Books

The sleek, black ’69 Chevrolet Camaro pulled up outside the United Methodist Church in Gary, Indiana. The driver stepped out of the car, a cigarette held between his lips as he looked up at the massive abandoned church beneath the moonlit sky. With the decline of employment and the rise of poverty and crime in the area, this example of Gothic Revival was left to fall to the wayside.

He smoked the cigarette down to its filter and dropped it on the sidewalk before crushing it beneath his shoe. Reaching beneath his suit jacket, he drew out a stylized revolver with Enochian sigils carved into the barrel. Once confirming the gun was loaded, he slid it back into the holster and started walking towards the church entrance, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.

The doors were shut on him. He tried pushing, but they wouldn’t budge. The man kicked the door once and it didn’t do much. The second kick, he could hear a little crack. He gave it two more before the door finally burst open.

They had a sense of humor, he had to give them that. Demons operating out of an abandoned, gothic church. Showcased their arrogance. His blue eyes scanned the large cathedral as he entered, remaining back by the entrance. With his hand held out, he closed his eyes and concentrated his senses, trying to pick up some trace of demonic energy.

And he could feel it. There was a demon here. Not only in this building, but in this very room with him. Opening his eyes, he drew the revolver and held it at the ready, looking around the room. All he could sense was the demon’s presence, but he couldn’t pinpoint its exact location.

“Alistair Carraway,” said a voice echoing in the darkness. “What brings you to this little shithole?”

“Been tracking you for some time,” said Alistair, his voice colored with an English accent.

“And how did you find us?”

Alistair grinned. “Your demons don’t hold up so well under torture. By the end of it, they were begging for an exorcism.”

He could sense the demon’s anger flare up.

“Doesn’t have to be this way,” Alistair continued. “All I want is the girl. Leave her to me and you can walk out of here, no fuss, no muss.”

Alistair stepped down the aisle, moving towards the center of the nave. His eyes went to the galleries up above the side aisles, trying to see if he could catch sight of the demon in the darkness. But there was nothing. Just a deafening silence followed after Alistair issued his terms.

“Come now, you know my reputation amongst your kind,” said Alistair. “Do you really want to test me?”

“There are things we fear far more than Alistair Carraway.”

“What, like the wrath of your master?”

More silence followed.

“I know what that woman is to you. I know what she’s carrying,” he continued. “But you can’t have her. Either of them.”

“Oh?” asked the demon. “You would risk your own life for a whore and a Hellspawn?”

The voice now seemed to come from the gallery on the left. Alistair turned in that direction, aiming the gun up there.

“The big, strapping hero.” The demon spoke again, this time the voice coming from the ambulatory behind the altar.

“I think we’ve had enough of this game, don’t you?” asked Alistair.

“Absolutely.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. The voice now came from directly behind him. He spun around, raising the gun and firing. The demon was fast and dodged the bullet, pouncing on Alistair and knocking him to the ground.

He was strong, possessing the body of a young man with a black mohawk, a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off, ripped jeans, and safety pins through his earlobes. His eyes were bright yellow, and he roared like a lion just before he pounced.

The gun was dropped to the side. Alistair stared into the demon’s eyes, the creature struggling to keep him pinned down. And then, Alistair started speaking, muttering in Latin.

“Exorcizamos te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnus satanic potestas—”

The demon recoiled, pulling away in pain, trying to cover his ears. Alistair got back to his feet and continued speaking while reaching one hand into his jacket.

“Omnis infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”

“You think this will stop us? You’ll be too late to save them, Carraway!”

Alistair knew the demon was right. There was no time to waste with an exorcism, not while Grace was still lost somewhere inside here. He picked up the gun and pointed it at the demon. “Where are they?”

“You’ll have to kill me before I ta—”

Alistair’s response was to put two bullets into the demon’s head. Iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-points. Inside each round was a mixture of holy water, salt, and other herbs designed to ward off the supernatural. Enough to kill a demon possessing some poor bastard.

Stepping forward, Alistair looked down at the now-vacant body. The punk’s eyes were gone, burned out by the death of the demon inside. A part of Alistair felt remorse at having to kill the kid, but time was a factor if he wanted to save Grace’s life and stop this cult from completing their ritual.

He knew they were in the building, somewhere. It was just a matter of finding them. Alistair knelt down by the dead body and checked the pockets. Nothing on him but a switchblade and half a pack of cigarettes, which Alistair helped himself to. He stood and walked along the side aisles, moving into the first door he found.

That door led to a stairwell, which he slowly descended into the basement area. As he moved deeper, he could hear something. A chorus of chanting voices. Alistair moved along, sticking close to the walls and the shadows they cast. His heartbeat increased, the adrenaline beginning to pump through his body.

The chanting became louder as he moved through the dusty corridor. He reached beneath the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt and drew out a necklace from which a pendant of the Seal of Solomon hung. Alistair whispered words of a protection spell and moved on.

He knew the voices were here, behind this door. With a swift kick, Alistair knocked the door in. The large room had seven figures wearing crimson cloaks, gathered in a circle. Their chanting ceased immediately and they all cast their eyes to Alistair. In unison, they all turned, facing him.

Seven worshippers. Seven sacrifices. Seven sins. Alistair knew why these men were here, and what the demon had planned to do with them. From the center of the circle, he heard a woman screaming. He could see Grace writhing on the ground, her brown skin glistening with sweat, black hair plastered to her face. Her knees were bent and occult symbols had been carved into her pregnant belly, with more on the rest of her naked body. She gritted her teeth in pain, her eyes clenched shut.

“You sons of bitches…” muttered Alistair as he stepped into the room and raised the gun, firing into the head of one of the cultists. A second lunged at him and Alistair took a step back, firing two rounds into his chest. Alistair allowed the cultist’s body to fall to the ground.

One shot and five cultists left. Not the best odds. Alistair shot another. Four left. He flipped the gun around and clutched it by the barrel. A cultist came at him, drawing an ornate dagger from beneath his robes.

Alistair dodged the first and second slash, then charged in and bashed the butt of the revolver against the cultist’s head. The force dropped him, blood dripping from the fresh wound. Alistair bent down quickly and picked up the discarded knife.

Three left. They stood between Alistair and Grace and he heard her screams become even more pronounced. It was coming. Soon, it would be here.

“Kill him,” said the cultist in the center—clearly the leader.

The two flanking him charged with their daggers. Alistair took a few licks, but pressed on, dodging their strikes. Grace’s screams echoed in his head, trying to distract him, but Alistair wouldn’t let himself lose focus.

The two cultists were on either side of him. One thrust forward with his dagger and Alistair sidestepped, grabbed the cultist’s arm, and continued thrusting so his dagger went into his partner’s gut. Alistair then drove the knife he’d claimed into the cultist’s back.

He drew the blade from the wound, blood dripping down the edge as he faced the leader. “It’s over. You can’t complete the ritual now.”

“Perhaps not,” said the cult leader. “But the child will still be born. And one day, he will bring humanity to its knees!”

