replacement. I cannot perform magic tricks, or tell dirty jokes all that well, but I hope that you’ve enjoyed my continued company, in spite of that.”
Quiet settled across Cherri’s mind. Contemplation, inspired by his words, caused her feet to move unconsciously. Silent, magnetic forces sucked her over to his side, where even the slightest tilt would cause them to touch. In the dim and muggy tower, she found the air sweet, clear, and uplifting. “Don’t lose sleep over it or nothin’. If you spend too much time trying to be them, you won’t act like you, and then you won’t be around anymore.”
Pentious said nothing but simply cleared his throat. As Cherri caught the faintest flush spread over that fanged face, she took it as a little victory. No way would she ever just come out and admit that she enjoyed having him around; if she did, the teasing would be endless. Yet, before anymore pleasantries could spring to mind, an abrupt realization struck.
“…Pent, do you hear that?”
“Hear what, Miss Bomb?” he replied, gaze averted.
“Exactly: listen.” She held out a hand, as if to grasp the moment and prevent it from escaping. Where there had once been the croak of reptiles, the buzz of insects, and the chatter of other swamp life…only silence remained. “Everything went quiet.”
Pentious’ hood spread wide, and the many eyes open it stretched open with equal strength; attention latched onto the intangible. “You…are right; the critters have stopped singing.” His head, caught by something in the distance, perked upward; hand quick to retrieve a spying glass from beneath the hidden pockets of his suit jacket. “Peculiarity at twelve o’ clock, on the far shore.”
Metal stretched and clacked, as the telescope extended to its full length, and Pentious brought it to his eye. Supporting the underside of its front-most section, the snake twisted it about to adjust the focus. Cherri followed its path and turned her eye upon the farthest shore. In the air, just above the stairway which lead topside, a huge black ball hovered. Tarlike substance dripped from it and onto the grass below, where smoke then stretched upwards shortly after.
“Looks like some kind of…floating egg?”
“Eggs have more of an ovular shape.”
“Don’t be such a drongo; ever seen spider eggs?”
“…If a giant spider hatches from that thing, and it looks nothing like Angel, I will—”
“Yeah, yeah; you’ll shoot through, no wucka’s.”
“Miss Bomb, you know I’ve yet to fully comprehend the intricacies of your culture.” He huffed.
“It means that, if you run off because of a giant fucking spider spawning in here, I won’t blame you, cunt.” With a little chuckle, she playfully socked Pentious in the arm, to which he recoiled with an equally playful hiss and rubbed at the light damage. “Spiders don’t scare me for shit. You just gotta give it a good ol’ Aussie Salute, and it’ll piss off.”
“An…Aussie Salute?”
“Don’t bugger your brain over it, Pent.” Cherri peered closer at the mysterious object; so far away, yet its presence was an unignorably unsightly one. “We should go and check it out.”
“Shouldn’t we inform Vagatha? Surely, she’d like to know if something has made its way into the sanctuary.”
“Relax, it’s just on the lawn. We don’t need to be crying to her about every little thing, anyway. You stay here; I’ll go check it out.” As Cherri advanced towards the descending staircase, an odd feeling compelled her head to turn. “But, you know, maybe hop on the big guns; just in case.”
“Ay, ay, madam!” Pentious saluted, a display of honor and potential silliness that she couldn’t quite separate. With a smile, she jogged down the stone steps, muggy air against her face; for which the breeze from her momentum did little to cool. There wasn’t much to look at on the way down, just dull grays and the occasional torch on the wall to guide the way. Whoever built the tower definitely hadn’t heard of electricity, so over time, she and Pentious had decided to give it an upgrade. Nothing fancy; just a massive, fuck-off gun with dual barrels and enough variety in explosive firepower to crater anything in sight.
Luckily, the natural camouflage provided by the swamp also hid the artillery. Nothing big could ever squeeze down the path that even led to their hidden little realm, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Despite the initial test runs, Cherri couldn’t remember the last time they fired the damn thing. Having an insurance policy was nice and all, but bombs were meant to explode, guns were meant to shoot; it was like making a boat that never set sail or cooking a meal that no one ever got to eat.
Out of the tower, she circled around through the thicket of trees; soggy ground and hanging foliage at every step. Fallen trunks, infected with moss, stuck upwards from the shallow waters and barred certain pathways. Trudging through nature’s soup never got easier for Cherri; waterlogged boots were a pain in the ass, and getting from Point A to Point B took far longer than it would on normal ground, but flying was out of the question and so were any ideas of setting up a zipline system. By the time she reached the far shore, where the trees were the most sparse and solid ground stretched out wide to occupy the single dock, time felt similarly stretched.
An aura of uneasiness radiated from the ominous, floating orb. Brimstone and molten death stung the air with a potent warning, to all who would dare approach. Not only did Cherri dare, but she also did so with impunity; gait confident and full, as she crossed the shoreline. The constant, timed rustle of her holstered bombs added a significant measure of weight to her lonesomeness. Sure, Pentious kept watch in the far-off tower, and she trusted him completely to have her back should things go tits up, but if his trigger finger jammed…
Her approach halted, once a tangible heat cast visible, warbling waves through the air. Whatever it was; getting too close wasn’t a good idea. So, as an experiment, Cherri looked towards the ground for anything she could chuck. First test; was the orb a solid, a liquid, or a gas? Magic wasn’t exactly her fucking forte’, but if it looked like wizard shit, smelled like wizard shit, and did wizard shit…A jagged rock, hidden in the tall swathes of green grass, dug against her palm as she picked it up and gave it a good ol’ chuck; like she was skipping a rock over a lake. Instead of bouncing, as she expected, the rock stuck into the orb with a wet -plop- and slowly sank beneath the surface of black tar.
“Alright buddy,” she mumbled, and took an inquisitive sidestep to better examine it. “Just what the hell are you doing down here?”
As if in response to her question, the tar churned and bubbled with audible turmoil. Cherri watched, curious, as the bubbling frothed itself into a frenzy, then leapt back as the stone shot back out! A shrill, piercing whistle tore through the air and ended in an explosion of dirt and grass.
It looked just like a miniature meteor, buried deep in a crater of its own making and flecked with flames.
“What the fu—”
Tar flew, as the abrupt crash of splashing water reached her ears. Cherri’s head shot upwards and stared at the orb, as watched its form ripple in ways her mind couldn’t comprehend. Cones, spikes, ripples, and even faces formed atop the strange substance…until a single, unholy scream rung out. Pain erupted in her head; the wail so pained and sharp that it turned her brain into an acupuncturist’s wet dream. Through a winced eye, she stared in horror, as a gargantuan, scaled arm burst from the orb!
Wicked talons slashed at the open air, coated in malignant tar that dropped to the grass below and set it alight. As the flames began to spread, more of whatever was seemingly trapped inside forced its way free; all as the pressure in Cherri’s head grew heavier and more intense by the second! A second arm burst into the open, desperate in its flailing to find purchase on anything solid. Like some monstrous, eldritch abomination of nature, a spiked head crowned from that viscous womb and wailed a newborn’s shrill wail. Face coated in fire, eyes alight with the trauma of birth, the creature’s broad, draconic muzzle split open into three sections; each lined with fields of dens fangs, like that of a meat tenderizer. It’s forked tongue wiggled and lashed at the air, as it screamed a head splitting scream.
Pain forced her onto a single knee, head dipped low to try and hide away from the agony which assailed her ears. Hot liquid oozed between her fingers, the world became a blur of vibrations and fire; what was happening?! What was happening?!
A booming squelch of liquid and meat flipped the cyclops' stomach, as the pungent odor of volcanic shit washed into her mouth and stained her eye. Everything shook; the ground, her brain, the field of fire that consumed the shoreline. Only when her eardrums burst, and the pressure in her head split open, did a scant moment of peaceful silence grace the world. Yet, her joints and limbs remained jelly; implanted to the earth by the same tremors which threatened to split it open as well. All Cherri managed to do was raise her head…
…only to find herself face to face with the wind of death itself.
Immense pressure roared out from the creature’s split face; a tunnel of spittle, tar, and skin-melting odor that sapped the urge to run from every corner of her being. A pit of teeth lead to an endless throat; one which undulated with a sound that Cherri couldn’t hear, no matter how close her head was drawn towards it.
Am…am I going to die again?
The world quaked around her, and the creature stumbled back; a sparking, iron javelin impaled into its shoulder! Cherri whipped her head back towards the tower: Pentious! Her ears rang and drowned out all other sound, while the javelin exploded in a fierce burst of gunpowder and potassium chlorate. Smoke drifted through the air; it’s scent enough to revitalize her legs. She had to move; she had to run! Legs seized by the devil himself; they sprinted towards the dock at speeds she didn’t think herself capable of. At her back, a thread of dread whipped away; don’t turn around, don’t stop, if you do either you’re dead!
Flanked by the mossy waters of the swamp, Cherri set her sight on the cabin ahead and ran with all her might. Lungs fit to burst, the ringing in her head settled to a steady drone, her arms swung to grab at the air and grant any advantage possible. She had to get Vaggie; she had to get everyone and stop the monster behind her!
Something firm and wet slapped around her leg, and Cherri felt her spine arch in whiplash. The wood of the dock surged up and slammed against her face, only adding to the cranial misery she had experienced thus far. Then, that same wood dragged against her torso and legs as she was pulled backwards! Cherri spun about onto her back, and found a spiked tongue coiled around her leg, with the creature’s gluttonous maw spread wide at its end.
“No!” she screamed out, hand upon one of her many bombs. “Not today, you fucking--!” Sparks flew, as she struck the fuse of one against the rugged material of her belt and chucked it at the monster. Thrown wide by panic, the explosive struck it on the outermost edge of a mouth flap and detonated immediately, but didn’t even cause so much as a flinch. "Shit! Pentious!" Her bombs useless, all the manic bombardier could do was flail and try to slow her demise; hands outstretched and slapping at the planks of wood for any hope of securing a temporary grip.
Nails smashed against unsuccessful attempts, botched by a lack of proper grip to resist the speed of her capture. Framed by the blaze which enveloped the entire shoreline, black, feathered wings stretched wide and cast a veil of doom over the lake. Capped with two malicious, thick, curved talons meant for gripping, Cherri’s heart flipped in horror at how easily they would rip through her flesh.
Where was the next shot? Why hadn’t Pentious fired again? Was he stuck reloading?!
With no obvious savior, Cherri stopped trying to grip the dock, and instead, gripped her bomb belt. If one bomb wasn’t going to cut it, then maybe all of them, all at once, would. A deep grimace latched onto her face; if that thing managed to get into the Hideaway…everyone inside would probably die. Her friends, the residents, and not to mention the hope of rescuing Charlie and her dad; it was all fucked, if she didn’t do something.
The monster’s breath surged up her leg, and just as it did, Cherri bunched all of her bomb’s fuses into a singular thread. Better to go out with a bang, than with a whimper.
“Sorry Pent…Angel…it was one hell of a fucking ride, mates!”
Faced with her imminent death, resistance and rage compiled in her heart, to the point that she stared right down the beast’s maw with a snarl.
“Oi, fuck you, ya dusty, melted…CUNT-NUT!”
There was no time left. Those would be her final words. She gripped the bundle of bombs, flexed her arm to gear up for the biggest rip she’d ever ripped, and pulle—
A beam of light shot through the air and crashed into the side of the monster’s head. Cherri gawked, in shock, as watched Vaggie’s spear drive deep into scale, muscle, and bone! With that single attack, the tongue unraveled, and the creature slammed against the shoreline, with one pissed off angel atop its chest!
In a snap second, she whipped around and yelled something in silence; words which could only be deciphered as a vehement plea to seek safety. No sooner had those words escaped her lips, did the beast below encase her body in a single hand and squeeze!
“Vaggie!”
Agony wracked the angel’s face; redness, veins, discolored eye, as she strained to resist the force which threatened to crush her in an instant. With its other hand, the beast grabbed the angelic spear imbedded in its skull, and a river of coagulated tar flopped onto the grass below amidst a spray of blood. Intelligence shined in the creature’s eyes, as it turned its gaze upon Cherri Bomb. Vaggie’s spear, diminished by the sheer mass of that scaly hide, pointed in her direction...and then, the beast smiled.
Splitting.
Egregious.
Unnatural.
It smiled at her.
A flash of steel shuttered the camera lens of reality, and searing agony blasted up through Cherri’s leg, as the weapon impaled itself into her flesh. She fell, shoved back by the force of the blow, with newfound misery to occupy her time. Instantly, a scream ripped from her lungs, and desperate hands gripped about the spear’s haft to try and pull it free.
It was no use. She was pinned to the dock.
Through sheer trauma and loss of blood, the world blurred, and soon, Cherri’s mind slipped into unconsciousness; her final sight the leering sneer of the beast, as it reeled Vaggie closer to its hideous, split maw.
𒋝
Infinite void stretched to incomprehensible lengths; so dark, so deep, that Stolas couldn’t see his own hand if it were placed upon his face. He knew not whether he walked or drifted; only that he beheld nothing. Utterly robbed of sight, time distorted in value. Seconds became hours. Hours became days. Trapped to wallow in the venom of his own mind, nothing but ruminations and future plants stewed amongst its curvaceous undulations.
Where he had expected another world, another grim reflection of what could have been his life, only the infinite awaited. Bereft of possibility, ground to its purest form; overloaded with potential to the point of obscuring all room for it.
In the void, there existed no voice, no other to grant him company or impede his existence. Stolas was, in that incalculable span of awareness, free. Free of his burdens, free of purpose; a tempting cage, undone solely by the one thing darkness couldn’t dispel. His mind’s eye, immune to the effects of blank existence, swarmed with images produced from memories; and in them, he was graced with color. Faces, echoes, pallid re-imaginings, were animated with wistful strokes of will.
Nebulous concepts, which took no physical image, ignited the flare of purpose within him. His anger, his sadness, his love; all paired with events and sensations. The darkness offered no such nourishment, no such drive; only contemplative solitude. It would not be the end of him. It could not be how his story ended. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, to simply let it all be swallowed by an apathetic universe.
Determination, invigorated by anger, roiled through Stolas’ mind. Trapped in universal silence, his aura screamed to the fabric of reality for passage; woven by the immense magical gifts of his royal blood. Focused on a singular point, a command rose to his beak; and as the fires of his mind swept into a furious inferno, he thrust forward with all of his might.
Seized.
Entrapped.
Subdued.
His arms, squeezed from all angles, bore against their captor with unending fury. Veins strained, thick with Goetian blood, at the crushing weight that coiled around flesh and bone alike. Yet, he resisted. Magic roared throughout his form, with all the fury of a tempestuous sea; alight with malevolent crimson streaks, as it surged directly into both arms. They were his only companion in the darkness; crackling, lashing streaks of sparsely wrangled mania; ravenous in their attack on the void.
“I…am Prince Stolas, of the Ars Goetia!” he growled. A singular, harsh crack split down the empty space before him, and pale light leaked inward. The clear sign of weakened chains enflamed his strength; bulging muscles and tightened bone which creaked and stretched to their limits. “The very stars are mine to control! Life flourishes and withers beneath my touch; twenty-six entire legions of demonic souls rest upon my shoulders!” Further cracks splintered into reality, and gouts of light spilled forth with each inch of victory. “I am a father, a royal, and nothing; not fate, not the selfish desires or arrogance of others, will stop me from doing my duty!”
Reality rumbled, like a cavern about to collapse. Violent glee curled Stolas’ talons deep into the world, arms permanently lit alight with the darkened feathers of his true, demonic form. Pure, radiant light blinded him from seeing anything beyond its stark veil, yet he sought it all the same. Dark wings burst from his back, foot talons staked into what they willed into being below, all to fuel one final explosion of force. As if an illusion had finally dropped away, a horrid, alien screech wailed with the shrillness of a terrified newborn.
Its inflection was more than enough to dictate fear.
Stop.
Don’t do it.
Don’t go.
Don’t kill me.
If he been his earlier self, his weaker self, such a plea would have stayed his hand. It was the ultimate irony; in that if the universe had been more kind…it might have just survived!
Stolas felt everything give way, in violent release. His talons tore through darkness, and infected by the light, its demise spread into a crescendo of quakes and tremors. Sucked to a singular point; a pocket of turmoil, a sinkhole of destruction, a bottomless passage of chaotic, primal energies screamed into being. His body stretched; tiny, stick fingers glued to the atoms of his flesh which threatened to skin him alive, tugged with immense might. Wider, hungrier, the hole yawned and gaped and stretched and lamented.
In the face of it all; the great dissolution, he roared a defiant roar, and with one final outward push, cleaved his captor in twain.
Shattered glass rained down from above.
Gleaming blue skies and summer air poured within.
As the darkness shriveled unto death all around him, obliterated by an act of grand defiance, Stolas panted and heaved; the fire in his lungs fierce enough to dry every breath to thin scraps of air. His wings slumped down and cloaked his body, head so slick with sweat that he witnessed droplets patter the grass beneath him. Ragged, hollow pain debilitated every breath; pain which struck at his chest and forced his beak into a tormented scowl.
He had done it; he freed himself, but…where had he escaped to, this time?
When, at last, he summoned the proper constitution to stand upright; Stolas did so with a backwards slick of his head feathers. As he did, composure regained, he froze at an unexpected sight. Standing there in the grass, right in front of him, with eyes bulged to the size of trembling dinner plates, was a tiny owl; one with a tiny cape, a gold buttoned vest, and a golden crown atop its fluffy head. Stood amongst a vast field, the grass and wildflowers reached up to the torso, yet didn’t seem to bother the child at all; it had something far more harrowing to gawk at.
The tiniest tremble shook through the owl’s shoulders, its feet shifted, but it did not speak. Perhaps, it was incapable. Perhaps, it was simply too afraid. But what was the source of that fear?