The leader charged. Alistair threw the dagger, striking him in the head and the leader fell down at his feet, dead.

“Sorry son, but you won’t be there to see it.”

Alistair went to Grace’s side. He realized for the first time she’d been placed in a circle. The inverted pentagram—Sigil of Baphomet. Grace reached out, grabbing hold of his wrist. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“A-Alistair…he’s coming…”

He looked at the knife. If he killed her now, he would end all this. And what about the leader’s prediction? Could he really risk all that? The ritual wasn’t completed, maybe there was hope for the child. Or maybe he was doomed no matter what course of action he took.

Grace’s screams continued and Alistair made a choice. He set the knife down and removed his trench coat and jacket, ready to go to work. Not long after, Grace’s screams were replaced by the sound of a crying child.

* * *

Alistair pulled the car up to the monastery located outside Rock Island, Illinois. He drove all night, one hand on the wheel, the other cradling the infant, wrapped in his trench coat. He took a deep breath and opened the driver-side door, moving slowly so as not to wake the child.

Alistair ascended the steps and approached the large, wooden doors. Engraved in the stone archway above them was a unicursal hexagram surrounded by a circle. Alistair kept the baby in one arm and raised his other, banging a few times on the heavy wood. After a few moments, the door opened and an old, bald man with a silver beard and glasses and dressed in a black robe stood on the other side.

“Alistair?” he asked in surprise.

“’Morning, Thomas,” said Alistair. “Mind if I come in?”

“O-of course,” said Thomas, stepping aside and holding the door open. His gaze was fixed on the child as Alistair moved inside, slumbering in his arm.

“Mind putting on some coffee?”

“Right this way.”

Thomas led Alistair through the monastery into a kitchen area. Once there, Alistair took a seat at a table while Thomas went to the counter to prepare some coffee. When it was ready, he brought two mugs over and sat across from the paranormal investigator.

“When did you become a father?” asked Thomas.

“He’s not mine,” said Alistair. “There was a case. A woman named Grace was pregnant and this is her baby.”

“What’s so important about this—” Thomas interrupted himself. “Wait. Who’s the father?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Let me rephrase—what is the father?”

Alistair’s blue eyes met Thomas’ intense stare. He looked back down at the baby’s sleeping face and gave a sigh. “A demon.”

“Dear God…” Thomas involuntarily slid his chair back in surprise. “Alistair, you can’t be serious. You brought a cambion here?”

“She was taken by a demon and his cult. I tracked them down to that abandoned church in Gary. The plan was after the baby was born, it would be anointed in the blood of seven sacrifices—seven sinners. I killed the demon running the show and the cultists. The child was born clean.”

“Have you gone mad?” asked Thomas. “That child is cursed for life! Best to kill it and get it over with! You know what happens if the armistice is violated—”

“I’ll deal with that,” said Alistair. “Think about it, Thomas. A cambion fighting on our side. Think of how powerful he’ll be. Of the advantage he’d have.”

“He’s a child of Hell.”

“And Lucifer was once the most beloved of all angels. Look how that turned out,” said Alistair. “How you come into this life doesn’t mean shit. What you do with it does.”

Thomas shook his head. “What do you want from me?”

“I need to leave him here. If there’s anyone who can set him on the right path, it’s this order.”

“That’s a lot to ask, Alistair.”

“I know it is, Thomas. But you owe me and you know it. How many times have I been there for you? For this order?”

Thomas sighed. “And where will you go?”

“There’s still the question of who his father is and how I can protect him. I’ll be back when I can, but you know what my work’s like.”

“True.” Thomas rose from his chair and walked around the table to Alistair’s side. He held his hands out. “Well, if we’re going to be responsible for raising him, is it okay if I take him now?”

Alistair slowly stood and looked at his old friend in the eye. He could sense Thomas’ apprehension, but he also knew the monk to be a man of his word. Alistair carefully handed the infant over. The baby stirred in the old man’s arms, opening his eyes and staring up. Thomas nearly gasped when he saw the glowing, crimson eyes the baby had.

“He’s unique, gotta give the boy that,” said Alistair.

“Does he have a name?”

“Yeah, he does. Grace had one picked out for him before she died.” Alistair reached a hand out and rubbed the baby’s bald head. “Luther. Luther Cross.”

The Windy City. Even in the spring, it’s colder than a witch’s tit.

’Course, that’s something of a misnomer. I’ve had occasion to spend…quality time with a few witches in my day. And all of them were pretty warm and inviting.

Cold doesn’t bother me too much, though. As I leaned against the side of my black ’69 Camaro and scanned the dilapidated tenement, I puffed on an American Spirit cigarette, enjoying the weather.

My name’s Luther Cross, and I’m a paranormal investigator. Got a poltergeist tearing up your house or a demon you need exorcised or a monster stalking you, I’m the guy you call. Not often I take jobs that bring me out to the South Side of Chicago—normally, not a lot of financial reward for my tastes. But this was a favor to an old friend.

I’d driven around for about an hour, trying to get a sense of where it was all going down. Once I felt that familiar pull of demonic energy, I pulled over to the curb and dug in deep.

This old tenement was where the pull was the strongest. It was like the energy was an industrial-strength magnet and I was just a tiny paperclip, helpless to fight against the attraction. I was sure my crimson eyes were burning up with the demonic energy coursing through my veins. Anyone who happened to walk down the street and see me like this was liable to dart off to the nearest liquor store and crawl inside a bottle for the next few days.

He was in there, that was for certain. I reached inside the pocket of my black trench coat and pulled out a Superman action figure. I’d told Reggie’s grandmother I’d need one of his personal possessions to track him down, and this is what she gave me—told me he’d play with this damn thing for hours when he was a kid, pin a towel around his neck and run through the apartment building pretending he was flying.

I scoffed and put the figure back in my pocket. The tracking spell led me right to Reggie’s location, and I could sense the presence of darkness surrounding the building. Time to go to work.

I flicked the cigarette down the sidewalk, the butt dusting off embers as it tumbled along the cracked concrete. Sliding both hands into the pockets of my suit pants, I strolled up the path to the tenement.

The front door was boarded up. If I were a normal guy, this might prove to be a bit inconvenient. Fortunately, normal and me parted ways before I was born. I raised my foot and kicked right through the boards, breaking them into splinters. After pulling the remaining planks away, I stepped inside the lobby.

The only source of light in this old, abandoned building was from the street lamps and moonlight filtering through cracks in the boarded-up windows. My unique heritage made it easy for me to see in the dark, though there was nothing worth seeing in this place.

The stench was something awful. Mixture of shit, vomit, body odor, and probably decomposition—the latter of which I was unfortunately very familiar with. Reggie was still alive in here, though—had to be. Tracking spell wouldn’t have led me here if he wasn’t. Plus, I promised his grandma. I may fight demons, ghosts, and monsters on a regular basis, but even I wouldn’t risk the wrath of an old-school black grandmother.

The energy was strong, pulling me up. I began to climb the staircase, the rotted, old wood threatening to give way with each step I took. As I reached the landing, the stench grew worse. But the pull grew stronger. Definitely headed in the right direction.

On the second floor, I tried to keep my steps as quiet as possible. I doubted it would do much good, though. The warding sigils tattooed into my dark skin may keep the things that go bump in the night from tracking me, but they lose their effectiveness in close proximity.

The third door—that’s where the pull was the strongest. I wrapped my hand around the knob and turned. Unlocked, of course. After all, who’d be dumb enough to come down here?

I pushed the door open and took a step inside. The stench hit me, like running right into a brick wall at full-speed, so bad my eyes started to water. I cringed for a moment, then pressed on.

“Luther Cross…”

My name was hissed. I peered into the darkness. This was once the living room of an old apartment. Now there wasn’t much left. Just some old, dirty mattresses with junkies spread out on them. Track marks running down their arms, used syringes littering the floor; sitting up on one of the mattresses was an old, severely emaciated man. Though by the looks of his glowing yellow eyes, he wasn’t strictly a man anymore. He snarled at me. There was a teenage boy lying by his side, unconscious or in a state of heroin-induced euphoria. Hard to tell which from this angle. His head was in the frail man’s lap and the old bastard’s long, bony fingers stroked the boy’s forehead.

“You have no business here, cambion.”

Demons were a rotten bunch. Some were fallen angels, others were humans sentenced to Hell who gave in to the darkness. This one was the latter, what we call a feeder. They crawl their way out of Hell, take on a host body, and subsist on the negative energy of humanity. Drug addicts are a particular favorite. For a feeder, the energy an addict gives off is like…well, like crack. And for humans, it chipped away at their soul, brought them closer to Hell.

“I’m just here for Reggie Ferguson. You hand him over to me, no fuss, and you can go about your business.” I looked around the room at the other addicts. Some were feeders, like this one. The others were just poor souls providing them their snacks.

“You’d leave your precious humans to us, Cross?” the demon hissed. Then he started to chuckle. “Expect me to believe that?”

“These people stopped giving a damn about their souls long ago. They don’t mean shit to me.”

Pretty harsh, Luther. But then again, part of me believed it. People are gonna do what they wanna do. My job is to help the ones who get sucked into this against their will—or those who can pay my fee. Otherwise, if you knowingly jump into the inferno, it’s not in my job description to pull your ass out. You want a fireman, go ring up the CFD.

“I’m not so sure I believe you, Cross.” The demon continued stroking the boy’s short hair, his yellow eyes fixed on him almost lovingly. “And besides, Reggie here has proven to be quite a treat. You want me to just give him up to some half-breed son of a whore like you?”

Figured it wouldn’t be that easy. Why can’t it ever be that easy? I slid both my hands into my pockets and stepped deeper into the room. Immediately, the other demons rose around me, surrounding me. Blocking all exits, boxing me in. I looked out the corner of my right eye, then my left. Two demons on either side. I sensed others behind me—three, by my guess.

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” I said.

The demon scoffed and clicked his tongue. “You know better than that, Luther.”

In magic, there’s power in naming. If you’ve got a demon’s name, it’s much easier to put the hurt on him. Why do you think so many possessed people say the Devil’s inside them? Because those demons don’t have any interest in giving up their real name.

I shrugged. “Hey, you know my name, you know what I am. Seemed only fair.”

“My friends call me Slim.”

Not a real name, obviously, but it definitely fit. I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s a pretty safe bet you know my reputation and what happens to bottom-feeders who try my patience.”

The briefest flicker of movement to my right was the only warning I had of the attack. I pivoted to the right and raised my arm to block the demon’s strike. She was small, but fierce. My fingers wrapped around her arm and I spun to the side, throwing her into one of her friends.

The three who were blocking the door moved in. I held out my hand and shouted, “Ignis!”

My eyes burned with a crimson glow and flames appeared between me and the demons. Wouldn’t stop them, but provided something of a distraction. Just what I needed to reach into my jacket and draw my weapon.

She was a custom-made revolver, with Enochian script carved into the barrel. The rounds were special, too. Iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-points filled with holy water, salt, and some other herbs hazardous to the supernatural.

I pulled the trigger and the Enochian symbols burned bright. The first two rounds went into the two to my side. I turned to the door and fired again. The third round went right through the flames, tagging the middle demon dead-center in his forehead. He fell back, hitting the door.

The other two jumped through the flames. I grabbed one by the throat as he landed and threw him onto the ground, then twisted my hand until I felt his neck snap. The last leapt on my back. She was so light, I barely felt the additional weight. But she was strong, her hand wrapping around my gun arm and pulling it away so I wouldn’t shoot her buddy.

I threw my head back, striking her in the nose. They may be resistant to damage, but demons could still feel pain. Her grip weakened and I pulled myself free, turning around and pulling the trigger. She hissed a second before the bullet struck her in the heart.

The one on the ground hadn’t gotten up, but he still writhed. I stepped over him, firing a round into his head. He stopped moving after that. With a gesture, I snuffed out the flames I had created before. No sense letting them get out of control.

Now it was just me and Slim left. I raised the gun, the Enochian script still burning bright on the barrel.

The demon looked up at me and chuckled nervously. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I think we might be able to come to some sort of arrangement here.”

I scoffed. “Man, you feeders are all alike, aren’t you? Come into my world with all this swagger, thinking you’re hot shit. Then, I kick your asses six ways from Sunday and you suddenly can’t wait to beg for your worthless lives.”

“Now, don’t be hasty, Luther.” Slim held his hands up in surrender and slowly rose to his feet. I kept the gun aimed at his head, raising it with him. “I know things. Things that you may not know about.”

“Oh, please. You’re nowhere close to being a player. There’s nothing you could possibly know.”

“Are you willing to take that chance? C’mon, Luther…I can be a friend to you…” His yellow eyes widened.

I took a breath. Yeah, demons are evil, no doubt about that. But they’re all about self-preservation. And might have considered giving him a pass in exchange for some useful intel. But on the other hand, I’d made a promise. And I may be a bastard, but I’m still a man of my word.

I pulled the trigger. Slim screamed just as the bullet struck him in the head, and he collapsed on the mattress. His eyes were gone, as if they’d been burnt out of his head. That effect happens when you kill a demon when he’s inhabiting a host body.

I holstered the gun. There was just one thing left to do. I knelt beside the boy on the mattress and examined his eyes. Normal, not yellow—couldn’t sense any demon inside him. Ah, Reggie Ferguson, you are one dumb brat. Getting mixed up with junk and finding yourself the snack of preference for a bottom-feeder.

I picked him up in my arms and walked towards the exit, with Reggie mumbling something incoherent. Still couldn’t tell if he was asleep or just high. Just before I left through the open door, I turned and took one last look at the addicts still left behind. Poor bastards. Wouldn’t be long before another feeder came along to set up shop in here.