“Child, what is— augh!” Like a predator hidden amongst the brush, explosive pain erupted along the side of Stolas’ face, without warning. The prince doubled over, bent fingers clutched around the hollow hole where his eye once rested. Unfamiliar roughness hissed and lashed out at his touch; their harsh thorns imbedded deep as punishment. Confusion welled, then dissipated in a flash: the fire, from the realm before! Savage air hissed out of his beak, both in an attempt to stave off the sensation and vent frustration but did little to ease his suffering of the mind and body.
Air which he had recently regained, once again, fled his lungs. How deep had the fire spread? Did it somehow manage to scorch his insides as well? Within the void, he had felt no such pain, but now that he had landed in a more vibrant realm, time marched on with brutal, meticulous clarity. His hand, overwhelmed with trembling he couldn’t quell, pulled away from his face. Stolas plummeted to his knees, the abuse of multiple battles come to collect their due at long last; for he had pushed his magical reserves and physical capabilities to their breaking point.
Mental chastisement followed; how could he have been so foolish?! All the portals he had opened, the multiple transformations, his battle within Envy’s prison; their cost, and the cost of multiple similar events, had been staved off through sheer determination and fatherly duty. Fatigue sank its claws deep, unable to be ignored any longer.
“No…” he seethed, beak agape, fingers curled into the soil. “…I must…keep going. I must…”
It couldn’t end this way.
It simply couldn’t.
He needed energy. He needed magic!
“Mister?”
Stolas’ head shot upwards; at the gentle tone of the most pure, innocent voice he had ever heard. Four, bright red eyes blinked mere inches from his face, the tiny owl’s head tilted at a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree angle, while his body stood upright.
“Are you okay?”
A curious hand reached out, until Stolas felt a fingertip bump against his limp wing. The moment contact was made, his cloak of black feathers steadily dissolved; left to flake away and drift through the air like ash. At their destruction, the child gasped, flinched, and stepped backwards.
“Oh no, I’m sorry…”
With each blackened speck that tore away, dread grew in their place. He watched, helplessly, as the soil refused to answer his call; as the brilliant luminance of the clear sky forbid any star to grant him aid. Ragged gasps surged through his chest, and tremors ravished his hands with fluctuations of fear, conducted by panic.
I’m…withering away! No…Octavia…
“Hold on mister!” A slimy, cold, earthy-smelling substance pressed against Stolas’ face. Heat tingled upon the surface of his scarred face, and subsided as circular motions forced the skin to absorb it. “I made this from my plants; it should help fix you!” Insistent rubbing smeared the ointment in deep, and while a minor modicum of stability clicked in place within his mind, it wasn’t enough.
He sensed the child’s fear, its aggravation, through grunts and whimpers unaccustomed to failure. Each rub became more insistent than the last, and every dose of ointment was resupplied with twice what came before.
“Why isn’t it working?! It always works!”
“Magic…” Stolas croaked. “…fetch me…a source of…magic…”
“Magic? What is magic?”
𒋝
“Cherri!” Vaggie strained against the crushing fist which threatened to liquefy her organs. She had no clue what the creature was, or exactly what it wanted, but the time for thought was long gone. Muscles bulged and flexed; single minded fury at the forefront of her resistance. Bones creaked, tendons stretched, veins flared along what flesh remained as strength roared to life, fueled by her warrior’s spirit and guardian instinct. With a mighty battle cry, one paired with a murderous gaze all her own, the fallen angel burst free from the beast’s grasp; in an explosion of force and outstretched wings!
Disarmed, her metallic joints curled into a tightly bound fist and slammed into the side of the monster’s skull with a satisfying crunch. It reared from the blow; a horrid, dazed screech leapt from its plant-like maw. Unwilling to allow the creature time to recuperate, Vaggie stepped in, twisted her torso, and snapped every ounce of momentum she could into a second punch. This one struck a rigid chest, and yet, the beast stumbled again; clawed hands raised to try and tend to its injury.
Relentless, a flurry of strikes slammed into that scaly hide; a combination of ingenious metalwork and angelic fury. Laced with the same holy metal which composed her spear, every punch, slash, and puncture flashed with angelic light. Where she struck didn’t matter; tactics forfeited their place in favor of utter barbarism. Too much lay at stake for measured strength. Like an annoyed child, the draconic being raised its arms higher to shelter itself from the blinding onslaught; rumbles and roars the only rebuttal it could seem to muster. Why wasn’t it fighting back?
Right as the thought entered her mind, the shrill, sharp, squeal of rocket fuel and steel demanded her attention from behind. She dipped to the side, and one of Pentious’ armaments pierced the beast; a dazzling show of fervent, spitting sparks and miasmic smog! An ear-splitting howl, akin to that of a man’s agonized wail, sundered the air as the missile exploded.
Wind raged against her back, heels scraped against ground; the explosion had propelled her away from the monster and given an opportunity to retrieve her spear. Cherri’s face, clearly unconscious, appeared almost peaceful in the chaos of the flaming shore. If it weren’t for the bloody, glowing spear-tip of holy power which caused the flesh around her stab wound to bubble, she’d simply be napping. Apologies would have to wait; but as Vaggie dove for her weapon and pulled it free from her comrade’s leg with a sickening glop, darkness descended.
A slab of muscle and scales, riddled with spikes from wrist to elbow, blackened her vision with blinding speed. Barely able to react in time, she raised the spear up to block the attack but found herself launched backwards. Below, the glimmer of water raced by, as she was converted to a helpless spectator of its beauty. Pain radiated up her natural arm; bones and joints alight with aches. A warrior’s instinct warned of her demise, should she ever fail to block such an attack, and ignited her veins with adrenaline.
It appeared once more, with no intent to allow for her recovery; torturous spikes, the drip of thick liquid death, wings as majestic and brutal as the fiercest bird of prey. Through the blurred streak that dove towards her, she swore a measure of glee flicked across its inhuman face. All the force of a speeding train slammed against the raised shaft of her spear...and water rushed up to swallow them both.
A dim, ominous glow coated the creature; like that of a lightly slumbering volcano. Hordes of bubbles swept towards the surface, as its horrendous maw snapped at Vaggie’s face repeatedly; legs left kicking in the depths. Searing cold zapped her senses; skin frozen, joints locked, lungs waterlogged. Corpse stench throttled her nostrils, as she thrashed for her life; wings rendered useless beneath dark tides. Sluggish, impaired, over encumbered; deadly jaws snapped closer with each feral lunge.
Then, from the black, they came.
Amalgamations of bone, patched together by a combination of pale, rotted flesh and undersea plant life emerged from the abyssal waters. Some possessed the heads of caprine, others a more humanoid visage; but all reached out with flayed, cracked claws. Scraps of flesh dangled where muscle held sway and floated throughout the depths with a near mystical presence; a pallid beauty, a horrific wonder.
Alastor’s sentries had awoken.
Venomous green light boiled in the vacant spaces of their bones, and they swarmed towards Vaggie’s attacker with unnatural vigor. Rotten teeth bared, as unyielding hands seized the beast’s body from every angle, and the long-forgotten dead mounted their newest prey. In their hunger, they earned its ire; in the form of a bubbling roar and a sluggish swipe of the arm. Empty vessels beheld not the push of water, nor its penchant for filling human lungs, and so they easily swam around the strike.
Properly distracted by the swarm of ghouls, Vaggie freed her spear with a fierce dual kick, and immediately surged towards the surface. Pressure burned against the inside of her chest, crackling and panic-inducing, as both arms swept and scraped through concrete-thick waters. Her fingers burst through the swamps’ seal before her head; an instantaneous relief which provided her one final burst of hope to push above the waves. Humid, clogging air filled her gaping mouth, as she gasped for its sweet, rejuvenating presence; a ragged, sputtering couch swift to follow on her swim to the dock.
Wings dragged through the water and weighed down her arm strokes; each one a battle to keep her head from submerging once again. Urgency and panic pushed her onward; and as the slick, splintery wood blessed her sense of touch, Vaggie pulled herself from the swamp with lungs ablaze. Using her spear as a support, the sopping wet fallen angel trembled to her feet; face masked by a funeral veil of slick, white hair.
“Miss Vagatha!”
Water expunged onto the dock, in the form of a ragged hack of air and throat muscle. The taste of befouled, insect-riddled swamp muck nested atop her tongue and saturated her teeth. “Pentious…get back in the tower; you’re in danger down here!”
“My ballistics are clearly ineffective against this creature; we must take Miss Bomb and flee inside, where the wards are strongest!”
“It broke through the first barrier; what makes you think it won’t break past the second?! If we retreat, it will breach the Hideaway!”
“Our current might is insufficient; we need reinforcements!”
“The sentries have it occupied…” she huffed, as an excuse to draw another heavy breath. “…which should buy us a few minutes. Grab Cherri and get her inside. Call Alastor, have him bring those two princes up here; we can’t let this monster past.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to get my second wind…and then do my fucking job.” Soreness washed up her arms, in the form of a thorned whip’s brutal lash, and zapped her brain in a crackling storm. Grit teeth, worthy of a proper predator, hissed through loose swamp water at the sensation. The beast was not only powerful, but intelligent. Recognizing the threat of Pentious’ cannon and avoiding it by forcing the battle underwater; no mere beast should possess such logic, something was amiss.
“Then I shall be swift.”
Without another word, Pentious slithered right past her on a breakneck pace towards Cherri’s unmoving body. A twinge of pity raced through her; that leg wound was going to take substantial time to heal. Not only that, but she was going to be in immense pain during the recovery; Angelic steel was meant to slay demons, after all, and so its bite was immensely more deadly than a normal weapon’s. In mere seconds, Pentious slithered past her again, the cyclops cradled in his arms.
No sooner did their held gaze break, that a roaring crash of water rocked the wooden dock, and rain cascaded from on high.
Bits and pieces of bodies; limbs, skulls, ribcages and pelvis bones slammed against the cabin’s roof and flaming shore. More rained from on high, having been catapulted into the sky. A thunderous, steady symphony of wing beats cast waves across the swamp, each powerful enough to create a shockwave of air which whipped Vaggie’s fur-trappings and soaked hair backwards. There, suspended in the sky, flapped the beast; its gaze locked directly on her and Pentious.
“Move your ass, Pent!”
She watched, spear planted firmly, as two gargantuan arms stretched towards the starry sky. Curved claws, joined alongside protective spikes, glowed with twisted hues of red, purple, black, and streaks of gray. An ominous shade cast itself across the sky to darken the stars, their gleaming light reduced to fuzzy pinpoint markers. The beast’s hands opened to grip the heavens themselves, and the earth trembled.
Vaggie’s face tightened in horror, as one of the stars vanished from sight…only to reappear and block all other stars in the sky. Mottled swathes of diluted, volcanic orange cream churned and roiled with seething vitriol; its singular, malignant gaze an atrocious deity unto itself.
“ Venus!”
Rooted to the spot, the boom of a regal, beastly voice shook the very air that Vaggie depended upon. Beneath the eye of a new atmosphere, swamp water bubbled, breathing felt like sucking through a collapsed straw, and a painful, prickling sensation rampaged throughout her entire body. Steam shimmered into the air, as fires upon the shore blazed with unparalleled intensity so potent that they were felt halfway across the lake; what was happening?!
“Crush. Melt. Evaporate."
The pain was so immediate and intense, that Vaggie didn’t even feel her bones shatter or her skin melt. Her metallic arm and leg rusted, holes spawned through their state-of-the-art material until naught was left but empty space and they fell from her sockets upon the dock. Gray, scarred flesh bubbled and sloshed from ivory-white bone; just like the creatures Alastor had indentured into eternal servitude. Magma boiled from the lake below to set the dock ablaze; the entire realm bathed in a cataclysmic inferno, and as Vaggie stared up at the godlike beast she witnessed the world melt away with the remains of her final eye.
𒋝
Four booming words echoed at Pentious’ back, as he slammed the front door to the cabin shut and raced through its warmly lit halls and foyer. Past the taxidermy beasts, beyond the welcoming hearth, he fled with Cherri pressed against his heaving chest towards the staircase of stone which lead to sanctuary. Fear flooded his heart, as he looked down upon her pale countenance. Please be alright. Please wake up. Don’t perish, Miss Bomb!
Newfound heat surged against his back, and as Pentious turned his head, witnessed an ominous glow emanate from the top of the stairs. He silently uttered a wishful prayer for Vagatha, out of respect for her courage as a guardian, and out of affection as a comrade of the Hideaway. Long had they searched for Charlie, and none of their heart’s suffered quite as uniquely as Vagatha’s across those lengthy, seemingly endless years of fruitless searching.
The instant brass hues reflected in his multitude of eyes, Pentious cried out. “Alastor! Come swiftly, we are under siege!” Seemingly at his call, the ground trembled beneath his tail, dust cascaded from the ceiling above, and several loose chunks of ceiling fell. Its magnitude was so fierce, that the serpent slithered to a halt; his momentum disabled by the tremors all around. While the world shuddered, a shadow zipped into the room; and out of it, emerged not just Alastor, but Prince Vassago as well!
“You are making quite a racket up here, my good fellow.” Alastor chastised, quick to brush fallen dust from his shoulder. “The Prince and I were in the middle of important matters; so, this--” Only then, as he saw Cherri’s motionless form, did the Radio Demon curb his tongue.
“It came out of nowhere; a beast beyond anything I have ever seen!” Pentious babbled, as the radiant prince stepped forward; his fingers alight with gentle, starry magic. He did not know what purpose it served, but the parrot’s sight was locked upon her leg; enhanced with an almighty focus that rivaled his own, in the deepest, inspirational depths of tinkering. “Miss Vagatha is locked in battle with it, as I speak! She believes it intends to breach the Hideaway!”
“A beast, you say?” Alastor hummed; the sound corrupted by a distorted crackle.
“Yes, and we must return above swiftly! I do not know how long Vagatha can hold it at bay!”
Ghostly utterings cascaded from Prince Vassago’s beak, his fingers bent and curled into occult symbols amongst a spray of stars. For what it was worth, color returned to Cherri’s face, and the wound on her leg closed, but did not banish the ugly, cracked shade of black that arrived in the absence of open flesh. “There; that is all my power can achieve at this moment. Please, take her someplace safe, while I confront this beast.”
“Don’t forget about our deal, your Highness. I need you alive.”
“I have no intention of perishing.”
“No one ever does.” The response was a hum, laced with dubious pensiveness and a click of disapproval. “Very well; I shall be your royal escort. Let us go investigate this creature, while our resident guard dog retains breath in her lungs.”
𒋝
Stolas couldn’t believe his ears.
What is magic?
Such an unbelievable phrase. His ears must have already half-crumbled, to have heard such an utterance. All Goetia were witness to the trace of magic; veins of energy which wound their way through the fabric of existence. Even then, as he knelt in the dirt, his entire essence crumbling away, Stolas saw it.
Crystalline power of brightest blue coursed through the child’s form, clear as a bright summer’s day, natural as blood in one’s veins.
What is magic?
Was it a deception? Was it mere ignorance? Had he not been trained to grasp the arcane?
Perhaps it did not matter.
Perhaps nothing mattered.
Yet, everything mattered.
Stood before him...was himself. A younger self, an innocent self; kind-hearted and empathetic towards the misfortune of others. How quick he had been to lend aid to a stranger; how emotional he was upon the witness of one’s untimely end. To be regarded as such; as something worth saving, preserving, what passed for gratitude embedded itself within Stolas’ black heart.
And then, in that singular second of understanding...an idea.
A horrid idea. A ghoulish concept.
On the precipice of utter oblivion, three words emerged.
Unkind, unjust; cruel, even, but necessary.
If he didn’t heed them, all would be lost. Without magic to repair his body, it would unravel, and Octavia would be all alone in the world. His machinations, his suffering, his sacrifice would be all for naught. What sort of father abandoned their own child? It was an unthinkable path; one met with immediate disdain and fear. No, he would not abandon her. He would not abandon his precious Starlight. She was his world; his entire world.
However, could he muster the strength to commit to what was required? What manner of soul was capable of such an act? How deep were the depths of damnation, if he followed the considered path?
Once again, as Stolas sensed his lifeforce dim, three unspeakable words flashed across his mind.
A question; one whose outcome would change everything.
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Consume the child?
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Chapter 19: Curse of the Lightbringer
Summary:
-----(NOTE: This is the chapter you read if you chose "YES" in Ch.18)-----
Millie finds herself transported to the mansion of Marquis Andrealphus, at the behest of King Paimon, to enlist his aid in completing an ancient goetian ritual.
Still trapped deep within The Dark Place, on the brink of death, Stolas commits an unforgivable sin to survive.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Frigid air surged upwards; its bitter swarm of teeth a jumpstarting assault upon Millie’s senses. In a place unfamiliar, she plummeted from on high, surrounded by reflective walls of ice. Survival instinct activated, she swung her axe outwards; its bite feral enough to scrape through the flesh of nature with a sparking screech. Several meters down, the blade’s edge sank deep enough to hold, and gravity jolted her to an abrupt, violent stop.
With an immediate demise put on pause, inquisitive eyes scanned her surroundings. Royal tapestries, towering stained-glass windows, a massive staircase, and frozen chandeliers; it was a palace. Vacant, but not fully abandoned; for the tapestries had yet to thin and the armor had yet to rust, she found herself momentarily alone. Low enough to not break her legs, Millie dropped from on high and welcomed the echo of her impact as another soul.
A lonely, hollow wind gently howled through the palace foyer; a phantom tone which drew the imp’s attention. No one, yet instinct nudged her with the warning that the building wasn’t entirely vacant of danger. Millie hoisted her axe and dropped the haft onto her shoulder, both to spur her mind and body for whatever work lied in wait.
“Finding the pieces of a puzzle…” she muttered to herself, in an attempt to get mental gears oiled and running at full speed. “…wonder what he meant by that.”
An astute thought, my dear.
Millie’s skin shuddered from scalp to hoof at the warm, liquid tone that oozed down the back of her brain like skittering spider leg, and she leapt on the spot. “What the—how are you talking to me?! I didn’t let you in m’ah head!”
Magic, plain and simple. Did you expect me to send you in search of something unknown? However would you be able to find what I require without a guiding hand?