But that wasn’t my problem. Like I said before, they got themselves into it. If they wanted my help, they’d have to save up their junk money to pay my retainer.

An autumn night in Chicago. There’s nothing better. Gone is the scorching summer heat, but we haven’t yet been struck by the bitter cold of winter. The air smells clean and there’s a nice, cool breeze blowing through the streets. And as I sat on the hood of my car, smoking an American Spirit cigarette, staring up at a brand-new—and completely empty—apartment building, I felt good.

My name’s Luther Cross and I’m a paranormal investigator. Got into this line of work on account of my heritage—my mother was human; my father was a demon. And I’m talkin’ a literal demon spat from the bowels of the actual Hell. Makes me what’s called a cambion. Despite all that, my childhood was pretty typical. Grew up reading X-Men, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, playing Nintendo, and learning how to master the black arts.

So, what was a fiendishly handsome, well-dressed man about town like myself doing sitting on the hood of a black ’69 Camaro while staring at a building? This tenement—or at least the one that used to be here—had a bad gas leak. Caused an explosion, lots of people died. Those that didn’t got kicked out when the owner decided the land was worth more than fixing the place up.

It wasn’t too far from Logan Square, one of the trendiest neighborhoods in the city, so it didn’t take long for a developer to snatch it up. They knocked down what remained of the old building and built this new one in its place. Five floors, nice and modern, just minutes from the L train.

Except, while the place was being built, several of the workers said they were seeing things. Flashes in the corner of their eyes. Weird reflections in glass. Sounds like people screaming. And then the accidents started. One workman fell down the elevator shaft; another jumped off the roof; and a third went right through a newly-installed window, cutting his throat on the way down.

People started calling in sick and faking injuries to get out of coming to the site. And that’s when the developer came to me through a friend. You won’t find someone like me through a Google search—my business is based on referrals. So, I came down here during the day and, sure enough, could sense the presence of trapped souls.

That’s right: a good, old-fashioned ghost hunt. I hadn’t done one of those since that haunted road case about a year ago. I was a bit rusty on it, spent too much time lately dealing with angel and demon crap. But, it’s just like riding a bike.

I looked down at the gold watch around my wrist. Just after ten at night. Ghosts can appear at any time, but the point when their energy is the strongest is the time they died. And you might be thinking, why the hell would any damn fool want to face a ghost at full-power? That’s because their time of death is when the wall between dimensions is at its weakest. The afterlife is just waiting to suck them back in.

We were right about game time. I slid off the hood of the Camaro and dropped the cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath the sole of my polished shoe. I took the small bag resting on the car’s hood and walked to the entrance. The front door was mostly glass, and my crimson eyes reflected off the surface. I took hold of the handle and pulled the door open, stepping into the lobby.

The structure of the building was mostly done, but there was still lots of interior work to do. Tools and work benches were set up in the lobby, and it was covered in sawdust. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding my arm out in front of me with my fingers outstretched.

Ghosts, souls, magic—these are just words for different kinds of energy. Just like a Geiger counter can detect radiation, magic can detect these supernatural wavelengths. Pretty much everyone can do it, for that matter. Ever feel like you’re being watched when there’s no one around, or think you hear voices in the darkness? That’s not your mind playing tricks on you, that’s you picking up on something paranormal. Well…or you’re going crazy.

The trick is knowing and sensing the differences between those types of energies. If you understand what it is you’re feeling, you can determine what exactly you’re up against. In the case of ghosts, there are a bunch of different types. Some of them are just echoes, constantly reliving their death, like a record that won’t stop skipping (yeah, I said record; I’m old). Others are lost. They’ve got some unfinished business on this plane of existence and they can’t cross over until it’s been completed.

And then there’s the vengeful spirits. These are the ghosts you usually see in the movies. Mean bastards who usually died a violent death and want to lash out at anyone and anything they can. In some ways, it’s understandable. If I don’t get my morning coffee, I start to think murderous thoughts. Can’t imagine how I’d feel if I was violently killed.

Thing about vengeful spirits, though, is that the longer they stick around, the angrier they get. And it’s like the Hulk—anger only makes them stronger. Sooner or later, they end up as poltergeists. That’s when they get powerful enough to affect the physical world in violent ways. So, it’s no longer just about scaring people; it’s about killing them. And that can just lead to the creation of even more vengeful spirits.

In this building, I was picking up on a lot of echoes. A few of the lost. But there was a poltergeist in here, and it was calling the shots. If a poltergeist’s power is strong enough, it can even start to bring other spirits under its control.

The lobby wasn’t where I wanted to be. I needed a focal point to begin the banishing spell if I was going to clear this building. What I planned to do was channel the spiritual energy from this building and guide them to the next world. From there, I didn’t know what happened. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory—how those decisions were made was far above my pay grade.

But in order to channel the energy, I needed as few disruptions as possible. Magic’s like any other form of energy—there are ways to block or disrupt it. I wasn’t sure what kind of metal was used in the construction of this building, but it can sometimes interfere with magic when you’re trying to channel spirits into the void.

That meant what I needed more than anything was a wide-open space. Somewhere I could be in contact with the building, but still have a place to draw on the magic. Which meant the roof.

I heard a growl behind me. Instead of turning around, I set my bag on the floor and knelt down, opening it up and reaching inside. I found what I needed in there, running my fingers over the symbols engraved in the iron surface.

“You should not be here,” said a voice.

“Not a very nice way to treat a guest,” I said, taking what I’d needed from the bag in my right hand and sliding it into my pocket as I stood.

I turned around and saw a spectral figure hovering in front of me. It didn’t look human; it looked instead like some kind of creature. Powerful poltergeists can make themselves appear like whatever they want, so they tend to go for the kind of crap you’d see in monster movies. This one looked like what you’d get after a Predator anger-banged an orc. It was transparent and mostly white, but with glowing, red eyes.

“Y’know, that effect is trademarked,” I said. “If you keep poaching it, you’re gonna be hearing from my attorney.”

“Get. Out!”

The spirit bellowed the last word and the glass windows of the lobby doors blew inward, wind buffeting my face. I closed my eyes and remained standing where I was. Once the wind stopped, I scoffed and opened my eyes, brushing the stray bits of glass off my shoulders with my left hand.

“It’s so cute when you dead bastards try to be intimidating.” I took a step forward and stared it in the eyes. “I’m gonna make myself very clear. You’re done with this place. Your days of throwing construction workers down elevator shafts and forcing timid ghosts to do your bidding are over.”

“Or what?”

“Or this.” I took my right hand out of my pocket and balled it into a fist. I swung, connecting with the poltergeist’s ethereal jaw. As my hand passed through it, the poltergeist’s head recoiled, fading away like vapor as it fell to the ground.

It vanished completely, though it wasn’t gone for good. All I had done was break its connection with this plane. It would be back, and pissed.

So how does someone punch a ghost? Make sure you don’t clench your fist too tight, plant your feet, and don’t forget to wear iron knuckles engraved with symbols meant to ward off spirits.

I picked up the bag and went to the stairwell, kicking the door open. Five floors up, then I could begin the ritual. I started ascending, and when I got to the first landing, another ghost appeared in front of me, this one of an old lady. She screamed, her skin melting off and her hair flying in all directions. I punched her in the face with the iron knuckles and she vanished with another scream.

I felt the presence of another ghost behind me. I turned and was ready to deliver another blow, but as I raised my arm, the ghost was frozen in place. With my teeth gritted, I pushed harder, trying to break the spirit’s hold on my arm. Its eyes flashed as it increased its own power.

I dropped the bag on the landing and quickly reached beneath my trench coat to my hip, moving my hand beneath my suit jacket. I drew another weapon—a silver dagger with symbols carved in it—and I jammed it into the spirit’s side. It wailed in agony as it vanished.

Bag in hand, I ran up the stairs again, clearing another few flights. I was almost to roof entrance, but just as I approached the landing, the chief poltergeist appeared in front of me, roaring and throwing me right back down the last flight of stairs. “You dare challenge me?”

I hit my head on the wall and shook off the disorientation. The poltergeist hovered there, its mouth open with rows of razor-sharp teeth. I was on my side and I reached beneath my suit jacket. The poltergeist slowly descended the steps, its eyes burning brighter as it came closer.

“You, a challenge? Bitch, please.” I pulled my hand out from under my jacket, drawing the custom revolver holstered there. With a squeeze of the trigger, the Enochian symbols along the iron barrel lit bright orange. An iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-point round filled with holy water and special herbs rocketed from the gun. The bullet slammed into the poltergeist, and it vanished.

I took the bag and ran up the rest of the steps, bursting through the door, onto the roof. I didn’t want to be interrupted, so I closed the door and took a container of salt from the bag. A line of this in front of the door would help keep the poltergeist and its little friends at bay, at least long enough for me to complete the ritual.

I took off my trench coat and suit jacket, then took a can of white spray paint from the bag. I drew a large circle with it, shaking the can as needed to continue. The ghosts pounded on the door, trying to get through, but they couldn’t cross the salt line. I painted a smaller, inner circle. In the space between the smaller and larger circles, I began painting symbols. Latin, mostly. Some people used Hebrew, but it really didn’t matter what language you chose for your spells, so long as it was something that could serve as a focal point for your magic. I once knew a guy in New York who did all his sigils in Klingon.

I finished the sigil and sat in the center of it, extending my arms out to the sides and slowly bringing them in front of me, bending the elbows as I did, my eyes shut.

“I banish thee, spirits of loss.”

I touched the tips of my thumbs and index finger, holding them up to my forehead, a way of visualizing the third eye.

“I banish thee, spirits of vengeance.”

The pounding on the door continued. I could sense the salt line breaking, could hear the screams of the spirits and the angry growl of the poltergeist. But I wouldn’t let it distract me.

“I banish thee, spirits of malice.”

The door burst open and I opened my eyes. The poltergeist was the first one out, crossing the distance from the entrance to the circle. The other spirits moved behind it, some of them frightened, some of them driven mad by its control.

“I banish thee to the endless void!”

I outstretched my hands and clapped them together. I could feel a surge of power move through my body. The sigil on the roof began to glow as if it were on fire. It detached from the rooftop, and as soon as the poltergeist saw the sigil, it started backing away.

“No…”

“Oh yeah,” I said, and moved my arms in a circle, rising to stand. The sigil began to spin, moving faster and faster until it became a vortex. The poltergeist screamed, as did the other ghosts, and they tried to retreat.

But the power of the vortex was too strong, and it began pulling them inside. One by one, each spirit that had been haunting this building was drawn into the vortex, the last of them being the chief poltergeist. I circled around and it looked at me with fear etched on its face.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I took a monogrammed gold cigarette case and Zippo lighter from my pants pocket. The poltergeist cried oaths of vengeance, all while I calmly lit my cigarette.

“I’ve heard it all before,” I said. “Give my regards to Purgatory.”

The poltergeist wailed as it was sucked into the portal. The vortex slowed, disintegrating into nothing before it came to a complete stop. I smiled and walked to the edge of the roof, sitting down and letting my legs dangle over the five-story drop. I sat there and smoked my cigarette, looking out over the city of Chicago.

Yeah, this was so much nicer than dealing with whatever bullshit was going on between angels and demons.

Winter in Chicago. They can keep it.

It wasn’t the cold that bothered me—though you’d think we were dead-center in the middle of the Arctic Circle some days. Being part-demon, I had a natural resistance to the elements that humans didn’t.

Nah, what really pissed me off about Chicago winters was the snow. Had been especially bad the past few years. It quickly turned to slush, especially in the city itself. Not so bad when I was behind the wheel of my car, but at that moment, I was forced to slog through it on the sidewalk.

My name’s Luther Cross, by the way. Chicago’s premiere paranormal investigator. Got a demon possessing your kid or a poltergeist haunting your house or a werewolf that won’t stop shitting on your lawn, then I’m the guy you call.

Or at least I used to be. I’d recently gone through some pretty big changes in my life. But I’ll get to that later. All you have to know now is that I had come across a demon possessing some college student. Got a whiff of him from a bar and decided to follow. He was about half a block ahead of me, but that was fine. I had his scent and there was no way he’d be able to escape me.

I stuffed my gloved hands into the pockets of my leather jacket as I followed the same path he did. One of the perks of being part-demon was I had a sixth sense for the supernatural. This guy, I’d already picked up on, and as long as I didn’t let him get too far ahead, I’d be able to follow him wherever he went.

Overhead, the Chicago “L” train rattled on the tracks, chugging on past as it navigated the Loop circuit. I kept walking, spotting the metal stairs up ahead leading to the platform. He’d gone up here, but the scent was still strong. Must have just missed the train. He was gonna wish he’d walked faster.

I climbed the stairs and stepped onto the platform. He stood at the other end, but didn’t acknowledge me. Just stared straight out at the tracks. My gaze never wavered from him, though. He wore earbuds and took the smartphone they were connected to out from his pocket, staring at the blue light of the screen, his thumb flicking across the glass. After a few moments, he put the phone back in his pocket.

He was fidgeting. His knees couldn’t stop bending just a little bit, then straightening up again. His feet kept tapping on the platform. No doubt about it—he was scared of me. And that thought had a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

I reached a hand into my jacket’s inside pocket and took out a monogrammed cigarette case, then drew a cigarette from it. My eyes stayed on him as I lit the cigarette, savoring the fear I could smell wafting off him.

Goddamn, I loved this part of the job.

Finally, he looked my way. And in a moment, I could see his eyes flash bright yellow for just an instant before they returned to the normal brown of the college student he was possessing. Demons generally didn’t like to associate with me. Probably because I had a habit of sending them back to Hell.