Curled fingers scratched at her scalp; a thousand spiders nesting in her hair, crawling with their hairy little legs and toes with unknowable menace. Each scratch made her skin prickle and shudder; not even the sketchiest alley or dankest, darkest cellar chamber caused such a degree of discomfort. Was this what Blitz felt, whenever Paimon spoke? It was horrible!
Oh, do behave; you shall grow accustomed to the telepathic connection in due time. For now, focus your attention on the task at hand. You must locate Marquis Andrealphus and bring him to me, beneath the halls of Goetia Manor. He is one of the three.
“I’m guessing this is his place, then.” Perhaps some measure of gratitude was required, because due to the crawling sensation in her head, the cold’s bite was entirely disabled. No visible breath, no shivers, no goosebumps; a natural ailment overpowered by an unnatural terror. “But…what if he doesn’t want to come along?”
Allow me to worry about that. All you need to do is find him. Start in the sculpting chamber; the marquis is an artistic sort and often chisels well into the twilight hours.
“…and I’m just supposed to know where that is?”
On your left; towering wooden door, difficult to miss. Oh, and do watch your step. We wouldn’t want to stir the Hellcats which patrol these grounds.
Somewhere above, upon the reaches of the second floor, the sound of an opening door echoed through the halls and down the stairs into the lobby. Millie tensed, and on instinct, bolted left…only to feel the ground slip out from under her! Sharp pain shot through her face but only lasted for a moment before being drowned by adrenaline. Clacking claws reached her ears; far enough away that there might still be a chance to remain hidden from whatever was making them, and so she picked herself up and paced every step.
With the slippery state of the mansion floor, hooves slid about with ease; perhaps too much, as Millie found herself approaching the sculpting room door at high speed! “Shit, shit, shit!” she hissed, shoulder braced for impact. Her skull rattled as sturdy wood stopped her impromptu skating, but she quickly shook it off and gripped the thick, metal ring which acted as the door’s handle. A massive door required a massive handle, and massive things were often rather heavy; that was exactly the case.
Millie strained with all her might, muscles taut to compensate for poor footing. Abs flexed until they hurt, but the door barely moved an inch, and the footsteps only grew louder. Anxiety flared in the form of heated huffs out of her nostrils, until the lack of progress enraged the imp and instead of pulling, switched to pushing with all her might!
At the first shove, the door eased open, and Millie slid inside; safe from whatever stalked the estate halls.
𒋝
Breath lodged in her throat, worn and raspy by the tolls of adrenaline, Millie slammed the door behind her. In the vast, mostly vacant room, which sprawled out before her, sat a coffin; a crystalline casket which bared its elegant fangs in dull days of light that poured through a singular, towering window. Placed at the center of the room, a hollow realm of soundless life occupied all else; sour sorrow laced within the very air. Knelt in front of the gleaming coffin was a cloaked figure; one with a magnificent and wide fan of diamond-patterned tail feathers.
Its shawl was covered in royal decorations and symbols, possessed of a dark cyan, and draped upon drooped shoulders. There was no mistake, it must be the marquis.
“Uh, pardon me, your highness. M’ah name’s Millie, and I’ve been sent by King Paimon. We need your help.”
The figure didn’t move, nor did it speak.
Millie stepped closer, each daring piece of progress as cautious as the last. “It’s a magical thing, really. I’ve been sent to ask for your help. Hopefully, shouldn’t take more than a…few minutes of yer time.”
Still, the figure didn’t move, and as distance decreased, a fine veil of frost twinkled upon the marquis’ clothes. Likewise, the sheen of his feathers was as the whitest snow, capped with a head of blue feathers; silent majesty without a word to mutter or song to sing. Millie leaned to the side, in an attempt to try and catch a peek at the royal’s face, but instead, was caught by the crystalline gleam of a tiara, formed entirely of ice and clutched in his limp hand. Slowly, she reached out to touch his shoulder...
…until she felt the air slice in two right behind her!
On pure instinct, she threw her axe up; flat edge used as a protective, makeshift shield against what was to come. Heavy steel crashed against it and rang her bell, but martial training activated her muscles and stopped the strike from advancing any further. It was an ambush! Millie roared out in exertion, arms clenched as she swung outwards to not only deflect the blow, but to create space; and immediately stomped her foot to ground upon succeeding.
Right before her, as she turned, stood an imp just like herself. A bit longer in the tooth, but an imp, nonetheless. Graying hair, striking blue eyes, curled ram-like horns, a thick scar which carved along his chin; all dolled up in a fancy servant’s outfit. In his hands, he held a thick-bladed, silver halberd; its’ haft wrapped in a royal blue standard. He glared at Millie such poised ferocity, the tendons in his neck stretched as if in pain.
“Attempt to touch my Lord again, and I will cleave you in twain.”
“I’m not looking for a fight.” She huffed; the strength of his strike continued to sap her stamina through aftershocks. “I’m just here to ask the marquis for his help.” While sincerity controlled her gaze, both hands continued to squeeze the haft of her axe.
“You will ask elsewhere; leave, now.”
“No, you don’t get it; King Paimon sent me here to—”
The thunderous crack of a pommel against ice struck her words dead, the creak of leather gloves and the bulging of a vein along an exposed, red-skinned wrist only adding to its fury. Yet, his voice was deliberate, controlled, and bloated with menace; an entire hailstorm of venom and vitriol. “Do not invoke the king of the Goetia, the king of my lord, in an attempt to deceive me.”
“Look, I just want to talk to—”
Millie’s head flew to the side; stinging pain ignited within her jaw. Shock zapped throughout her mind; something had just struck her, something too quick to see! She reeled to the side, off centered, and stumbled across the ice. Vision blurred, all she saw was a smear of black and a silver sheen rush towards her; then, before she knew it, hard ground smashed against her spine. Knocked into clarity, the deadly bite of the imp’s halberd was all too clear as its top spike stabbed downwards at a diagonal. Millie rolled away, flakes and shards of punctured ice flying through the air with each missed stab, until upon the sixth roll she had gained enough momentum to spin around and sweep her opponent’s leg.
Instead of muscle and bone, she struck the flat end of steel and winced for her efforts. Furious blue eyes and a stone-like scowl snarled in her direction, and the imp heaved his weapon upwards to try and knock her away. Utilizing his own strength to her advantage, Millie braced her hooves upon the flat side of the halberd’s blade and back flipped through the air; landing on both feet with practiced grace.
No sooner did she re-orient herself, another flash of silver shot towards her face, but this time Millie was ready. Bracing her abs and arms, she swung her axe at a horizontal angle, knocked the strike aside with a warrior’s cry, and smashed his face in with a ferocious head-butt; fueled by the slippery momentum of the floor. Blood popped from his nose, bone cracked and crumbled against the strength of her mighty skull, and the imp unleashed a pained cry as inertia fully took over; sending him hurtling through the air in a backflip. The halberd flew from his loosened grip and slid across the room, while its wielder slid in the opposite direction; all as Millie stood strong, a tentative set of fingers upon her forehead.
“Fucking damnit; why’d you make me do that?!” With her opponent summarily felled, she carefully walked back over to the motionless marquis. He must’ve been in a trance or something, just like Stolas was back when Blitz was trapped in the crystal. Nothing was able to shake the prince out of it back then, so if the marquis wasn’t talking, surely it had to be the same thing, right? Millie finally placed her hand upon his shoulder and turned him around…only to find two open, vacant, glassy eyes staring right back at her. The entire body was limp, lacking all resistance as it dropped from the momentum of her touch. With the new angle, she saw that one of his arms was slung into a medical brace; a memento from his defeat at Stolas' hands, one which what felt like an eon ago. There were no visible marks on his body which would indicate death, but there was no mistaking it: life had long fled the marquis. “Shit…”
A savage roar from behind whipped Millie’s head around, only to see the imp back on his feet; re-armed and flying right at her! Just in time, she barely managed to raise her axe and block his attack, but her muscles shook, and her skeleton cringed upon doing so. An almost feral strength pushed down upon her; the servant still hung in the air; practically keeping aloft by the continued force being funneled downward. Loose gray hair dangled in front of his bloody, snarling face, fangs bared into a grit mask of rage. It looked as if they would crack upon themselves, as veins flared along his flexed neck.
“You will not… ”
Upon the axe’s haft, a crack sprung to life.
“…desecrate my master’s body!”
Millie grit her own teeth; she had to, otherwise she’d run the risk of biting right through her tongue. Resisting the swing of the halberd took every ounce of strength she had. The longer she held it back, the more her axe cracked under pressure; it wouldn’t be long before he’d cut straight through it…and her. Below, ice cracked against the power of their clash; unyielding loyalty and grief brought to bear upon an unknowing soul. If it cracked enough, she’d lose her footing for sure, and if that happened, the end result would be the same: death.
Just as all hope was lost, Millie’s mind unable to find a way out, she witnessed a most peculiar thing. Along her fingers, a shadow coiled and snaked up into her weapon; naught but a mere phantom flicker upon steel’s edge. It traveled all the way around the sharpened, chipped curve, then vanished down the haft.
A second later, explosive force launched the male imp back across the room! Disarmed once more, he slammed into the far wall and ricocheted upon the ground, his weapon discarded at Millie’s feet. Meanwhile, with the immediate danger passed, lungs seized their due; gulping down painful, ragged heaves of air, as sweat coated her hands and face. “Paimon…” she panted, shoulders hunched forward and back slouched. “…did you just save my ass?”
I did.
“Thank…thank you…fuck, that bastard was strong!”
‘Twas the power of an enamored hand, long blessed by a Goetian House’s magic. You are fortunate that I was here; otherwise, I’d be talking to two of you.
Millie turned back to the motionless body of the marquis. “What do we do now?”
No sooner did she ask, the shadow beneath her feet stretched out across the ground and towards the glass casket. Rising from the ground, two fierce red eyes bloomed into being with a menacing glow, while the edges broadened and sharpened to represent powerful shoulders. The shadow wasn’t her own, and its appearance caused no shortage of unease.
Goetia do not perish easily.
Long, smoky talons stretched out like the crooked, barren limbs of a cursed tree and traced the edge of an ivory beak. Bulbous knuckles bumped it open, then kept it ajar as shadowy fingers delved down the peacock’ throat! Millie took a step back, a disturbed twisting of her gut at the sight, “What the hell are you doing?”
Confirming a theory.
While the shadow of Paimon went about its morose work, Millie circled in a wide berth; curiosity drawn towards the casket proper. It reminded her of Loona’s coffin, but its purpose was unclear; there had to be a link between it and Andrealphus’ surprising death. A sudden crack jolted her head to the side, only to witness the marquis’ neck and head tilted, rocked side to side as Paimon’s fingers seemed to…dig. Such a thing sent a chill up Millie’s skin, but she ignored it and peeked over top of the coffin.
Inside, peaceful as could be, was a sharp-jawed incubus. Immediately, she recognized him; he had been at the warehouse in Greed where Blitz had been taken. Andrealphus' horrified and rage-filled screams upon seeing his body...all made sense now. Whatever their relationship had been, it was clearly special. Were they lovers? Were they childhood friends, somehow? As those questions tumbled around in her mind, an object dropped from his attire; shaken loose by Paimon's gruesome work. It clattered upon the icy floor and rolled into her hoof. Smooth green glass gleamed in solemn light, uncorked, unmarked: a vial. Millie bent down and picked it up, only for a pungent, vile odor to waft its way into her nostrils; one which years of working as an assassin for hire allowed her to immediately identify: poison.
“Fuck me uphill…” she groaned, the pieces clicking into place as she looked back down at the pale peacock. “…he killed himself.”
Further cracks devolved into grinding crunches, as if some rickety, loose jaw was hard at work trying to chew on a bunch of nuts. Perhaps it was the epiphany, or an overwhelmed mental state, but either way the aggressive noise triggered something within her. Millie whirled towards Paimon’s shadow, fists clenched tight around the haft of her axe, jaw knit shut as she barked through her teeth.
“Cut that shit out!”
A sloppy, sickening reel of his arm popped up from the marquis’ beak and snapped back into place. As I suspected, he has been dead for more than a day; for his soul has fully vacated this plane of existence. However…
Before Paimon could speak further, a shrill, biting whistle pierced the air with monumentally oppressive force. It was so great in face, that Millie’s head spiked with immediate agony, and she clamped both hands over her ears. Then, somewhere in the distance, a thunderous stampede of approaching footsteps echoed. Millie whipped around, only to be greeted with the far-off sight of the butler back on his feet!
“Hell..." she growled, the weight of her weary arms yet to fully lessen. “What’s it gonna take to keep this guy down?!”
Death, more than likely.
Battered, but not beaten, the imp limped with torn and tattered attire; puffs of white unleashed in chaotic clouds amongst seas of polished black. Far away as he was, his voice carried far, as did the pain within it. “Get away from them!” Summoned by his shouting, the door burst open, and two massive beasts barreled into the room. Quadruped monsters of stone, fur, and fang; they swiftly leapt towards their master and took protective positions in front of him. A deep growl resonated from each; hackles raised in warning.
Millie pushed through her exhaustion and pulled her shoulders back, body reflexively tensing in preparation for a fight. “Oh great…I’m reckoning these are the hellcats you were talking about?” All of her attention locked onto them; weighty beasts, probably at least a few hundred pounds not counting the rocks. Memories of her time on the ranch back home brought a book to mind; one which she’d caught her sister reading one night. It had been all about the creatures not seen in Wrath, particularly the biggest and most ornery ones who’d put up the most struggle in a scrap. Hellcats had been a whole chapter; natural camo, jaws powerful enough they could bite right ya, and otherworldly reflexes. The only way to hunt one was to catch it while sleeping, because the second it woke up, that was your ass. “I ain’t one to back down from a brawl…but I can’t fight two of these things at once. What do we do?”
We retrieve what we came here for. Now, you’re going to feel a light pinch…
Tension, similar to that of a tightened shoulder midway through a roll, seized the bottommost section of Millie’s spine. Immediately, her entire body froze; knowing that if she dared move even a millimeter, pain would be the only result. Yet, to her surprise, pain came all the same. Searing, overwhelming, rising pain which swept through her arteries, muscles, and bones with otherworldly speed. “What is—agh—Paimon?!” she cried out. Her weapon clattered to the ground, pressure building in her scapula; precise, insistent, drilling through bone as it to make an escape! Horrid ringing filled her skull, every object within her view doubled; split in half and re-stitched together like a freak lab experiment.
Color bled from the world, as if sucked dry by a vampiric void, through the space between Millie’s trembling fingers. Air thickened in her mouth, like chewing through permanently wet cement. White and black enveloped everything in sight; from the snarling hellcats to the swaying tapestries, and even her own hands. Then, explosive, fiery euphoria erupted from her back and drove the imp to her knees, mouth left agape and rasping for air.
There we are. Go on, you may kill him now.
Slick with sweat, Millie’s black hair whipped up with her head; crackling discomfort at play within her ribcage. Noise ceased, nothing but darkness shined through uncovered windows, and snowflakes hung suspended in the air. It was as if time itself had stopped. No snarls reached her ears, nor did the hellcats move as she stood back up and slowly advanced upon them.
“What…what is this? What did you do?”
Everything within this manor has been suspended within a dimension of space; one which I fully control. All that moves within it can only do so at my whim, and it shall remain as such for as long as I wish.
“But ain’t your power limited down here, without your body and all? You said so yourself.”
Indeed, I did, but one of the three pieces we require has already been retrieved elsewhere. It has granted me far greater influence, as a result.
“You keep talking about pieces…what exactly are they?”
You shall understand in a moment. Approach the imp, for he is the key. Marquis Andrealphus would have been a superior choice, but given he is dead…
It was the first time that Millie heard hesitation in the king’s tone. How could someone with so much mind-bending power be unsure of anything? If he was doubting himself, then the shit must be deep. At least, it sounded like doubt; who could tell, with how odd the Goetia were. The closer she drew towards the frozen servant and his bestial companions, the more Millie took the time to take in his features. Older, but not elderly. Scarred, but not heinous. Vibrant blue eyes, polished like majestic opals, gleamed in the frozen twilight of Paimon’s magic. Tattered attire, bruised and cut face; even when beaten, a certain look of regality and purpose never left his expression.
Now, reach out and open yourself to him.
“Open myself; the hell that supposed to mean?”
You are familiar with the process of relaxing the body, yes? It is a similar process for the mind. When you manage to relax both simultaneously, the soul is opened; and through it, many great things become possible. Place a hand upon him, close your eyes, and breath deep. Feel the stillness around you; the calm, the serenity. We have all the time in the universe: revel in it; the majesty of infinity.
Listening to the king’s soft-spoken words brought an initial ease to Millie’s mind; like she was being lovingly massaged by Moxxie’s soft hands. There was warmth to them, and familiarity. Never had anything in her head felt so clear, so close, so symbiotic with herself and all she knew. It was almost as if Paimon wasn’t speaking what she didn’t already know; that the wisdom of his words were spawned from her own mind, from her own intelligence, and so the motion came as naturally as a stray thought. Tension flowed off her shoulders, her back, and her arms. Every muscle softened, and with them, her mind sank into a similar, wonderful bed of comfort.
Thoughts fled, inviting a fresh, cool space of vacant breeze to her mental landscape. Allured by what felt like the most peaceful slumber ever promised, Millie raised her arm and rested it upon the other imp’s shoulder. Someone was there, someone was close; one of her own kind. Different in purpose, surely, but of soul; a warrior’s soul, they were as kin. Was he Wrathian? No; his stomping grounds were felt to be somewhere colder, rainier, and soaked in sin. It made little different where he came from, only that he was strong in his convictions.
A twinge tickled her brow, as a tingling sensation enveloped her fingers.
Yes…just like that…let the fount of who you are seek him out. Find his center and embrace it.