I could tell this demon wasn’t very high up on the totem pole. More than likely he was someone who’d just crawled out of Hell and slithered his way into a body. Most demons were just sadists and hedonists, feeding off the negative emotions of humans. But they talked. They knew things, even the bottom-feeders. And there were some questions I wanted answered.

The rattle of the train could be heard in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. I took the cigarette from my mouth and dropped it on the platform, crushing it beneath my heel. The train came to a stop and I broke my gaze on the demon, looking straight ahead at the doors. While waiting for them to open, I caught the reflection of my bright-red eyes in the window. And for a brief moment, my reflection changed, showing who was really in control now.

The doors opened. I took a glance back at him and saw him quickly board a car further up. I stepped onto the train and walked to the front of the car. After a moment, the train started up. I stared through the car window, looking into the one directly ahead. He wasn’t in that one. Was probably at least two cars ahead, if not three.

There was a sign on the door warning people not to cross between cars or face a fine. I’ve never been one for following the rules, so I pulled open the door and crossed over to the next car.

It was late at night, so the train was mostly empty. A homeless guy sat on the bench closest to me, muttering to himself. He held a mason jar between his legs. Judging from his stench, was pretty obvious what was inside that jar. I continued past him, moving down the car. The demon’s scent grew stronger with each step I took.

“Hey, mister, can I borrow a dollar? I’m hungry.”

The voice came from a woman who stood to block my path. Her clothes were filthy, and her hair went all over the place. Judging from the look in her eyes, seemed she was hooked on something, and she held out her hand. I didn’t have time to waste on her, so I grabbed her wrist and stared directly in her eyes.

“Sit down and shut up,” I said.

Without another word, she sat right back on the bench. Another perk of my heritage was I could influence people. The weaker the mind, the easier they were to push to do what I wanted.

I went to the front of the car and looked through the window. I saw the demon in the next car, sitting at the far end. With a smile, I pulled open the door and crossed into the first car. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up. His gaze lingered for a moment, fear passing over his face, and then he looked down again.

We were the only ones in this car. I moved down the center, closing the distance between us. The train’s speed reduced, and I looked out the window to see a stop coming up ahead. He stood from the bench and went to the door.

Oh no. Wasn’t gonna be that easy.

I quickened my pace, and just as the doors opened, I ended up right behind him. I reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. He fell back, stumbling onto the car floor. The doors closed and the train started moving again. He looked up at me, his eyes now remaining in their yellow state. No reason to hide what he was—not anymore.

“H-hold on!” he shouted, his voice full of fear. “I don’t want any trouble with you, man!”

I lifted him off the floor and sat him down on the bench, then sat across from him. With my elbows resting on my thighs, I leaned forward and clasped my hands together, staring right into his yellow eyes.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” I asked.

He gave a nod. “There’s not a demon in the tri-state area who hasn’t heard of Luther Cross.”

“Good, that’ll make this easier. How about we start with something simple, like your name.”

“K-Killian.”

“Okay, Killian, here’s how it’s gonna go down. You’re gonna tell me everything I wanna know.”

“But I don’t kn—”

“And if you don’t, then we’re gonna have words.” I leaned back into the bench and pulled open my jacket so Killian could see the modified revolver I kept holstered under my shoulder. “You know about me, so I’m gonna assume you also know about this.”

Killian’s wide eyes confirmed he did.

“Now, what’s a little piss-ant bottom-feeder like yourself doing in my town?”

“Look man, I’m really not interested in causing any trouble. I escaped the pit, found a body, and that’s that. I’m just taking it for a joyride, seriously.”

“You escaped?” I asked. “How?”

It was a good question. You could think of Hell as something like a prison. The Hell Lords who made up the Infernal Court, they were the wardens and could come and go more or less as they pleased. But no prison’s perfect—there were secret passages in and out of Hell and no shortage of mid-level demons willing to provide you with a way out. Provided you could pay whatever price they asked.

Usually, that meant you had to take on a debt to corrupt a certain number of souls. But Killian here, he didn’t seem like the type capable of doing much corruption. Doubt he could make any deals, either—probably couldn’t sell a boat to a drowning man.

“You didn’t know?” asked Killian. “Asmodeus is missing. No one’s seen him in a few months.”

Actually, I had known about that. Asmodeus was one of the archdemons, a Hell Lord who had his own corner of the pit to rule over. Last time I saw him, he’d convinced me to go to Purgatory with him. He’d gone off on his own and we hadn’t seen him again. As far as I knew, he was still trapped there.

I wasn’t about to explain any of that to Killian. Last thing I needed was any Hell Lords knocking on my door. But I went through some changes myself in Purgatory, and there were things I wanted to know. In the past, Asmodeus could sometimes be counted on for information. That obviously wasn’t an option now.

“I like you, Killian,” I said. “So that’s why I’m gonna do you a solid.”

“You’re gonna let me go?”

I chuckled. “Sure. So long as you live up to your part of the bargain.”

Killian’s eyes went from side to side. “What do you mean? What do I have to do?”

“Like you said, probably not a demon around who doesn’t know who I am. And that’s the problem. So, here’s what I’m going to propose—you now work for me.”

“W-Why would I work for you? You kill our kind.”

I sighed. “Kid, I just explained this to you. If you scratch my back, I won’t put a bullet in your head. But if you’d rather I just killed you now…”

I drew the gun and casually pointed it at him. Killian jumped, holding his arms over his face. As if that would really do anything. I waited for him to lower his arms, which he did after a moment. But I kept the gun trained on his head. My face remained stoic, not allowing a hint of emotion to pass across.

“What’s it gonna be, Killian? You willing to be my eyes and ears in the demon world in exchange for staying alive?”

“So, I’d be your snitch?” he asked.

I smiled and holstered the gun. “Now you’re getting it. And who knows, maybe this will lead to more opportunities for you in the future.”

Killian cringed once more when I reached into my coat a second time. I just sighed and took out a card case. I took one of my business cards from it and passed it over to him. Killian reluctantly accepted the card and looked at it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“See those numbers on it? You enter those into a fancy new device called a phone and that’s how you get in touch with me.”

“I know what a phone is, what I meant was—”

“Head over to Lust on Rush Street. I want to know who’s in charge. Once you find out, you give me a call.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.” I looked out the window and saw we were approaching the next stop. I stood from the bench and looked down at Killian. “Don’t piss me off, kid. I’m giving you a huge break here. Think you can handle it?”

“I got no loyalty to the Court, honest.”

“Good. Because if I find out you’ve betrayed me, just remember that I’ve gone toe-to-toe with the Angel of Death.”

The doors opened, and I stepped from the train onto the platform. Maybe it was a bit risky to recruit an informant like Killian. Never would’ve done that before. But things had changed since Purgatory, and the Luther Cross who went into that place wasn’t the same one who walked out.

There are a lot of things you could say about Chicago. Traffic’s a pain, our sports teams suck, we don’t put ketchup on hot dogs, and the weather is downright schizo. But you know one thing you can’t really criticize?

We’ve got one of the best damn skylines in the world.

That’s what always strikes me whenever I look out over the city at night. It’s why instead of choosing to go to a bar at the street level, I instead come to the Signature Lounge at the top of the John Hancock Building. Sure, it’s overpriced, but where else in the city are you gonna be able to enjoy a scotch with a view like this?

My name’s Luther Cross. I’m what’s known as a cambion. My mother was human and she was impregnated by a demon. Though not just any demon—a former Hell Lord named Abraxas. Makes me kind of like royalty down in the pit. Wasn’t something I ever counted on, but now I’m making it work for me.

While sipping my Glenlivet, I stared out the window, the glow of my crimson eyes reflected in the glass. In the past, I’d have tried to hide that. But that was the old me, before I went to Purgatory and had a new side to my personality awaken.

For years, I was used as a pawn. Raised by an organization called the Sons of Solomon, who thought I was some kind of weapon to be used against the forces of darkness or whatever. Then got my chain yanked by angels and demons alike. And after Purgatory, I had enough. The old Luther was gone, and I stopped giving a damn about anyone other than myself.

I looked down at my hand. Small sparks of fire appeared on my fingertips. Hellfire to be exact. Started to exhibit the power in Purgatory. And over the past two months, I’ve only grown more powerful.

Oh yeah, speaking of which. I used to just be a half-demon paranormal investigator. But now, I’ve followed in pop’s footsteps and I’m a full-blown Lord of Hell myself, ruling over the domain once held by a demon named Asmodeus. Wasn’t what I counted on, but it was part of the deal I struck with another demon, Lilith.

I hadn’t spent a whole lot of time down there since the transfer happened. Lilith was handling the bulk of the duties down there. Me, I was content staying out of it. Didn’t care much about being an absentee Hell Lord. It gave me the power to walk around without having to worry about angels or demons riding my ass, and that’s all I wanted—to be left alone.

“Excuse me…”

I rolled my eyes and looked away from the window to address whoever this chump was. So much for being left alone. The guy was in his 60s, his gray hair having long receded from the top of his head, and he wore glasses. I could see the glisten of flop-sweat on his forehead and he kept looking around the room nervously.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Are you Luther Cross?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.” He sat down at my table and I sighed. “My name is Charles Morrison and—”

“Stop.” I held up my hand. “When did I say you could sit at my table?”

“I-I’m sorry, I just assumed—”

“Yeah, well when you assume, you make an ass outta you and me,” I said. “You got ten seconds to tell me what you want.”

“As I said, my name is Charles Morrison and I need your help.”

“What makes you think I can help you, Chucky?”

“Because I’m being pursued.” He looked from side to side and then leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “By assassins.”

“Sounds like you pissed someone off.” I raised my glass and sipped the scotch. “Sorry to hear that. But Chicago’s a big city, lots of powerful people live here. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a bodyguard.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Mr. Cross. I need you.”

“Y’know, I only like the phrase ‘I need you’ when it’s being said by a hot little number preferably wearing some kind of lingerie,” I said. “When some George Costanza-looking motherfucker says it, doesn’t do much for me. No offense.”

“I think they might be demons. Or working for demons.”

I finished my Glenlivet and held up the glass. Looking around, I caught the waiter’s eye and pointed to it. He nodded and within a few moments, brought me a fresh drink.

“What about your friend?” asked the waiter.

“He’s not my friend and he’s not staying long,” I said and the waiter left. Morrison was staring at me the whole time, no doubt waiting for my reaction after he used the D-word.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, you think you’re being chased by demons. Not my problem,” I said. “I know an exorcist out in Rogers Park, I can give you his name, but that’s about it.”

“I don’t need an exorcist,” he said. “What I need is Luther Cross. The man who I was told I could trust.”

I began to sip the new drink, and that’s when I saw it. On his finger, he wore a gold signet ring with a symbol topping it off. A white stone with a red cross. Though the line going through the cross was higher than usual. It was a symbol I recognized.

“Opus Dei,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “What the fuck do you bastards want with me this time?”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“You heard what I said. I’ve dealt with your kind before. So now, not only are you interrupting my quiet time, but you’re also part of an organization that once tried to kill me.”

“Mr. Cross, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Morrison. “Yes, I am a member of the Opus Dei, but it’s a large organization spanning the entire globe. I’m not aware of all the activities of our members.”

“I think it’s time you left,” I said.

“You don’t understand—”

“I’m gonna give you to the count of three.” I fixed my eyes on him now, the glow from my eyes growing powerful enough that it cast a red hue over my vision. “And then I’m going to get angry.”

“Wait, you have to just listen—”

“One.”

“I’m not here on behalf of the order, I’m here because—’

“Two.”

“Please, if you’ll just give me a chance to explain—”

“Three.”

“Dakota Reed sent me!”

I froze and the crimson tinge over the room faded. Several seconds of silence filled the air, and then I realized we were being watched. Our exchange must have been more distracting, because everyone in the Signature Lounge was looking right at us. During the silence that followed, they eventually turned their attention back to their own conversations. Except a man in a tuxedo, the Lounge manager, who came over to our table.

“Mr. Cross, is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I said, looking up at him. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“I feel it’s my duty to remind you that we can’t tolerate outbursts such as—”

I stared into his eyes and his face started to glaze over for a brief instant. Just a slight nudge using my powers to keep him from causing me any more grief. Already had enough to deal with.

“We cool?” I asked.

“Yes sir, of course,” he said. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

The manager left and my focus was back on Morrison. I picked up my drink and took a long sip, never taking my eyes off him. A member of the Opus Dei and he said Dakota sent him to find me? That stirred my curiosity.

“Time for you to start talking, Chucky,” I said. “What do you know about Dakota Reed?”

Morrison hesitated, sighed, and then said, “I don’t think we should talk here. Is there somewhere private we can go? Where we won’t have to deal with the threat of prying eyes and ears?”

Could understand his apprehension. Chicago had a pretty vibrant supernatural underworld and there were interested parties all over the city. Dakota posed particular interest. I met her last spring when she came to me, pregnant by mystic means. At first, we thought the baby might be a cambion, like me. But then it turned out she was carrying a nephilim.

Dakota had been impregnated by an angel. Which was a violation of the armistice between Heaven and Hell. Someone upstairs had a mind to try and thaw out the cold war between the two sides. With the help of an angel named Raziel, I kept Dakota out of harm’s way. After that, Raz took her into hiding.

No one had seen her since. And if someone found out that Morrison knew where to find her, well…they’d be really keen to extract that information.

“Fine,” I said and finished the rest of my scotch. I stood and took my leather jacket from the back of my chair, pulling it over my collared shirt.

Morrison followed me as we left the Lounge. I told the manager as we walked through the exit to put the drinks on my tab and we went to the elevator. I hit the button and slid my hands into my pockets, watching as the numbers ticked up on the display.

“Dakota speaks very highly of you, Mr. Cross,” said Morrison.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “No more talking until we get where we need to go. Not a fan of chit-chat.”