Adrift in a endless ocean of thoughtlessness, Millie experienced a sensation which she couldn’t explain. Newfound flavor speckled her tongue, the waves of her mind rose and flowed down through her fingers, and a gentle spike of pressure welled upon her chest. Brush after brush of a foreign presence traced across her temples with satisfying passes; their purpose unknown. The tingling in her fingers grew stronger, and a wave of peace washed over the entire back of her mind. “I…feel…” she sighed blissfully, eyelids a flutter.
A well of light bloomed upon her palm; warm, humming, pulsating. It reminded her of a purring cat, a hot rock from a spa day, and Moxxie’s smooth back after a night of peaceful slumber. Something in her, instinct perhaps, flared with immense satisfaction upon touching the warmth.
Magnificent, my dear. Now, open your eyes; we have what we need.
Weight returned to Millie’s body, slowly at first, but abruptly completed its indoctrination when her hand left the imp’s shoulder. Plans, fears, doubts, resolute vows all returned to mind; cluttering it like a beloved attic. Memories upon memories, faces and voices, desires sown from them all and loosed back upon her. Then, she opened her eyes…
…and cried out in shock.
Where once stood a resolute and stubborn servant of Andrealphus, a withered cadaver took its place. Skin like leathery fruit, sunken until not even salt existed within what remained of once-vibrant flesh, stretched ghoulishly from hairline to toe. Hollow eyes, mushy and void, sat as rotten grapes inside his skull. The meat of his neck no longer filled the collar of his suit, instead leaving a cavernous hollow for dust to blow. Gaunt, boney hands jutted from white cuffs like dead tree branches, their strength snatched away.
Suspended between her and the corpse, a throbbing ball of resplendent blue light glowed; the singular color amidst a world of black and white. It flickered, as if made of fire, and floated towards her without any warning. Still mired in the shock of what she was witnessing, Millie couldn’t move before the orb slowly sank into her own chest; her panicked slapping and rubbing unable to prevent its entry.
Yes…yes...with this soul, a soul imbued with Goetian secrets, the path to my freedom draws closer to its end!
A grand sense of wrong swept through Millie’s entire body, in a singular shudder; nausea spun upon her stomach. Knees crashed upon the ice, a horrid stab of pain brought to life within her chest, and an agonized cry of pain crippled any sense of progress. Flashes of strange images ravaged her mind, then leapt from her lips in a voice which did not belong to her…nor to Paimon.
Flowers in the garden. Poison in the leaves. Keep the young master away.
Must’nt let him see. Must’nt let him hear them argue.
Polish his crown. Teach him the ways.
Dignity, dignity; a royal’s burden.
Desperately, fingers clutched at her buzzing skull, to attempt and wrench control back. Sweat rolled from Millie’s face and pattered upon the ice, where it instantly froze into small patches of bumpy, rock-like skin.
Show tolerance. Show patience.
Light his way. Darken his heart.
All for his own good.
Immense pain rolled across Millie’s skull, hips pushed back as her spine arched and bent at the whim of the voice. Images of a small peacock, dressed in royal attire, danced across her eyes. Fencing practice, long nights of magical study amongst dusty tomes and glittering stars, the prick of high-quality wine and incubus teeth.
He is the future. The future of our royal house.
Never betray him. Never allow anyone to harm him.
Be his shield, his guide, his mentor…
…be his protector.
Agony ignited with strength ten times greater than before, and Millie curled into a writhing ball upon the ground; arms clutched around her stomach as it threatened to upheave its contents. Was it his own pain, the pain of his heart, which ravaged her body? Goosebumps sprung upon her slick flesh, heat boiled behind her eyes until tears flowed freely; not from the physical agony, but from the sheer sadness which hooked into her very heart. Deeper than any sea, darker than any void; a bubbling pit of suffocating failure and shame.
Master Andrealphus…
…I am sorry…
…I have failed you…
Grit in her gut, Millie slammed a fist into the ice and cracked it; forcing the images and thoughts from her head. Altogether, the cacophony stopped; leaving her to heave deep of the stark, cold air and fill her lungs. Tears froze into tight rivers upon both cheeks; rivers which wracked a shiver down the imp’s spine. So wrapped up in the sensations of absorbing the soul, Millie hardly registered the ground gently sinking beneath her. Paimon’s voice returned to her mind, and she welcomed it with unending gratitude; comparatively, the most curative of balms for such harrowing emotions.
You have done marvelously, little one. Let us return to my chamber and reunite you with your friend, as a reward for such efficient service.
The last she saw of the frozen manor, before slipping beneath the black entirely, was Andrealphus’ cold corpse; its arm outstretched towards the glass casket.
𒋝
It must be done…if I am to see my daughter again.
Flecks of darkness flittered from Stolas’ rapidly decaying form and into the brilliant, shining skyline; all beyond the small form of a teary-eyed child.
“Mister…don’t die! I don’t know what to do, but I don’t want you to die! Please…” Blubbering hiccups accompanied a stream of sadness; tiny talons raised to try and wipe them away. How many times had Stolas experienced those same tears; felt them upon his face, seen them on others? With an outstretched, crumbling hand, he reached out towards the child.
“Shh, child…do not cry. There is something…you can do…” he croaked, feeling the lifeblood within his body thin as it dried more and more. “Take my hand…”
Without question, the tiny owl reached out with both hands and grabbed Stolas’ one; a gleam of hope in those innocent, red eyes.
“Good…now…don’t let go…”
A faint thread of magical essence slithered up Stolas’ arm, the last that he could spare, and crossed from the palm of his into the child’s body. Slowly, it traveled deep into the core which all living beings possessed; mortal and immortal, sinner and saint, pauper and king, then gently coiled about it, as a mother would cradle a baby. Two sources of magic glowed within Stolas’ vision, as he watched the tendrils of himself take root; all to the oblivious gaze which blinked at him.
“Is it working, mister? Are you feeling better?”
Pieces of himself floated back into place, as if time itself had been reversed. Slowly, strength returned in small increments, pain faded with low, but steady intensity, and Stolas’ breathing steadied. He could feel their connection, a slow siphoning of magical energy from one into the other, flow like pure stream water. Waters of life, rejuvenating and splendorous, pumped through Stolas’ body, yet more was required. Over time, he detected small alterations within the young owl; woozy eyelids, an off-centered twitch, the gentle graying of a polished piece of plumage…
“I…feel sleepy…” His beak parted wide with a yawn and wrenched away control for but a prolonged moment.
“Stay awake, little one; we are almost finished. You are doing so well.” Forgive me, even though I do not know your name nor you mine; I beg your forgiveness…
The glowing pool of magic within dimmed, while attached tendrils thrummed with stolen power. Drained, weakened, the little owl slumped forward, only to be swiftly embraced in a hug. Stolas clutched his nameless savior close, so close that every beat of his eternally grateful heart etched itself onto what remained of memory. Quietly, sweetly, sadly, he muttered in its ear.
“Thank you, child. You have performed a great deed of bravery this day. You have saved my life. My daughter and I shall never forget your kindness…”
“…it’s…cold…”
Knelt upon his knees, in the light of the sun, a tear slid down Stolas’ cheek. “Shh…all will be well, I promise you. Now, close your eyes…and rest.”
The final flicker of light within the child faded; snuffed out as a weak candle in the wind. A soul-shattering sob latched itself firm within Stolas’ chest; feeling the form in his arms hollow out and grow heavy, even as the entirety of his strength returned. Upon a scarred visage, forever marked by fire, the monster known as prince wept upon the newly made corpse.
“I’m sorry…I’m so, so sorry…”
Throughout his journey, he had committed atrocious acts of barbaric savagery, but none so gruesome as what had just been done; a sin so immense not even the shoulders of royalty could bear its weight; one which would haunt him for the remainder of eternity. Slender arms relaxed, only so he could cradle his savior’s head in the palm of his hand, and as he did, an overwhelming sensation absorbed every nook and cranny of his being; one so terrible that even the Bloody Prince of Stars quivered.
What he had done…was wrong.
Across the grasslands, the wind wailed and howled as if in mourning. Its biting touch sank to the bone, as nearby wildflowers wilted and turned…then arched to face the opposite direction. Upon the horizon, bathed in the overwhelming radiance of the sun, a great and terrible shadow appeared; forged into a humanoid shape. Tall, uneven horns jutted above a flowing mane of hair, facial features masked beneath an impenetrable veil of darkness. Each step was guided by a mighty trident; it’s prongs thick, and haft wrapped in the cylindrical shape of an unknown object. With every step, nature trembled, and the skyline morphed into a twisted, volcanic mass of sunspots and roaring arcs of fire.
Barren air blasted against Stolas, scalding his eyes and singing his feathers; threatening to set them alight. A raging inferno devoured the blue and white of the sky, until the very stars themselves glared in the vacuous expanse of space; brought right unto the rim of the world, their brilliance humbling and blinding all at once. From that canvas of the cosmos, they plummeted down with shining streaks of stardust in a steadily growing cascade of apocalyptic devastation. Amidst the collapse of prophecies, the dark figure towered above him; hellfire for eyes and magma for tears, weapon planted firmly into the earth, as a heart-shaped tail tip lashed about.
An alabaster serpent slithered out from behind the feminine form, tongue tasting the hell-scorched heavens before it’s glimmering, scaled curvature arced to face the Goetia. Fangs bared, in a sky-rending hiss, and shadows evaporated in a glorious explosion of gold. Bathed in a shower of resplendent light, its edges sharp as fractured glass, stood none other…than Charlie Morningstar, the Princess of Hell. One horn was broken, shattered at the halfway mark while its counterpart stood whole; both wreathed in a shining halo, closed by the presence of a dark, ever-burning flame. The serpent draped itself up and around her shoulders, never taking its eyes off Stolas for even a second; contempt as potent as the deadly venom which surely nested in its fangs.
Magical lines of crimson constantly fluctuated along a monstrous, blackened arm; the end of which squeezed the coiled shaft of her trident. Mere fractions of her true self, the princess’ demonic features mingled amidst a nurturing guise; her soft nose, red painted cheeks, and red dress alluring to a gentler nature. Yet, as she towered over Stolas, disgust and disappointment clearly writ beneath locks of honey-gold hair, nothing but despair filled his heart.
A flicker of rage raced across her face, as both eyes rested upon the motionless child clutched against his chest, and a chunk of meteoric rock crashed into the landscape; leaving a smoking crater in its wake. Another fell from on high and obliterated a nearby tree with a whistling, violent descent; the flames of which quickly set the splintered wood alight. Without a deterrent, the rage of stars spread like a contagion across the wildflowers and grass until a field of fire swallowed half of all life. In awe of the Princess’ power, of which he needed no proof to substantiate his inferiority of, Stolas gripped the tiny body tighter.
“Prince Stolas, of the Ars Goetia."
Princess Morningstar’s voice rooted him to the spot; regal and poised, wounded and vengeful, a symbiotic joining of opposing elements.
“You have killed your own innocence; pure, empathetic, and kind. In your darkest hour, he offered a hand of friendship out of the kindness of his heart…an act which you sought fit to reward with death, so that you may live.”
“I…” he gasped, arms wracked with an unstoppable tremor. “…had to…for my daughter…”
“No, you did it because you are weak. Your selfishness, your fear, your anger; they have ruined you. You could not forgive; couldn’t rise above the trials thrown your way, and so you spread misery wherever you go.” Charlie’s voice softened, albeit by a hair. “The Goetia were meant to help the people of Hell, my people, just as I am destined to. Their sins can be forgiven. They can be redeemed, if given the chance; but you took that chance away from them. By killing the innocence in your heart, you have proven unworthy of it; of your station, of your power, and so as Princess of Hell…I will take back what my father gave you.”
Blinding speed.
A streak of white.
Agony.
Stolas froze, the serpent’s fangs impaled deep within his chest. The child in his arms collapsed into ash and drifted away upon the winds, as venom pumped deep into his blood. Paralyzed, but still completely cognizant of the pain, he watched and gurgled as the snake chewed through his chest and burrowed inside. Splitting, searing, brain-melting sensations roiled throughout every nerve ending, and in a secondary burst of additional punishment, choked out as piercing jaws clamped around his still-beating heart. Helpless, the once-mighty prince watched on, mortified, as he felt it pull away from his body. Then, with a final snap, a torrent of black blood sprayed from his gaping chest cavity; the previously pristine serpent soaked in corruption, a black, foggy, and pulsating heart held in its mouth.
Dutifully, the animal returned to its master, and dropped the organ directly into her open, waiting palm. “Monster; for betraying your duty to the denizens of Hell, I, Charlie Morningstar, curse you forevermore. May your desires forever be out of reach. May you never feel the love of another. May your madness be forgotten to time.” Strength, the likes of which Stolas had never experienced, squeezed upon his heart; and with a sickening wet squelch, mashed it to pulp.
Blood surged up his throat and burst from his beak; the odorous miasma of brimstone rank in the air. Not even his own death could be stalled by the potent paralytic venom which burned in his veins; leaving him immobile and helpless, only able to watch as the cataclysm around him blurred into smears of chaotic color. In his final moments of consciousness, her words rang in his ears.
“May you burn forever, in the Curse of the Lightbringer.”
Notes:
Skip Chapter 20, and proceed to Chapter 21 in the link below.
(Ch. 21)
Chapter 20: Ash in the Wind
Summary:
-----(NOTE: This is the chapter you read if you chose "NO" in Ch.18)-----
Stolas reaches his limit. As the consequences of his actions finally catch up with him, he basks beneath a glorious sun and accepts his fate.
Millie is transported to the manor of The Mighty Marquis Andrealphus, in order to fetch him for the Goetian ritual. While there, she discovers a side of him she never knew, and a warning.
Together, Vassago and Alastor seek the beast which is attacking the Hideaway, only to find that it nor Vaggie are anywhere to be seen.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
No…I…I can’t…
Blood splattered upon vibrant blades of green grass, as a ragged cough of rotten phlegm racked up Stolas’ chest. Each breath was a heave of agony, every second a scrap of himself lost to the wind, as the reaper’s touch hovered from the heaven’s; uncaring, unfeeling: fair and indiscriminate. He thought of Octavia, of Blitz, and of everything he was leaving behind. Even Vassago flashed across his mind, if only to instill a sense of regret.
Maybe his friend had been right all along.
Was he even worthy to consider Vassago a friend, after all he had done? All the pain he had inflicted, all the lives he had altered for the sake of quenching the vengeance which had once burned in his soul; did he deserve to have a companion such as he, or anyone as righteous? Perhaps it was karmic, perhaps not, but as less and less of him remained Stolas considered that perhaps none of it truly mattered anymore.
What was left of his hand gripped the earth; it was the last time he’d ever experience such a texture. Soft, malleable, pure; oh, what he couldn’t give to return to his garden, to see his daughter’s beaming smile once more. Such thoughts were harbingers of tears, not for himself, but for Octavia.
“My starlight…” he coughed; the mere will to exist a fading luxury. “…I am sorry…I was a terrible father, after all. In the end, I couldn’t find you, couldn’t save you…please, forgive me…” With what strength he could muster, the once mighty prince sat up; knelt in the dirt and stared towards the heavenly blue sky. Tears streamed down his face, and upon his disintegrating, blackened body; they glimmered as shooting stars to the ground below.
A tiny form surged forward and latched itself to what remained of him, as if it would help glue him together like some ceramic doll. “I don’t understand, mister; what is magic? Don’t disappear, please; I’ll find some! I’ll find some magic; just…” Stolas watched as the reflection of himself trembled, barely able to maintain its composure; such a brave little thing, all for a stranger. Something about such raw kindness, the sort only naivety and innocence could produce, brought a soft smile to his face. “…just don’t go…”
Tenderly, as a father would lay their hand upon a newborn chick, Stolas rested a hand upon the child’s head. “Shh…” he hushed, in a tone so sweet it recalled memories of comforting his daughter; and a dash of bitter truth followed at the reminder he’d never see her again. Yet, he could not stand to see those tears. “…it will all be okay…”
Another person, one who he loved with the whole of his heart, emerged in his mind. Another regret, another stake of failure and sadness driven straight into the depths of his heart; one which he could never rectify.
“Blitz…I wish I could have told you, shown you, how I truly felt…but I’ve gone and made a muck of things…heh…” The prince closed his eyes, reached towards the sky, and felt his legs vanish into the wind. “If this moment is to…to…be my last, it needs to be said; just once…I love you…”
Within him, pain unlike any he had ever experienced crested upon the highest hilltop of his soul; perched as it peered across time. All the events of his life raced before his eyes with blinding speed; a childhood riddled with overwhelming responsibility and pressure, his marriage and the abuse which stemmed from it, the love he found in a lifelong friend…too many moments, too many emotions, but all undeniably a part of him. As the last of his memories caught up to present day, loaded with all of the regrets, the fears, the happiness, the nostalgia, and pain that he ever carried; the culmination of his life teetered over the edge…and plummeted into the fading essence of his soul. A bittersweet smile upon his beak, Stolas sighed as the pain washed away, and witnessed himself scatter into pieces amongst the breeze beyond a child’s tears; one final thought at the forefront of his mind.
And so…the monster is felled…by a child’s kindness…heh…
𒋝
Frigid air surged upwards; its bitter swarm of teeth a jumpstarting assault upon Millie’s senses. In a place unfamiliar, she plummeted from on high, surrounded by reflective walls of ice. Survival instinct activated, she swung her axe outwards; its bite feral enough to scrape through the flesh of nature with a sparking screech. Several meters down, the blade’s edge sank deep enough to hold, and gravity jolted her to an abrupt, violent stop.
With an immediate demise put on pause, inquisitive eyes scanned her surroundings. Royal tapestries, towering stained-glass windows, a massive staircase, and frozen chandeliers; it was a palace. Vacant, but not fully abandoned; for the tapestries had yet to thin and the armor had yet to rust, she found herself momentarily alone. Low enough to not break her legs, Millie dropped from on high and welcomed the echo of her impact as another soul.
A lonely, hollow wind gently howled through the palace foyer; a phantom tone which drew the imp’s attention. No one, yet instinct nudged her with the warning that the building wasn’t entirely vacant of danger. Millie hoisted her axe and dropped the haft onto her shoulder, both to spur her mind and body for whatever work lied in wait.
“Finding the pieces of a puzzle…” she muttered to herself, in an attempt to get mental gears oiled and running at full speed. “…wonder what he meant by that.”
An astute thought, my dear.
Millie’s skin shuddered from scalp to hoof at the warm, liquid tone that oozed down the back of her brain like skittering spider leg, and she leapt on the spot. “What the—how are you talking to me?! I didn’t let you in m’ah head!”
Magic, plain and simple. Did you expect me to send you in search of something unknown? However would you be able to find what I require without a guiding hand?
Curled fingers scratched at her scalp; a thousand spiders nesting in her hair, crawling with their hairy little legs and toes with unknowable menace. Each scratch made her skin prickle and shudder; not even the sketchiest alley or dankest, darkest cellar chamber caused such a degree of discomfort. Was this what Blitz felt, whenever Paimon spoke? It was horrible !
Oh, do behave; you shall grow accustomed to the telepathic connection in due time. For now, focus your attention on the task at hand. You must locate Marquis Andrealphus and bring him to me, beneath the halls of Goetia Manor. He is one of the three.
“I’m guessing this is his place, then.” Perhaps some measure of gratitude was required, because due to the crawling sensation in her head, the cold’s bite was entirely disabled. No visible breath, no shivers, no goosebumps; a natural ailment overpowered by an unnatural terror. “But…what if he doesn’t want to come along?”
Allow me to worry about that. All you need to do is find him. Start in the sculpting chamber; the marquis is an artistic sort and often chisels well into the twilight hours.
“…and I’m just supposed to know where that is?”
On your left; towering wooden door, difficult to miss. Oh, and do watch your step. We wouldn’t want to stir the Hellcats which patrol these grounds.
Somewhere above, upon the reaches of the second floor, the sound of an opening door echoed through the halls and down the stairs into the lobby. Millie tensed, and on instinct, bolted left…only to feel the ground slip out from under her! Sharp pain shot through her face but only lasted for a moment before being drowned by adrenaline. Clacking claws reached her ears; far enough away that there might still be a chance to remain hidden from whatever was making them, and so she picked herself up and paced every step.
With the slippery state of the mansion floor, hooves slid about with ease; perhaps too much, as Millie found herself approaching the sculpting room door at high speed! “Shit, shit, shit!” she hissed, shoulder braced for impact. Her skull rattled as sturdy wood stopped her impromptu skating, but she quickly shook it off and gripped the thick, metal ring which acted as the door’s handle. A massive door required a massive handle, and massive things were often rather heavy; that was exactly the case.
Millie strained with all her might, muscles taut to compensate for poor footing. Abs flexed until they hurt, but the door barely moved an inch, and the footsteps only grew louder. Anxiety flared in the form of heated huffs out of her nostrils, until the lack of progress enraged the imp and instead of pulling, switched to pushing with all her might!
At the first shove, the door eased open, and Millie slid inside; safe from whatever stalked the estate halls.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she slammed the heavy doors shut behind her. Relief, temporary as it was, injected into her body as a counteragent. She was safe, but for how long? There was no telling if anyone heard her close the door, and as she considered finding something to try and bar it, the sudden presence of a voice nearly made her leap from her skin.
“How did you get in here?”
The room was filled with curtains suspended by metal rods, similar to those found in hospital wards. They stretched from wall to wall; a practical but flimsy way to split the space in two. As her head whipped about towards the direction of the voice, she saw no one, so stepped away from the door in search. “That’s…kinda rough to explain, because I’m not one-hundred percent sure myself. M’ah name’s Millie, and I’m here looking for someone important; a marquis.”
“There is no marquis here. You have wasted your time.”
Gentle clinking and clattering of metal rose from beyond the curtain, growing louder the closer she drew. Her eyes scouted about for a seam that she could pass through, but in the folded thickness of bunched fabric, doing so proved challenging. “That can’t be right; this is his home right, so that means—”
“It means that you either have broken into the wrong abode or he’s gone out for a spell. Either way, you should leave.”
“I know for sure this is his mansion, which means if you’re here, you might know where he is.”
“I’m not in the habit of entertaining burglars.”
“Good thing I’m not a burglar, then.”
“Whatever you are, you certainly don’t belong here. I shall not say it again: leave.”
“Look, this is important! I’m not gonna just turn tail and pack it in because some stranger tells me I should. King Paimon sent me here to—”
“The King of the Goetia hasn’t been seen in years. Do you seriously expect me to fall for such a simple lie?”
“I ain’t lying!”
Still unable to find a seam, Millie flattened her belly against the ground and brought her axe with her. If she couldn’t go through, she’d just go under. Luckily, she crawled under the veil easily and popped up the other side without any trouble. A tiny, packed kingdom of tables stood about, littered with medical equipment and leather-bound tomes. Buckets, towels, rags, and discarded gloves bunched around rolling monitors; all with a vibrant screen of numbers and gyrating lines. “What the…?”
To her right, a lanky figure stretched tall like a withered tree in the dead of winter. Dressed in a bloody medical gown, face masked stretched over a pointed beak, and hands covered by thick, long gloves; stood looking away from her. Its attention was, instead, focused entirely on what was beside it; an occupied bed. An unconscious incubus lay within, a multitude of tubes plugged into muscular, bandaged arms which ran into the multitude of monitors beside the bed. One of the figure’s large hands lay rested upon the lust demon’s forehead; magical sigils rotating and glowing upon the back of his glove. At the bottom of the gown, several diamond-patterned, white tail feathers peeked free across the ground; wrapped in a dim, cold glow.
In an instant, Millie recognized the pair; the marquis and his friend, the very same which Stolas had battered and maimed at the sight of Blitz’s kidnapping. Although; his arm wasn’t broken anymore. Just how long had it been; a few days at most? Maybe it was a royal-exclusive privilege. After all, they had more money, better access to doctors, and not to mention magic. Before she could analyze the situation any further, fierce, cerulean eyes shot through her soul; ablaze with resentment. A single word slithered from his beak with such contempt that it forced her to take a single step back. “You…” Runes vanished, a hand moved away from red skin. “…you were there…with him.”
“And you kidnapped m’ah boss.”
“That is…true.” he admitted. Tenseness in his shoulders deflated, and he turned his head back towards the slumbering incubus; whose name Millie couldn’t recall. “Not one of my grander plans, I must admit. I had not expected my brother in law to be so…ruthless.” Mutterings tumbled from his beak as a jumble of nonsense; fingers clenching and unclenching. "Nor did I think his spellcasting far superior to my own.”
Millie planted her axe head against the ground and leaned against it, sizing up the marquis. From what she remembered and heard, he was one cocky son of a gun, but clearly that had changed. “Probably too late for apologies, at this point. What’d he do to him anyway?” Curiously, she looked towards the bed.
“Nothing that was deserved…If anything, this level of magic should have been reserved for me; inflicting it upon a lesser demon is needlessly cruel.”
“It similar to you trapping my friend in a crystal, one that was gonna kill him if the prince fucked up the spell to get him out?” Judgement was cranked to eleven; sympathy scarce, but not completely absent. Turnabout was fair play, after all, but there was still enough heart in Millie to give her empathy. Her question captured his full attention once again, both brows slightly elevated.
“By your choice of words, I assume that Stolas managed to successfully unravel the incantation? An impressive feat, but I suppose at this point I shouldn’t be surprised.” Andrealphus sighed, and in that instant, appeared as if he’d aged one-thousand years. Heavy, dark lines surrounded what was visible of his eyes, his gaunt neck protruding high above the collar of his medical attire. “I, however, have had no such luck; not that it matters to you. What is it which you truly seek, imp: revenge, satisfaction at my failure, or did he send you here to capture me?” Diamond patterns glowed with a dim menace; one which steadily grew as the seconds passed. “Be warned; I shall not go easily, not while he needs me.”
“Look, I ain’t here to fight you, kidnap you, or even be your friend. You hurt my pal, so you’re on my shitlist, but right now there’s something bigger going; something way bigger than what either of us want.”
The glow of magic receded, but not completely. It appeared as if the marquis was open to reason. “Elaborate.”
“Like I said before, King Paimon sent me here, because he needs you to do a ritual that only the Goetia can do.”
“And as I stated previously, King Paimon has been lost to us for the better half of a decade.”
“That’s because he got himself jammed up in Limbo, on some secret mission for King Luci.”
A dubious look narrowed his eyes. “The King of Hell, the Lightbringer himself, sent his most faithful follower on a secret mission…alone? His majesty could have simply snapped his fingers and had the entirety of the Ars Goetia at his side to accomplish the task. If your tale is true, why wouldn’t he have done so?”
“Because the risk was far too great.”
Millie nearly leaped out of her skin, as Paimon’s voice rang clear as day right in her ear. Andrealphus, similarly, flinched at the abrupt arrival of a third voice, but his attention locked onto a space right behind her; one which she could not see.
“…my King?” he questioned, taking an awkward, stuttering step forward.
“Yes, Mighty Marquis: ‘tis I. The imp speaks true, and your aid is required.”
Without moving from her spot, Millie turned her head…and caught the sight of her own shadow, suddenly not shaped like her at all. It was tall, powerful, broad, and possessed two crimson eyes which immediately reminded her of Stolas. There was no doubt, it was Paimon alright; guess he had enough power to manifest through her shadow now…Millie wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
“I shall do as you command, your majesty, but…”
“But?”
Andrealphus’ eyes turned to the floor, hands at his side, head bowed. “…I know it is not my place to request such a thing, but I ask thee for a boon, once I have performed this ritual she speaks of.”
“And what sort of boon do you desire from your king, marquis?”
“Prince Stolas has trapped my…well—someone of great importance to me within a spell. I have been unable to break it. Surely, such a task would be mere child’s play for your immense, legendary prowess. Please…save him from your son’s enchantment, and I shall do whatever you desire of me. Upon my honor, this I swear!”
At first, there was no response from the king; no answer, no assurance, and the featureless shade of his face provided little insight into his thoughts. Maybe it was just Millie’s imagination, but she swore, that as she too waited for him to speak, a trace of contempt rippled up her spine. Yet, she knew even then, it didn’t belong to her. Was she…experiencing Paimon’s emotions, through their symbiotic connection? It was a thought which she kept to herself, although wondered if he could somehow read her mind.
“Very well; aid me, and I shall break the enchantment which holds the incubus.”
Andrealphus sank into a deep bow, “Thank you, your majesty; I shall join you immediately.” As he rose from his gesture of immense gratitude and respect, the slow scrape of a door echoed through the massive chamber, and a new voice traveled past the curtains.
“Master Andrealphus, is everything well? Mishka and Sasha have been behaving strangely before this door…” Paimon slipped from sight; Millie’s shadow snapping back into proper position across the ground.
“Yes Edmund, everything is fine. Come, there are important matters which require your elucidation.” Mere seconds later, an imp stepped through the wall of white; goat-like horns, slicked back gray hair, a scarred chin, and the deepest blue eyes Millie had ever seen. He was dressed from hoof to neck in a servant’s attire; a pressed, black suit, with white gloves to cover his hands and coattails to flank his tail. She was reminded of the outfit Moxxie wore, whenever he started talking about opera too much.
Upon sighting her, a guarded and practice tautness flexed in his neck and shoulders. “I was…unaware that you had a guest, my lord. Forgive me for their intrusion; they must have snuck past me.” No longer in regard to his master, the imp’s lips scowled, hands clasped behind his back. “How did you slip by the wards?” he asked, attention completely locked in on her.
“By royal means, Edmund.” Andrealphus interrupted, before she could even speak her peace. “As such, the specific how's are irrelevant. Simply understand that I must leave the estate for a time; during which, I leave Jesse in your care.”
“Do you know when you shall return?”
“No, but once I do, it will be with the means to wake him from his mental entrapment.”
Edmund’s tail stopped moving entirely and the gentle creak of tightened fabric clenched. “You have discovered a cure, my lord?” Hope peppered his tone, but his expression remained tightened; as if the simple thought of even daring to dream frightened him. “Through the arrival of this…stranger?”
“The name’s Millie, fancy britches; and yeah, it’s all squared away so long as things go smooth.”
Whether it was her accent, her vocabulary, or simply manners; Millie didn’t know, but something caused the butler to shoot a vicious stink eye in her direction and sized her up and down. “By what means does a Wrathian come to possess royal influence?”
“The kind that put me close to a prince; one who’s about to fuck everything up unless I do what his daddy says.” With a mighty hoist of her axe, and a loud grunt of effort to boot, she planted its haft upon her shoulder with an audible thud. “Now, we gonna gab till the sun goes down or are we gonna actually get some shit done?”
Master and servant exchanged a silent look; unspoken words passing between them as the seconds ticked on. It was Andrealphus who eventually broke the silence, taking off his medical mask as he spoke. “Trust in me, Edmund. I must free him, no matter the risks to myself.”
A slow inhale surged into the imp’s nose, raised his chest, then rushed out with a reluctant, defeated aura. Both of those startling blue eyes shut tight and for but a moment, his forehead twitched into an expression of sadness and concern. “Do promise that you will return unharmed, Master. If anything were to happen to you and I was not there to prevent it…”
With his mask removed, Millie watched as what appeared to be a small but genuine smile gently unfold across the marquis’ beak. “Do not fret. I give you my highest assurance that nothing will keep me from returning safe and sound.”
“It is not you I harbor any doubt towards.” Pointedly, he shot a glare towards Millie but otherwise refused to elaborate.
Offering naught but a continuously warm smile, Andrealphus turned from his butler. “Allow me to slip into something far more travel appropriate, and we shall leave posthaste.” he spoke over his shoulder, then vanished from sight beyond the veil of curtains.
A moment of silence passed between her and Edmund, and after a short time, she looked over towards the occupied bed once more. Judging by all the machines, he was at the very least alive, but how long was unknown. “What’s his name?” she asked, nodding towards the seemingly slumbering demon.
"...Jesse."
Surprised to even get that much out of the dour servant, she ran with her good fortune and dared to ask another question. “What’s he like?”
“Foolish.” It was such a curt response but lacked any punch behind the clarity of tone. “Brave, but foolish. Filled with love but tries too hard to be worthy of it. No regard for personal safety…when it comes to matters of the Master.”
“Uh-huh; so, in other words, a good man.”
“…yes; I like to believe so.”
A flicker of sadness caught itself in his words, and their sound softened Millie’s expression. She didn’t know him personally, not to mention he was shacked up with Andrealphus, but she couldn’t help the pangs of empathy which drummed on her heart. “Got any issues with your boss hanging out with a guy like that?”
“I did, at first; but I quickly discovered that I was worrying about all of the wrong things. Companionship is a far greater treasure than most of us realize; something which my master was rather destitute of until they met.”
“You couldn’t have been his friend? I’m friends with my boss; it ain’t that hard.”
“It’s not a measure of difficulty. The simple truth is that my master needed more than just a friend.” Edmund’s head turned towards the bed, upon which a heavy sigh deflated him in all but posture. “Someone to temper his loneliness, his anger, his doubts; to comfort him in his darkest moments, without fear of contractual obligation muddying the waters.”
Millie shuffled on her feet and shifted the axe along the back of her shoulders; bending her arms until they hooked comfortably about the haft. “Giving out a ton of information to someone you don’t trust…”
“I say it so you will heed this warning. If anything happens to my master on this journey, and both he and Jesse are lost forever…” Edmund turned, eyes narrowed, sharpened; rife with a killer’s intent. “...you and everyone else involved will be held personally responsible. No matter how long it takes, no matter where you go, I shall bring it upon myself to ensure you do not walk away from such a deed unpunished.”
At his words, the axe shifted back until it slid into her hands; gripped tight between them. “Been there before; didn’t like how I came out the other end. I’ve already lost people, and I ain’t about to go losing anymore; so, if push comes to shove and I end up with you pounding at my door, you better bring everything you fucking got.”
“Have no doubt that I shall. When one has lost everything they love, there is no other course. All that exists is vengeance, so that their memory may be honored and those who struck their presence from the world punished. To do any less is an insult to their memory, to how important they were, and that you truly loved them…with every fiber of your being.”
In his eyes, buried deep within those frozen, ocean blue hues: the truth. Those words weren’t simply to cow her resolve, as one would intimidate someone to avoid conflict altogether, but to declare his honest intent and share a glimpse into his mind. Millie shared a similar sentiment; perhaps it was all they held in common. Both of lower station, possessed of great affection for those they followed along with a willingness to rip the world apart should their lives be threatened. While Edmund didn’t look like much of a fighter, a gnarled pit of instinct warned her that motivation was everything; that anyone was capable of immense violence, no matter their appearance.
A lesson she’d taken to heart, ever since seeing what Stolas could do.
“I guess…” she lingered on the thought, feeling it slowly germinate in her mind. “…the only thing to worry about is, once it’s all over and those who wronged ya are deader than dirt, if the people you fought for recognize ya anymore. You’d think wherever they go, they’d want to watch you be happy; just like you were then they were alive. I think it’d make them sad, seeing you miserable.”
“Happiness and honor aren’t mutually exclusive qualities; better to be an honorable soul than a damned wretch. Sacrifice, determination, accountability; those are the qualities of which we should all be possessed. If something happened to my master, and I failed to be there to stop it, that failure rests upon my shoulders as his guardian. What other penance could I seek, than the sacrifice of my own body and happiness to bring his killer to justice? What greater apology could I dare provide? There is none.”
Memories of Loona’s body, held in Stolas’ arms, flashed across Millie’s mind. The pain of that moment was fresh as ever; unchanged by the passage of time. Blitz’s screams, Stolas’ tears, the heart-wrenching sadness which had struck her at the sight of such a sudden and unexpected death... All of it made her lips slowly slip into a frown; able to see the logic in Edmund’s philosophy but unwilling to fully adopt it as her own. She had been more worried about Moxxie, dead set on making sure her husband wouldn’t meet the same fate, than helping her best friend when he needed it most. Guilt, ugly and vile, soured her expression into deeper depths of negativity. If she hadn’t immediately chased after Moxxie, he might not have lived, but what had it cost?
Her friend had turned into a monster, made a deal with an occult king, all in a bid to undo his failure as a father. There was no guarantee Paimon wasn’t lying about being able to bring her back, and maybe if Millie had been there for him…they could’ve both saved Moxxie together without having to strike a deal at all. Had her choice cost him his soul? Was she even accountable for his choices? Maybe not, but she definitely influenced them…
Lost deep in her own thoughts, Millie didn’t even hear the doors open. The marquis had returned, dressed in the attire which she had first laid eyes upon him in; a regal white gown, decorated with crystals, and a large fur collar. His sudden appearance caused her to jump, which then caused him to blink.
“If you are prepared, we have dawdled long enough. Take me to the site of this ritual, so that we might be done with it posthaste. I would hate to keep his majesty waiting.”
𒋝
“By the Fallen…”
Vassago gasped as he and Alastor arose into a void of white. Fragments of reality, mere angular cubes of geometric oddity, floated within the empty. All which had existed outside of the hideaway was gone; the protective deterrent of an unwelcoming swamp vaporized in favor of vast nothingness. There were no scents, no sounds, not even the presence of heat nor cold, and it appeared to stretch on forever. ‘Twas an endless kingdom of light, but without its counterpart; an unwelcoming abyss of maddening clarity so pure, that even the Goetian prince struggled to keep his eyes fully open.
“Someone has redecorated…” Alastor hummed, then tapped his cane upon the ground beyond the stairs. Wherever they were, the ground appeared to still exist in some capacity. The results were enough to gift Vassago with the confidence to fully step into the realm ahead; one which he knew nothing of, even with his powers of divination and sight. “…one who clearly enjoys the aesthetic of a padded cell.”
“I see no beast; perhaps it has already fled?”
“Vagatha is nowhere to be seen either. It’s likely she has already driven it away.”
Gaze cast to what used to be the far shore, the parrot peered through his golden shades in search of the exist. He found none.
“¡Mierda! the door is gone. We are trapped.”
A pleasant, unbothered hum rose from behind; one which carried the dulcet tunes of a jazz record. Surprised, Vassago turned and beheld his companion scribbling odd symbols into the air with his sharp fingers. They were unlike Goetian runes: elegant and ever-winding, as those which Alastor scribed were jagged and sharp. Green light fizzled from each, as if their power was too great to be completely contained. Two theories leapt to his learned mind; either the magic was unstable by nature, or something was interfering with its flow.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling an old friend, of course. What else is one to do in times of crisis?” Sparks of green spat upon the ground; their glow short-lived but oh-so dazzling. Before long, a singular line of strange symbols hovered in the air. “Hopefully he still remembers how to answer.” Then, they all curved into a circular shape, like that of a rotary phone. Alastor tapped upon each fabricated number with the tip of his claw, a hum in his throat all the while. He was awfully calm; the trust in this ‘friend’ must be great indeed.
Several pulses of light flashed dimly in the air, yet no sound emanated from them. Vassago was no stranger to magical means of communication, but this one was completely new to him; which in itself was an oddity. Where had such power come from? An odd, perplexing curiosity filled him, only to metamorphose as the line of symbols suddenly clattered to the ground like a pile of bones!
Possessed by an unknown command, the fragmented lines of Alastor’s magic magnetized towards ones another in a chaotic flurry of clacking and snapping. At first, their goal was unclear, but within seconds the beginnings of a humanoid shape emerged amongst the pile. Two legs, three toed feet, a boxy torso, thin arms, broad shoulders; as humanoid as humanoids could be; but then…a spindly line snapped into place just above the back waist, wings formed behind the shoulders, triangles clicked to formation atop its head, and what looked to be a hat formed between them.
With a jolt, as if shaking off the effects of a deep freeze, the tiny stick figure came to life! No bigger than a child’s doll, it flapped its wings, shook its head, and raised its hands to get a good look at itself. Then, a deep growl squeaked out of it, “Alastor…what is it this time?” Odd; the creature possessed the features of a cat, yet also those of a bird. Seeming to sense Vassago’s thoughts, the tiny figure turned his direction and pointed. “Who’s the pigeon?”
“In a moment, my good man; we haven’t even exchanged pleasantries yet. Tell me, how are your wings doing? Are you still bed-ridden?”
“They put the new ones in earlier; still getting used to them. They’re nice, but…also weird. Don’t know if I’m a fan of ‘em yet.” To accentuate, both wings steadily flapped while ensuring the hybrid creature’s feet stayed grounded. “As for the bed thing; they got me walking. I’m a little shaky sometimes, sore as hell too, but good.”
“Are you flight capable?”
A long sigh dumped free from its mouth through a warbling, compressed filter of high-pitched sound. “It’s fifty-fifty. What do you want?”
“Tell me, do you recall the old days of traipsing about with Charlie Morningstar, the Hazbin Hotel, and its eventual fall?”
“…the fuck kind of question is that? You think I could forget?”
“Good, then you should remember where it once stood. I need you to go there immediately and open the old hatch which used to sit behind your bar.”
“Why?”
“Because something has come for us. Vagatha is missing, the hideaway has come under attack, and the way out has seemingly been destroyed. I need you to create another one.”
“What if I say no?”
A sharp crackle spit hewed the air, and Alastor’s ears twitched, his gaze intense and aimed by a rather sharp nose. “That would be unwise. Saving us is the least you can do after you abandoned—”
“Hey!” the little figure barked with surprising ferocity, jabbing up from below. “I didn’t abandon anything.”
“Ah, but you did. You gave up the search for Princess Morningstar far too early, took our star attraction, and left us.”
“Angel wanted to go.”
“Yet he shouldn’t have.” Alastor’s grip tightened upon his cane, but a jackal-like grin remained stretched across his face. “He should have stayed with his family; the family that she made for us, the family which has been working tirelessly to find her and bring her home. I severed our contract; returned your powers to you so our chances at finding Charlie would be the best they could be, and you quit. I gave you time, I gave you space, I gave you more power so that one day you might be swayed back onto our side and do the right thing; so, I have been more lenient with you than you deserve, Husker.”
Vassago listened in complete silence, disconnected from the conversation as much as physically possible. Clearly, he wasn’t meant to speak during the exchange, even though potential inspirations leapt to mind; ones which may have served to calm the tension between them. The history of the hotel was a lot to take in, and even still it seemed there was much he wasn’t privy to. As an outsider, perhaps it was all he would ever deserve; and so, he listened.
“So now, I offer something with far more value to you than Charlie’s friendship.” Red claws gestured towards him, and Vassago quickly latched his sights onto the boney figure. “This is Prince Vassago of the Ars Goetia. He is the same rank as Prince Stolas, and thus just as powerful. He can break the contract you have woven. Rescue us, then he shall do exactly that, and you can return to doing whatever it is you wish.”
The one known as Husker folded its arms, its attention fixated entirely on Vassago. “If he’s so powerful, why can’t he get you all out?”
“Because there are forces at play which not even I hold knowledge of.” Finally, the prince broke his self-inflicted silence and knelt upon a knee. Lowering himself towards the little figure was a sign of respect, even if he could never fully reduce himself to such a size. “The area we stand in has been altered by some immense power; likely the very creature which has attacked the hideaway. If we are lucky, our geographical location hasn’t changed within Hell itself, which means the only way to reopen the way is from the outside. At least, that is the working theory.”
“If I do this…” Husker shuffled, looked to the side, and flicked an ear. “…you promise you can get rid of the deal I made?” Wariness ran rampant in his tone, and all body language indicated a lack of trust. Vassago couldn’t blame him, judging by his history with royalty.
“I promise.”
One last grumble rumbled from the doll. “Fine, I’ll come and save your asses, but you both better not be fucking with me!” Then, the lines which constructed its form drained of all color and crumpled to the ground in a singular heap; the line of communication disconnected.
“We should gather the others.” Vassago turned back towards the underground stairs, while thoughts of Stolas raced through his mind. He still had not emerged from The Dark Place as foretold. Octavia was still waiting for him, yet time wasn’t guaranteed any longer. What if her father never emerged? Perhaps it would be a blessing in disguise…yet another worry weighed upon his mind. First Stolas had vanished, and now Vagatha, along with the flaunted beast Pentious had been screaming about. Something had been there; something had injured Cherri, but all traces of whatever it could have been were simply gone. Too many souls had gone missing. How many more would vanish, before all was said and done?
Such ill tidings darkened his thoughts, and as Alastor’s hum accompanied him back into the hideaway, Vassago whispered a silent prayer that Octavia would still be exactly where they left her.
Notes:
Skip Chapter 21 and proceed to Chapter 22 in the link below.
(Ch.22)
Chapter 21: Limbo's Kiss
Summary:
Cursed by Charlie Morningstar herself, Stolas is thrust back into his own world. Finally free of the Dark Place, he returns to a realm changed by forces of which he has no knowledge of, as well as changes within himself. Elsewhere, Moxxie is thrust back into Mira's company...and bears firsthand witness to the horrors of Paimon's blessing.
Notes:
[Continuance from Ch.19)
Chapter Text
Dizzying darkness spat Moxxie from the sky; his existence a short-lived tumble of whipped colors and kisses of wind. Unable to think, only react, his arms wildly groped for purchase but found none. Only when the sudden appearance of ground snapped into view did he know how to properly react. Knees tucked, legs braced, he tilted his torso forward in the hopes to land into a roll and absorb the shock of impact.
Smooth, glossy rock hugged his shoulder; and where a brutal crash was expected, a slippery slide whisked him about instead. His shoulder rolled; body flipped about and planted upon its back while everything about him tumbled in pure chaos. Dizziness seized Moxxie’s brain, but as momentum died, it too abated into calm.
“Oh, crumbs…” he groaned; hand planted beside his face to straighten both eyes.
Smooth obsidian gleamed with a new, unnatural cosmic chill; as if a window to the vast, uncaring abyss had been opened. All around him, its malignant presence bore beyond his mortal shell and burrowed deep to writhe within his soul. At its epicenter stood a familiar figure; clad in rough red robes, sigils carved into enhanced horns which arched back behind a head of white fur. Around the bottom hem, a pool of blood…
“Mira?”
Her shoulder jolted upwards, the other left to hang taut and crooked. Guided by the swing of her head, the monk’s torso rotated with a sharp snap. Gangly talons drooped from the hole of her sleeves; elongated and bent by unknown forces. Her eyes were gone, replaced by a smooth, reflective and black surface; as if it were polished stone. Paimon’s sigil blazed upon it, smoke seething from every ember-laden line. The one pronounced muzzle was flattened, as if slammed back into her skull; its lips peeled back to reveal a monstrous, rounded gumline of drooling fangs.
Moxxie scrambled back in terror, a cry of fear freshly birthed within his esophagus and launched into the occult dome’s atmosphere. At the shrill yelp, Mira’s robes fell from her body and crumpled upon the ground, and her torso slowly elongated upwards… Parasitic clusters of thick crystals jutted from her skin, awash with an inner glow of dizzying, ringing light that assaulted his eyes and ears. Patches of flesh and fur were rent away by gaping wounds to reveal bone and sinew; black ichor left to leak forth like toxic sludge. Nine pairs of boney protrusions held her lower half aloft; transformed from a bipedal gait into a monstrous, centipede-like shape.
An unholy cacophony of tapping rushed forward, just before the creature launched itself at Moxxie; its gaped jaw a bottomless pit of black.
𒋝
With a start, Stolas Goetia awoke amongst ruins.
Cold sweat poured through his feathers until they were as brittle as a marquis’ cryomancy. Body weighty as stone, he pulled himself up from the ground and observed his newfound surroundings. An underground chamber hewn from rock, a pitiful trickle of light from a break in the ceiling above, and the odor of ancient, dusty bones.
Caskets of stone, upturned and half buried, littered the cavern; as did the several chambers carved deep into the walls. Further homes for the deceased, yet no bodies were to be seen. Pungent corpse dust filtered through the musky air and upturned Stolas’ beak; nothing he’d smelt before held a candle to the odor which assailed him then.
It was within that stark glimpse of intensity that recent events stormed to the forefront of his mind, and a panicked hand slammed over his heart. Where there had once been a beat, a rhythm, a cadence of life… nothing .
Princess Morningstar’s fury had been unlike anything he’d seen before. Even he, a Goetian Prince, a Fallen Angel whose spirit had plummeted into damnation at the side of Lucifer himself, trembled at the mere recollection of her wrath.
The Curse of the Lightbringer…
The title eluded his knowledge of all incantations and hexes. Not once had such words passed his desk, nor his ears. Yet, evidence of its effects bore themselves before him. His heart did not beat, but despite it, he lived. Fixated upon the nature of his new affliction, Stolas turned his gaze upwards towards the far door, then approached with newfound purpose.
Had he finally done it? Had he managed to escape out the other end of The Dark Place? Where hope had previously planted its flag of billowing ownership, only sheer curiosity remained to stake a claim all its own. Naught but stray rock and bone clamored and clacked beneath his stride, and as he braced both hands upon the elden wood, a prickle of sensation poured down his spine.
The chamber was quiet, save a sense of finality. Something told him, something nestled deep in a primordial pouch of his soul, that if he pushed out of those doors, he might just regret it.
Staying, resting, isolating; that was the safer option.
Why waste such a gift?
Stolas pondered it: his purpose. What had the journey been for? Rage, vengeance, safety, peace of mind, love…vanity. Remembrance of his loss possessed his hand to raise and touch the scarred half of his face; kissed forever by flame and blinded by angelic steel. Who were the scars for , he pondered. One had come in pursuit of his daughter; to safeguard her from those who wished to do her harm. The other came from a betrayal of trust, from an individual who he continued to allow into his life despite it.
The need to protect others…while also protecting himself: a contradiction.
To safeguard them was to throw himself in harm’s way; captured by malevolent forces seeking something from him, an Ars Goetia. To love them was to forever endanger himself; vulnerable to betrayal, heartbreak, despair…so who exactly was he trying to protect?
Violence had been the answer; swift, brutal, and just. It was his solution, one borne from desperation, anger, sadness, and a need for control. As he stood alone amongst the dead, buried either beneath the earth or within a mountain’s jagged gallbladder, Stolas realized an ultimate folly.
How could he be in control, yet unwillingly lose so much?
Venomous reprimand should have overwhelmed his mind, at such a revelation. Any previous version of himself would have sank deep into absinthe-stained cups, amongst dark, bristling, and hateful thoughts. However, none of that happened. In fact, his mind maintained a startling measure of clarity; logic untainted by emotion, as if having finally smothered its natural foil.
Before any such paradigm shifts could be utilized, he needed to ensure the dark realms, as well as his congruent realities and all which came with them, were left behind. So once again, he planted both hands upon the wooden door and pushed. Immense weight, perhaps as ancient as the cavern itself, resisted his advance with a squealing scrape and a shower of dust. Soil or body, the origin of said shavings was unimportant; even as they coated the prince’s royal attire until he resembled a chimney sweep of ole europe.
Against the tide of his unholy Goetian strength, the door’s resistant hinges howled in a final cry of defiance, then crashed outwards with infectious cracks of calcified rust. A world of stark white greeted him with utter silence, only the echo of his actions left to linger before being swallowed by an alabaster void. Cubic holes expunged levitating, stillborn squares of angular mystery; each side wreathed in ever-shifting light. Milky roots flashed with pulses of red and orange; their purpose another mystery for Stolas’ mind to digest.
Far in the distance, a cabin sat unaltered by the state of whatever world he stood within; the same which he had previously entered. There was no mistaking it. He had either returned to his proper plane…or the cabin was a simple illusion to be crushed by a cruel universe. Nothing was more fragile than a broken man’s hope.
Dust cascaded from Stolas’ body as he approached the hovel; footsteps silent as the very grave he had risen from. He noted the complete absence of the swamp, the dock, and the choir of insects with equal silence to what had bleached them from existence. Only magic of the highest tier was capable of such alteration; to scrub the essence of a pocket realm clean as if shriving love from a man’s heart. It could have only been a Goetia.
Soon, he stood upon the precipice of the cabin itself and bathed in the unnatural quiet of its presence. If there had truly been some sort of aggressive attack or anomaly, then it stood to reason that the fallen angel from before, Vagatha, stood ready and waiting behind the door. Could he expect a holy spear rammed through his gut; or, perhaps even still, a bombardment of attacks with the essence of a cornered animal?
Stolas pushed open the door and found naught but a foyer devoid of life. A cold, gray fireplace, with all the presence of a dead boulder, rested at the far end of the room. Decades of unattended dust, coating wooden and fabric surfaces alike; spawned fairies of decay to drift and flutter in what minor light shined in from outside. No music played, no clocked chimed, and no fire crackled; as if the world itself had been deactivated long ago.
A prince of gray, a king of mites, a pauper of static; all were capable of calling such a domain their own. However, Stolas only cared for what may still lay below in the crimson cathedral; and so, he strode into the immediate hallway and followed the path he and Vassago had first tread. Talons clacked with menacing tempo; so monotonous and plenty that their song crashed down the narrow stairwell at his back and his front. Flanked by his own presence, Stolas’ expression denied the existence of such a smothering sensation: blank, scarred, and indifferent.
Tarnished hues of passion and power greeted him, as he took the final step down the stairs and entered the Hazbin Hideaway for the second time. Faces he had never seen, demons he had never met, packed the massive hall from pillar to pillar in claustrophobic, writhing masses of flesh and noise. Different shapes, different sizes, but all frightened. As he gazed over the sea of strangers, the beginnings of a hush were birthed. First, one voice quieted, and its quieting in turn quieted another. In the span of a mere minute, hundreds of faces, hundreds of eyes, and hundreds of souls stared his way: quiet as the grave he had recently crawled out of.
Their silence continued, even as the prince approached; attention locked entirely upon his every move. Like mortified prey, they huddled close and shrank away the closer he drew; their army of bodies parted like the sea for the eldest of God’s sheep. No matter which direction his gaze turned, all others averted. Their forms, great and small alike, trembled in Stolas’ wake; skin pale as diamonds, clammy as a sickly sea, and tails drooped limp upon the dirty ground. Was this the true demeanor of Sinners; lowly livestock boasting and braying until a real predator made its presence known? The thought lingered as he fully passed through the parted crowd and ascended the grand stone staircase.
Familiar sconces and walls of mossy stone withered in his wake. Stolas replayed the path to Alastor in his mind; its destination having ended at a rickety iron door. That same door soon stood in front of him once again, but this time, he faced it alone. Cast ajar by unknown forces, the warm glow of fire flicked its impish tongues out beyond a dilapidated frame of metal. Where immense darkness had once barred his way, only light remained to guide him onward.
Faced once more with that which had put him through such harrowing trials, Stolas slowly gripped the edge of the rusted metal door and lingered at its entrance. Something within his still heart howled like wind through its empty chambers; an unholy, monstrous screech of death, possessed of only destruction and spite. Emotion without weight, a hollow ring was its reward; an ethereal drop of air upon a pond’s surface.
With a ragged wrench of the arm, he ripped the door from its hinges.
Instantly, an empty sensation pulled at his palm. A sinkhole of emotion, a black hole that sought to devour matter indiscriminately, forced the thick metal to bend and crumple like tin foil until a smooth marble levitated in the prince’s hand.
“Who goes there?!” A lisping hiss shot from down the hall, and the light within it diminished into mere bookmarks of illumination. Stolas looked up from his hand and squeezed down on the newly formed ball, only to find himself face to face with none other than Sir Pentious; makeshift spear in hand. As they made eye contact, the serpent gasped and slithered back an inch. The same pallid expression crawled across his large-fanged visage; his multitude of bodily eyes forced to squint as their vibrant color diminished. “What in the—”
Stolas shot from one end of the hall to the other in the blink of an eye and towered directly above the Overlord. Pentious shrieked and his weapon clattered aground; the avian prince’s half-charred face a mere centimeter from his own. To him, such blazing eyes must have been as spotlights into his very soul; for all the color drained from his sleek, black and yellow scales. The air around them vibrated at a visible frequency, Stolas’ unwavering stare resolute despite the quaking of the world. Petrified, the serpent trembled; his monocular hat trapped in a similar degree of terror.
“What is wrong?” Stolas questioned, voice dry and monotone. “You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
The gallop of rapid, thundering footsteps raised his head beyond the Overlord’s quaking, blithering form. Swift, light, but filled with enough vigor to slap the air with multiple punctuations of movement; whoever approached was likely on the smaller side. Louder and louder, they grew, until at long last the pinnacle of their power hovered just around the corner…
…and Princess Octavia sprinted into view.
Shock, joy, tears; all leapt across her face, as both of her hands raised and covered her beak. Crimson eyes glimmered like the most beautiful of crab nebulas; endless bastions of magic and majesty that leaked pure starlight.
“Dad?!”
𒋝
Moxxie unleashed a scream of defiance, as he kept agape the horrifying jaws of some twisted monstrosity. Viscus streams of saliva poured freely from stalagmite-like fangs, while an elongated, insectoid-like torso wriggled about to try and lay hands upon him. Claws groped at the material of his suit, ripping and fraying the fine threads in guts of black and white, eager to sink into the imp’s supple meat hidden beneath. With every undulating twitch, his hooves scraped backwards along the smooth, obsidian floor; the monster’s immense strength bearing down upon him!
Verminous fingers, wicked as scurrying little insectoid legs burst from the unnatural molding of crystal and flesh. Grasping, squirming, snapping, they thirsted his blood, his meat, his life. The worst of earthbound creatures, those who declared the soil their home; an infectious blight of decay roared like a stuck pig; eyeless face warped with fury he could not understand. In a bid for his life, the imp gripped the handle of a dagger with the head of his tail and stabbed with all the ferocity of a cornered animal.
A horrendous wail pierced the air; the edge of his blade found true, as it penetrated the monstrosity’s zombified hide. Black ichor sprayed forth like paint and splattered not only the ground, but Moxxie as well. An inverted umbrella of gore threatened to soak him to the bone, through every fiber of his tailored suit and pants, while he carved an ugly grimace into the flesh of the being he had once called Mira.
A great force slammed into his ribs and sent him flying. All the air in his lungs exploded outwards; head spinning and gut bones groaning, until he struck the smooth obsidian flooring and slid several feet. He bounced up, knife held at the ready in a reverse grip, only for a head splitting ringing to erupt in both ears! Nails upon his brain tissue, infected claws left to rake and cleave both hemispheres of his brain; blood oozed from his eye sockets and nose, while Moxxie squeezed both sides of his skull together to keep it all from bursting apart. Through distorted vision, the multiplied and smeared form of Mira charged forward, only to screech to a halt; her sonic sound waves all the stronger.
Fangs grit; the taste of hot sulfur bubbled atop his gums; every vibration of that cosmic song a wave to curse his soul brittle. With no recourse, he stared death in the face; bulging demonic eyes reflected in the dark, cold surface of Mira’s smoothed out face. Like a mirror…like staring into a mirror…a mirror that led to the deepest, most hellish depths of any existence that could ever be. Darker than the depths he himself spawned from. Darker than Satan’s colossal, beating, fumigating heart.
With everything he had, everything it took to not melt into a puddle of viscera, Moxxie’s lips curled into a feral snarl, and he screamed back into her face. The tip of his dagger shot upwards and buried the hilt deep inside the beast’s chin; to which it immediately wriggled and howled in pain. Unable to pry itself free, Moxxie capitalized on the moment; nothing but the desperation to survive fueling his decisions and grabbed an exposed rib. A violent yank snapped the bone in half, and as Mira’s howl escalated to greater heights, a flurry of psychotic stabs tore through rotted flesh and crystals alike.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaah!”
As if merely scalded by a splash of cold water, the beast reared away, but Moxxie wasn’t about to let it go. Frenzied hands thrusted through torrents of rotted blood and fragments of crystals, until fragmented bone plunged deep enough to stick. Without wasting a beat, he gripped another unbroken rib and snapped it off; elbow already cocked back for a follow up staking. Murder gleamed in his eyes, sharp as the makeshift weapon he gripped, and veins flared beneath crimson skin. Bloodlust ignited within his soul, and combined with the need to survive, it gave him the strength required…
…to shatter Mira’s face.
The sharpened point of snapped bone slammed deep into reflective obsidian; shattering the pearl black surface with a spider web of wounds. Cold, brilliant light poured outwards, amongst the most chilling cry Moxxie had ever heard. It was no longer that of a wild beast, or a monster from beneath a child’s bed, but of a woman.
A terrified, wailing woman.
Agonized convulsions overtook the creature and the crystals strewn about its diseased form pulsated with a ghostly light. The once consistent drone devolved into bouts of warbling, disjointed pulses; locked in pace with an ever-increasing instability. Steam rose amongst the light, as did sprays of increasingly powerful black blood to soak surrounding stone; only to vanish amongst like color, absorbed by the chamber while Mira’s lament reached a fever pitch.
Shrapnel of bone, glass, and crystal shattered in an explosion that threw Moxxie across the chamber. Hard stone slammed against his back, igniting an agonized flash of burning, pinpoint pain, and then…everything went black.
𒋝
“Octavia?”
Prince Stolas stepped past the cowering snake and directly into his daughter’s tight embrace. The strength of titans pulled against his back, all to pin it against her face; an unshakable bond between parent and child. To finally have her back in his arms, to see she had been wholly unharmed by the likely traumatic ordeal…
“You made it. You’re finally here.” A sniffle sounded against his garb. “I can’t believe it; oh, I’m so happy you’re alright!” The hug tightened, until her head turned upwards to reveal lightly smudged eyeliner had dusted white cheeks with ashen black. “But—” A hesitant hand rose with a clear destination, fingers twitching as red eyes hardened and tightened all at once. “—your face…Dad, what happened to your face…” Gentle as an angelic feather, she tentatively touched his scarred visage.
Wrapped in silence, he knelt upon a knee and leaned fully into her touch; skin and feather marred by magical flame, unafraid of familiar flesh. He hardly registered the pain; attention monopolized by her gasp of concern. “Do I frighten you, my starlight?”
Arms shifted away from around his torso, then wrapped about his shoulders…as Octavia hugged him about the neck. Cheek to cheek, her voice lowered to a soft whisper. “Never…”
Stolas hugged her back; a caring embrace which cradled her close to his face and neck. With her acceptance, he could do anything, even without the presence of a heart. “No one is going to take you from me ever again.” He pulled her closer, his grip tightened by a hair in a display of security and possessiveness. “I promise…”
“Touching.”
An alien voice snapped Stolas to his feet, Octavia tucked behind him, as a conjured blade sliced through the air with a streak of silver. At the opposite end of his levitating sword, a man he had never seen stood with an utterly ghoulish grin. Sharp nose, dark skin, blazing red hair; neatly wrapped in a pressed suit with tattered coat tails. Animalistic features of antler and ears resided proudly upon his head, but keen intelligence shined within the eyes; eyes which stood only half opened, as if relaxed in the present situation.
“Dad, wait; this is Alastor! He’s the one who saved me.”
The strange man gave a smug little half bow, the cane in his hand swapping from one palm to the next. “Prince Stolas, it is a pleasure to finally meet you at long last. I trust your journey through the Dark Place wasn’t too unpleasant?” Despite the close proximity of the enchanted blade’s tip, a mere inch from his neck, the yellow-stained grin didn’t waver. Bloody strawberry-tinged eyes met deepest pools of freshly spilled gore, as he met the Prince’s gaze head on; showing no reaction to its petrifying passiveness. “I do suppose you have a few rather burning questions which need immediate answers, hm?”
Unmoved by the clear jab at his deformity, the prince’s position remained stalwart, his mind honed and focused on controlling the blade; so focused, in fact, that he didn’t react when a tiny creature garbed in maid attire scrambled up and onto the stranger’s shoulder. A singular wide eye and a grin just as toothy as Alastor’s, beamed at his presence. “Pretty bird, you made it!” she giggled.
“Nifty.”
Nimble as a mouse, she hopped onto the tip of the levitating sword and tip-toed along its flat edge. “Did you get to stab a ton of things? Oh, I bet you did! You were in there for a bit, but your friend kept us tons of company. He’s really fun.”
“My friend.” Spoken as a statement, but sounding like a question, his mind searched for the answer; as if he simultaneously knew and didn’t know what she was referring to.
“Vassago!” she giggled with a rather spirited nod. The cyclops performed a little pirouette near the blade handle’s guard, then held out an open hand. “You promised me a feather.”
“…I did.”
“Gimme, gimme.”
So it was that Stolas gently plucked a feather from the unspoiled half of his head and held it up for Nifty to take. His payment, his gift; whatever significance it held to her, held no meaning at all to him. A piece of himself, to be used as she saw fit. Giddiness appeared to all but overtake the tiny sinner, yet she cradled the hollow shaft of her new treasure with upmost care; a gleam in her widened eye.
“It’s cold.” Grasped by intrigue, she hopped down and paced towards the unconscious Sir Pentious. “I’ve never held a cold one before; still pretty, though.” With a mischievous giggle, she tickled his face with the end of the feather.
“A being of their word, I see.” Alastor chuckled. “You and I should get along marvelously.”
Ignoring the man’s comment entirely, Stolas looked back towards his daughter. “Come Octavia, let us return home.”
As the princess opened her beak to speak, Alastor’s head canted into Stolas’ view once more and interrupted her. “I’m afraid that simply isn’t possible at the moment.” Enchanted steel sang; a resonating chime of high pitch, and space was once again created between the Goetia and the Overlord. One stood with hands raised; face split by a jesterish grin. The other; a chilling stare filled naught with malice nor threat, but of certainty. Certainty in ability, in dedication, and of speed. If the tortured soul dared, the prince would cut him down without remorse.
“You think to jail me?”
“We are all jailed, actually. For, you see, where there was once an entrance and exit to this place, there now exists neither. I have secured a means of escape, but until it arrives, no one is able to leave.” A sharp fingertip pressed down atop the blade’s tip. “You have come to the end of a long and arduous journey; why not take some time to unwind? We have tea, music, fine company…”
“So, you claim.”
“Dad, they’ve been nothing but nice.” Octavia said, as she tugged on his cape. “This place is actually pretty great. Besides, they need our help to get the princess back; and maybe…they could—y’know—help you heal?”
While concern registered clearly in both her voice and face, the accompanying emotion failed to do so entirely within Stolas. All he saw was his daughter, his only child, displaying immense concern for his well-being. It was enough to lower his weapon.
“I promise nothing.” He stated, the blade vanishing as it turned sideways; a honed edge too thin to exist within the naked eye. “Octavia does not leave my side.”
“Of course, of course; after all, you did journey all the way here just for her. I am not so cruel as to deny you her company; saddened as I’ll be by its eventual departure.” Alastor sighed happily, then bent over and nudged Pentious with the tip of his cane. “Nifty, do be a dear and fetch the wheelbarrow while I escort the prince to his colleague. Once you’re done, there will be tea in the study.”
Nifty’s head turned, “I thought you were the deer, Alastor.”
Octavia chortled then snorted at the joke. Alastor gave a low chuckle of his own, though a far less convincing version by comparison. Stolas, however, stood expressionless; not an ounce of joy to be found. ‘Twas an oddity to him, witnessing a shared moment of laughter. To think such things still existed and could be genuine. Yet, an even greater oddity pushed itself to the forefront; for since the moment he had been reunited with Octavia…
…he hadn’t felt anything at all.
Chapter 22: Horrors of the Goetia: Suffering Wrought from Good
Summary:
Moxxie finds himself back in Mira's company, who is in the middle of a mental breakdown and struggling with her own actions. As the purpose behind the ritual that Stolas began, and Paimon set out to finish, is revealed; tensions flare and Moxxie is spurred to make a choice by his own moral compass. Can a single imp hope to stand against the might of the original fallen angels?
Notes:
[Continuance from Ch.20]
Chapter Text
Dizzying darkness spat Moxxie from the sky; his existence a short-lived tumble of whipped colors and kisses of wind. Unable to think, only react, his arms wildly groped for purchase but found none. Only when the sudden appearance of ground snapped into view did he know how to properly react. Knees tucked, legs braced, he tilted his torso forward in the hopes to land into a roll and absorb the shock of impact.
Smooth, glossy rock hugged his shoulder; and where a brutal crash was expected, a slippery slide whisked him about instead. His shoulder rolled; body flipped about and planted upon its back while everything about him tumbled in pure chaos. Dizziness seized Moxxie’s brain, but as momentum died, it too abated into calm.
“Oh, crumbs…” he groaned; hand planted beside his face to straighten both eyes.
Heavy panting reached his ears, followed by a stifled sob and a grunt of frustration. A bloody dagger, clenched tightly within a white-furred hand, trembled; jewels of life dripping from its edge. “I can’t…I can’t—I can’t—I can’t…”
Discombobulated by the fall, Moxxie shook his head and groaned; the first step forward shaky and unbalanced. “Mira?”
Terror filled her gasp; ears shot to the hells above as the trembling ceased. “Moxxie?” Slowly, both hands rose to her head. “It’s not—you can’t be here—it isn’t finished…I need to finish it…” Fearful mutterings, manic twitches of the shoulders, and an accompanying aura of unease advised caution.
“Mira, are you alright?” One step. “You can talk to me.” Two steps. “Whatever it is, I’m sure…” Three steps, four steps; a jaunty tread, riddled with trepidation. “…I can help you.”
A violent whirl of scratchy crimson robes and white fur snapped his way, halted his advance, and hooked his complete attention. Paimon’s seal burned across a downturned muzzle, eyes wet with tears and the fur beneath stained from those which had already fallen; a twisted mask of sadness, mania, and devastation. “I don’t—” Struck with a shudder, the muscles of her neck tensing as something unseen slid up then down, as a swallow or a gag: debilitated. “—need your help. I have…King Paimon.”
Around the edge of her robe, just peeking out far enough for Moxxie to see, was a hand, drained of all color, opened towards the sky. Within the fingers, there was rigidity, like the knotted and dried branches of a dead tree. It took little examination to realize they belonged to Striker, and whatever Mira had done to him. Testing the limits of his personal safety, Moxxie stepped even closer. “You’ve been crying.”
Both arms fell, a sniffle rang out, a droplet of blood dripped from the tip of her ceremonial dagger. “…he’s been talking…” Pain pushed the fur of her face back; a grimace for every hidden wrinkle, save her eyes. “…and I’ve been remembering our time…before…” Air rushed into her lungs, shaky inward and out, flicked tears from her gaping green eyes; cracked and dry marbles bleeding their final ounces of moisture. “He was a good soul, I swear it…I swear it…" Each iteration dipped deeper into sadness and soon oozed from her lips until the blade clattered to the ground. Mira crouched to her knees, covered her face, and peered through her fingers: mortified. “…I can’t do it.”
Finally, having drawn close enough to plant a hand upon the monk’s shoulder, he gently shushed her warbling whimpers. “It’s alright; it’ll be alright.” As he consoled her, the bravest edges of his curiosity bid a peek at what lay upon the floor; obscured by Mira’s form until now. With barely the barest preview of what he’d find, Moxxie braced himself with a fortifying inhale…and looked.
What he saw took a piece of him with it.
Rooted to the ground, Striker lay upon his back; skin traced with the rugged edges of protective, pale bark. The stump of his amputated leg had sprouted a bed of roots, which had plunged deep into the obsidian ground below. Once menacing, ringed eyes sat wooden and puppet-like within their sockets, and a hollow rattling whispered from his flower coated torso. Far more puppet than flesh; a twisted and malformed creature of foliage that once walked as a mortal, stared up at him.
“M…M…M…”
Shattered horns, transformed to hearty trunks of trees, melded his head to the floor; for they too had long taken purchase within stone. All that moved was one of two eyes, as it snapped towards Moxxie with a hollow ring. Something beyond disgust festered in his stomach…and he reached for the pistol inside of his suit jacket. As he racked back the chamber with a harsh and thunderous clack, Mira’s voice touched him once more.
“What are you doing?”
“This is wrong…” the imp hissed, grip tight upon his weapon. “…no one deserves this.” He then aimed the barrel directly at Striker’s transformed face, and for a split second, he thought he caught the tiniest twitch of a grateful smile.
“No!”
“Look at him!” Moxxie shot back, tiny body trembling, tears in both eyes. “Yes, he’s a monster! Yes, he’s done horrible things; to me, to my wife, to my family, but this has gone too far!” A powerful and emotional shudder swelled throughout slender muscles; muscles which had long proven inferior to Striker’s yet now could grant him peace. “He’s not even an imp anymore…what did Paimon make you do?!”
“It was the only way to bring him back!”
“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT BACK, MIRA?!” The barrel of his gun jutted towards Striker’s still body with sorrow; punctuated and appalled. “Someone who does this to people; because I don’t! This is…this is monstrous…this is…beyond cruel. Is this what the great King of the Goetia stands to be; just another monster in a world with too many to count already?!”
Fear seized Moxxie’s heart; fear for Blitz, fear for Millie, fear for himself. In their attempts to do to right by Stolas, to make up for their mistakes and try to mend the massive rift their failure had made, they had wandered directly into the jaws of a true monster; one who spoke with regality and logic but lacked any and all compassion. There had to be something he could do…
“My king is no monster! You have not seen what I have; the fathoms in which his wisdom swims. Compared to you and I, he is a god; a god which has always blessed my ancestors; a god which has blessed me! Hell needs King Paimon back, and he has chosen me to enact his divine return!”
While her words boomed with practiced doctrine, cracks of humanity squeaked through. Mira’s teary eyes flowed with fresh water; sizzling upon the intricate brand that permanently scarred her once-beautiful face. Doubt had manifested, held back only by the thinnest of reassurances. Moxxie lowered his firearm and stepped towards her.
“There is nothing divine about torturing the people you love.”
Shoulders went rigid, a fluffy tail sagged, newfound flickers of contemplative light flashed across sorrowful eyes, until Moxxie spoke again.
“Remember how you cried at what Stolas did to him, before Paimon got in your head? After everything he’d done, you still cared.” A glance of pity turned towards Striker, the memory of what his previous phase of torment looked like. “You said so yourself that you couldn’t bear to see him tortured, no matter the reward and no matter how right. Striker is still your friend deep down, and friends don’t do this to each other!”
A stifled gasp of pain leapt from sharpened fangs and a singular backpedal locked her stance in an imbalanced posed. “Stop talking…” she whispered, body shaking like a leaf.
“He’s suffering.”
What remained of Striker’s lung wheezed; the sound of which held more in common with cracking bark and snapping branches than anything akin to flesh. Those wooden eyes remained locked on the pair, filled with the barest traces of sentience; like a creature about to slip into mental death, teetering on the edge of an eternal dream. “M—Mi—Miraaaa…” he rasped; each syllable a crumpling pinecone. It was a chorus of sounds that chilled Moxxie’s soul to the core, raked its splintered talons upon his vertebrae, and soured the air in his throat. “…my…f—f—frieeeend…”
Pain filled her trembling gasp, upon hearing his damaged voice, and the fox demon plummeted to her knees beside her former companion. Sizzling tears struck the obsidian floor with sharp hisses, then bubbled away like acid rain. A choking sob bounced up through her body. “Why; why did you do this?! What happened to the soul I used to know?!” she wept.
“…saw…” Striker rasped out, as one of his bark-coated arms cracked in effort to raise itself. “…what they---they do…the Goetia…I---I hated them…” The arm rose higher, trembling beneath its own weight; twig-like fingers outstretched and capped with budding branches. “…I was…afraid of them…knew that if we---we stayed….t-together…nothing would—would change…” Another shuddering, cracking heave of air fought its way into his body. “I didn’t want…to be…controlled by those…monsters…”
A solemn, dour expression slipped onto Moxxie’s face, and he aimed the barrel of his pistol at Striker’s head once more. “We need to put him out of his misery.” Like a fish out of water, that mangled and malformed face balked for it with rickety breaths; attention drawn from the robed monk to the wielder of the gun.
“…th—th—thank…th—thank you…M—Moxxie…You understand; you’ve…seen.” The arm, seemingly to have been reaching out for Mira, clattered to the ground with a violent lurch of gravity.
“Doesn’t justify what you’ve done.” Sharp anger replaced pity and fear; visions of the battle upon Sloth’s train still fresh in his mind. How could he ever forget that day; her screams? It was a memory which would likely haunt him forever and stir the coals of resentment until the reaper inevitably punched his timecard. “You murdered my best friend’s daughter. I can never forgive you for that. I won’t.”
Fangs bared, the gun rattled as his aim wavered; too tight, too violent, too passionate and emotional. Moxxie gripped his forearm to steady himself, breath shortened by the maelstrom of baggage piled atop his heart.
“Fuck what you’ve done to me…but what you did to them?” Hot white clarity sharpened his pupils and his finger steadily tightened upon the gun’s trigger. “The least you deserve you is a bullet through your skull.”
Through the bark, through the agony of living, and through the fatigue of immense change…Striker somehow managed to crack a grin.
“Can’t…argue…with tha—”
*BANG!*
Wood, bone, and gray matter exploded out the back of Striker’s head; a gory splatter of carnage left behind to paint the already dark ground in a new layer of evil. Where it pooled, root-like tendrils grew and curled towards the sky, only to wither shortly after and crumble to dust. Tiny, glowing specks of purple spores followed, buzzing and chittering with all the harmony of nature’s most humid banks; their purpose unknown. Yet, they too faded into nothing and soon left the chamber in a deathly quiet sheet of finality.
Moxxie hoped that, wherever Loona’s soul was, she felt some measure of satisfaction.
“…what have I done?” Mira’s voice trembled in terror, as she stared at Striker’s fresh corpse; filled with all the vigor of an emaciated beggar. Soon, her mortified expression; stretched to the thinnest veil of sanity, turned upon her own hands. She choked upon a sob, back bent forward as if to plead forgiveness. “All I wanted…was to serve my gods. I didn’t want this …”
Pity clawed to the cusp of Moxxie’s throat. Finally, Mira was beginning to understand, just as he had come to, that good intentions didn’t guarantee happiness. There, in the stifling air of the obsidian chamber, stood beside a corpse and a newly faithless monk, everything felt so…conclusive.
Striker was dead.
He was finally dead.
He’d never bother them again; never hurt them, never chase them, never put their lives at risk.
Moxxie should’ve been elated.
He should’ve been bouncing on the tips of his hooves, hugging Blitz and Millie and cheering at the top of his lungs. That’s what should have been. It was what he had wanted all along.
Peace.
…but all he actually felt was…nothing.
To find and kill a single demon; Blitz had been kidnapped, Loona had been killed, Moxxie himself captured and tortured for leverage, only to be freed by his best friend turned draconic abomination. A hardened, blackened, charred pit of calcified truth scraped around inside his stomach. It had all been for Stolas, to help him heal, to earn his forgiveness for past mistakes, and to close the darkest chapter of their lives before it could even begin…but the deeper they delved and the harder they tried, the more they lost. Was it worth it? Was any of it worth it?
No; no, it wasn’t.
Even if Paimon wasn’t lying, and Loona could be brought back, everyone else would be scarred beyond recognition. Mistake after mistake, scar after scar, trauma after trauma; all to try and undo what had already been done. There was no controlling the past; only the future. Moxxie took a deep breath, the stench of rotten wood and mold fresh in his nose, then released a sigh that echoed throughout the entire chamber. Yes; all he could control…was himself.
How disappointing.
Brief calm shattered in an instant, as Paimon’s voice rang clear as day within his head.
Involuntarily, Moxxie’s arm snapped upwards, and a single bullet ruptured the air with a deafening crack.
Black blood gushed from Mira’s neck, oozing out between her fingers; eyes stretched wide with shock.
Another shot fired. A chunk of shoulder muscle and red fabric exploded outwards and splattered upon the ground.
Sharp ringing overtook Moxxie’s mind; the world silenced by its deafening song.
Eleven more shots fired off in rapid succession, each plunging a new meteoric crater into her flesh. Arms, legs, abdomen, chest; targeted with expert precision and an unyielding trigger finger. A new oil well gushed to life with each and every wound, punctuated by the cry of a wounded animal and the violent recoil of the body.
Body riddled with holes, Mira’s throat undulated as she tried to speak, but drowned beneath a waterfall of hot, thick blood. Moxxie stared, eyes trembling, heart pummeling the inside of his chest; what was he doing? He wasn’t; something was wrong! Something was wrong!
Yet, he could feel it; his finger squeezing the trigger.
“NO! ”
The twelfth and final bullet tore straight through her eye and out the back of her head.
Lifeless, Mira’s head sagged to one side, and she crumpled atop Striker’s decaying corpse.
Moxxie stared, wildly panting as his arm refused to lower; smoke still trailing from the end of his gun. Shock ran through his system, tears rapidly welling in his eyes over what he had just done. It had all happened so fast…
The firearm rattled in his hand, tremors from shoulder to fingertip given free reign. Despite the lack of gunfire, the ringing in his ears refused to fade; vision locked in a blurry mess, as if staring at the two corpses was incomprehensible to his mind. Amongst the gore, a red light swelled upon Mira’s body and slowly rose from it; then floated towards him.
Well done, little imp. You have retrieved the final piece of the ritual.
“I…I didn’t…”
Do not be so humble. You may have stumbled in the beginning, but there is no harm in it. A perfectly suitable replacement was at hand.
“Re—” Moxxie paused. “Replacement? What do you mean? What do you mean by that?! ”
Was it not clear?
Paimon’s question drew a mocking line between feigned ignorance and chastisement.
What did you believe the point of her task was; simply to torture him? It was to cultivate the power required to serve as one of the three keys. Once completed, his soul would have been infused with Goetian magic; fully saturated by the essence of my son’s power. He would have been pure, magnificent; worthy to fuel the ritual that will finally free me from this accursed realm of Limbo. But instead, Mira faltered in her duty. She failed me. However…
“…no…” Moxxie croaked, his arm plummeting; suddenly heavy with the weight of her death.
…you managed to salvage the situation rather brilliantly. Despite ruining the intended plan by killing my incubator, there was another suitable soul readily available, and you claimed it for me without hesitation. While it is such a shame to lose such a devoted follower, there was no turning back once you first pulled that trigger.
Clarity returned, the world grew sharper, and the red soul floated close enough to brush against his chest. Unnatural warmth sank through the material of his suit and embraced the skin beneath; only for Moxxie to drop his pistol and try to push it away. Denial, sorrow; fresh and agonizing, ran over from the cup of his heart. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want it! Through the tears, their salty tang having long saturated his tongue and lips, Moxxie anxiously watched Mira’s soul squirm and knead against his palms; trying to enter him.
“She didn’t have to die…” he choked out; a shuddering hitch of breath soon to follow. “…I didn’t kill her!”
Now now, we all must be held accountable for our actions, and you made yours with absolute clarity of mind.
“You killed Mira, not me!”
A result that would have been avoided had you simply let him suffer.
From beneath Moxxie’s hooves, a long, sharp shadow rose from the floor. Dark wings, a crescent shaped head, and a miasma of darkness stood before him as if it were a sentient being. Stars, dark and borne of ill omens, dotted the space around piercing crimson eyes; infused with all the menace of gluttonous black holes sunk within the universe.
When you freed him from his torment, you simply took up the burden of shouldering it yourself. Whether you desire it or not, that is the repercussion of your choice. You chose to enforce your will without any heed to the result, and the universe reacted in accordance of its own.
Paimon’s hand pushed at the back of Mira’s soul, slowly applying intensifying pressure upon Moxxie’s palms!
Push and pull, ebb and flow, life and death; existence is an eternal, inescapable cycle that heeds to no one’s desires but its own. It is why we were created, to enact our own will upon others, to forge meaning and moral code, to grasp hopelessly at the concept of true control; for one day everything shall inevitably die, then be reborn. Just as the brightest stars dim and burst into plasma and dust, just as the most beautiful roses wither and become compost, we too are mere puppets strung aloft by the tethers of time; altered from one form to the next at the time of our demise. Change comes to us all, whether by our own hands, the hands of others, or the machinations of the cosmos; and no matter how desperately you run from it, change shall always find you.
Strength faltered, the mind addled by the words of a king; like sweetest honey that oozed upon the core of all that he was. Doused in smothering, warm brilliance, punctuation sapped away defiance; melting it away with steady, inescapable purpose. A shuddering, almost blissful sigh, billowed amongst shadowy mist as Paimon leaned closer.
I sense it in you; the weight of guilt dragging you to a standstill; the naïve belief that everything can return to normal; that you can fix the outcomes, if you simply struggle hard enough. Yet no matter how beautiful the dream, no matter how many tears you shed, there is no undoing what has already been done. Loona died because you were weak. Mira died because of that same weakness; your inability to overcome your greatest foe. Your noble spirit betrays you, little imp…
Searing white pain scorched Moxxie’s skin and ignited a wailing scream of agony that ripped out from his throat. Far worse than anything Striker had inflicted upon him; a deep, debilitating cleansing by fire that seared every nerve. Behind his eyes, inside his brain, down and through his entire body; all while he haplessly struggled to keep the soul at bay. Halfway imbedded in his chest, its planting was imminent.
If you were better, they would have lived. If you were faster, more cunning, more ruthless than your heart and conscience allowed you to be…so much pain could have been avoided. Yet you refuse to grow as necessary; instead choosing to promote the lie that you were always good enough. Did you think it would absolve you? Did you think that if proved all which you could have done had already been done, their deaths wouldn’t haunt you?
Mouth paralyzed, agape in an unending series of cries, Moxxie despaired as Paimon’ voice changed. It became something he’d never heard in his life; something so hateful, so blackened and dark, that the sheer terror it instilled completely nullified the pain for all but a moment.
You should have struck him down back on the train while you had the chance, instead of trying to negotiate. Instead of trying to reason with him --to understand him-- you should have shot him dead like an animal; but your bleeding heart couldn’t help itself. That was your choice. That was the price your ego demanded, to grant Striker a chance to redeem himself; to be the “good guy”, and look what occurred as a result. It should have been a moment of revelation but instead you remain mired in the past; weak and uncertain, choosing to chase the illusion of control when you should have been cultivating greater strength. All this death, all the pain you have caused, was caused because you refuse to change…
With one final push, Paimon slammed Mira’s soul deep into Moxxie’s chest.
…Fortunately for you, inciting change is my specialty.
𒋝
Nostalgia was a bitch.
Husk hadn’t expected it to hit so hard. Alastor’s call had brought more than just a favor, but long buried memories not worth reliving. Yet, as he soared among the skies of Pride with newfound prosthetic wings, they played through his head all the same. A lot of good ones, but also a fair share of bad, lingered from his time at the Hazbin Hotel. Smiling faces, fun drunken nights, playing cards and occasionally getting to meet some pretty big names; that was the good.
The bad?
Shit heads aplenty coming from the outside and into his home for rehabilitation, Alastor’s leash around his neck, and the attacks from Angels and Sinners alike. In the end, the experiences cancelled each other out; a lengthy tug of war with the prize being a decision: stay or go.
A sneaky frown dumped itself onto Husk’s lips at the worst memory of all; the day that Charlie disappeared. One second, she had been on the ground, standing side by side with Vaggie and fending off the Exterminators…and then the next…
He shook his head to banish the thought. The emotions associated with that day had long been bottled, but that simply made their stench all the more potent once the lid opened. All the grief, the bittersweet victory; it nearly broke them. Alastor had been the one thing to keep everyone together, at least for a time. Of course, his first and immediate supporter had been Vaggie: poor gal. If it had been Angel who’d been vaporized by some giant beam of holy magic, Husk likely would’ve acted the same, in all honesty. He couldn’t blame them for wishing for the best outcome, to grasp at the hope she was somehow still out there trying to get home…but eventually, time had drained it all away.
None of it sat right with Husk, especially not as he soared towards the cliffside where the hotel once stood. Seeing it again after so long twisted up his guts, like an older sibling twisting their little brother’s cheek to get him to cry. A lot had changed in the time since he left; hard to believe he was going back, and even harder to think that he might actually be able to slip free of a deal. If it worked; if a Prince of the Ars Goetia could really nullify the deal with Stolas, then maybe there was reason to believe Charlie could still be alive somewhere.
Wind rushed through his fur as he dove to a lower elevation, the hotel coming up fast. Burned to timber and cinders, it looked no better than an abandoned pile of trash. A shame, really; they’d once had that place shining like the brightest star in the sky. Hell, you couldn’t look anywhere in Pride without seeing the hotel’s glow on the horizon; but now…it left a lot to be desired. The landing was smooth, as Husk’s paw skirted above the dirt and grass, only to race atop the ground while his wings remained open to catch the wind. With the power of physics, his sprint slowed to a jog, then a walk. His wings folded up behind him, and he took a moment to absorb his surroundings.
“Alright, let's get to work…” he huffed, with a crack of the fingers and a stretch of the arms. Beneath Husk’s breath, old and forgotten words; syllables infused with power beyond mortal comprehension. If not for his damned soul, they would have driven him to madness, surely. Mixtures of light and shadow danced upon his fingers; weaving between them as each stroke of the air burned with raw, volatile magic. Residual angelic magic floated from the ground, seeking out its dark counterpart to establish a link between the realm of hell and the realm which was spawned from heaven’s light.
In order to open the way, he needed to recreate the anomaly that occurred so long ago on that fateful day.
Doing so would take immense concentration; not to mention time, but if he was going to free himself…he needed to free his family first.
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Demon Pancakes (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 21 May 2024 10:03PM UTC
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