Morrison nodded and the elevator arrived. I hit the button for the lobby and the car began its descent. We rode down in silence all the way to the ground floor, not another word passing between us. The doors opened and I led Morrison through the lobby and out the door, to the parking garage right next to the building.

As soon as we’d left the elevator, I started to sense something was wrong. I didn’t look behind me, but I reached out with my sixth sense. Being a cambion gave me the ability to perceive the supernatural around me. And I could sense the presence of something following us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a uniformed cop keeping pace behind us, maintaining his distance.

Smart guy, definitely a pro. If I were anyone else, I wouldn’t have spotted him. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t dealing with anyone else—he was dealing with Luther Cross.

We entered the garage and got in the elevator. The cop followed us in and he called out. “Excuse me, could you hold the door?”

I pushed the door close button and shrugged as the cop jogged to catch up to us. “Sorry, I’m pushing it, but I think the button’s broken.”

The doors closed and we rode the elevator to the fifth floor. When they opened, I grabbed Morrison’s arm and pulled him onto the parking level. We made a bee-line for my car, the ’69 black Camaro. But as we approached, I saw we weren’t alone. There were two more cops standing by my car, one of them leaning against the trunk.

“This is a nice ride you got here,” said the one leaning. He rubbed his fingers over the surface.

“You mind?” I asked. “Just had it cleaned.”

He scoffed. “Why bother? You know it’s supposed to snow tomorrow, right?”

“My friend and I gotta be going now, so how about you gentlemen leave us be?”

“Oh?” asked the other cop, stepping closer. The name tag on his jacket read Phillips. “I don’t think I like your tone, boy. Are you telling two CPD officers what to do?”

“Not at all,” I said, taking a step back. “I’d just like to get home before it’s too late.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t let you leave,” said the cop who’d been leaning against the car. He stood upright and reached for his belt, drawing his nightstick. The tag on his jacket identified him as Miller.

Then I heard the sound of a door opening. I turned around and saw the cop from before emerge from the stairwell and close the distance between us. Cole was printed on his nametag.

“And why not?” I asked.

“Your car’s in no condition to be driven,” said Miller.

I shrugged. “Seems fine to me.”

Miller raised his nightstick and bashed it against my tail light. The sound of shattering glass echoed on the level. “Check again. You’ve got a light out.”

I sighed. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“And why’s that?” asked Phillips, getting in my face.

“Because,” I said, channeling demonic energy into my fingertips. “You’re just some pissant demons possessing these cops. And I’m Luther Cross, bitch.”

Phillips’ eyes changed to bright yellow when I put my palm against his chest and said, “Ignis!”

His shirt instantly erupted in a blaze of fire. I punched him in the face to throw him back and he rolled on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames.

Cole drew his gun and pointed it at Morrison. I held my hand up and, just as he squeezed the trigger, said, “Sepio!”

Morrison shut his eyes and turned away, but the bullet struck the invisible barrier I cast around him. That should keep him out of trouble while I finished these two bastards off. After that, I’d figure out what to do about him.”

While my attention was on Morrison, Miller struck. His nightstick hit the back of my head and dropped me to the ground. Might be a low-level demon, but he hit pretty damn hard. I was on my hands and knees and I sensed him coming in for another attack. I kicked my leg back, striking his shin. He fell as I got back to my feet.

I took his discarded nightstick and turned to look at Cole, who had his gun trained on me. Figured, the one damn time I left my gun in the car was the time I ended up needing it.

“Get back, Cross,” said Cole. “This doesn’t concern you. Just get in your car and we’ll let you drive away.”

“What do you know about me, Cole?” I asked.

“You’re the mongrel son of a demon’s whore,” he said. “Hunt us down so you can earn brownie points with those winged cocksuckers.”

My fingers tightened into a fist and I felt heat under my skin. “That was then. I’ve had some changes in the past few months. Now, I’m a mongrel Hell Lord.”

The way Cole’s eyes bulged, you’d think they were about to explode out of his sockets. Seems not everyone got the memo about my promotion. The heat under my skin had built up and flames started to dance around my fingertips.

“You shouldn’t have insulted my mom.”

I held out my arm and a burst of hellfire exploded from my palm, crossing the distance between us and completely consuming Cole’s body. He screamed as the hellfire surged through his every cell, utterly destroying every single aspect of his dark soul.

When it was done, Cole was no more and his gun clattered to the ground. I walked over and picked it up, looking at Miller and shooting him in the leg.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” I said, and then walked over to Phillips, who was still writhing in pain from the flames. I put two bullets in his eyes and a bright, yellow light emerged from his sockets before he stopped moving completely.

I knelt down by Miller and looked at the nightstick I’d taken from him. I tapped his cheek with it and stared into his eyes. I could see his anger and fear in those yellow eyes.

“You damaged my car,” I said. “I take that kinda shit personally.”

“Give me a break, man, it was nothin’ personal,” said Miller. “We were just hired to kill that old bastard.”

“Who hired you?” I asked. “You tell me, and this will go a lot more smoothly. But if you wanna be a hard-ass, then…” I held up the nightstick and waved it in front of him. “Well, we’ll see just how many holes this little guy can squeeze into.”

“C’mon, man,” said Miller. “We had no idea you were a Hell Lord. If we knew, we wouldn’t have messed with you, honest.”

“That’s not an answer,” I said, hellfire flowing from my hand and over the surface of the nightstick, coating it. “Just who exactly are you working for? One of the Hell Lords? Someone else?”

“I-I can’t tell you…I don’t know…”

“Wrong answer.”

I went to work on the demon, his screams like music to my ear as I tortured him. I made good on my word and probably set a few penetration records with that nightstick. Before the hour was up, he still hadn’t given up anything—because he didn’t have anything to give up.

Once I was convinced he really didn’t know anything, I vaporized him with hellfire and dropped the nightstick. I turned to Morrison, who braced himself against one of the garage’s support pillars and bent over, vomiting. Guess he wasn’t a fan of my methods.

“Done for now?” I asked.

“What…what are you?” he asked.

“I’m the handsome devil who just saved your ass,” I said. “Now get in the car, you’ve got some storytelling to do.”

My name’s Luther Cross, and I’ve just been stabbed to death. Not often a story begins with the hero dying, but that is how this one starts.

I’m what’s known as a cambion, a human/demon hybrid. My mother was a normal woman named Grace Cross. But my father was one of the Fallen, the angels who joined Lucifer’s rebellion and were cast into Hell to become the first demons. His name was Abraxas.

Just under a year ago, I helped a girl named Dakota Reed, who’d been impregnated by an angel. Those hybrids are called the nephilim and they’re far more powerful than me. Their creation was also strictly forbidden by the terms of an armistice between Heaven and Hell. But this angel seemed intent on breaking that armistice in order to kick-start armageddon.

A lot’s happened since then. I helped Dakota to safety, traveled to Purgatory, got overtaken by my dark side, betrayed pretty much everyone I ever cared about, became a Hell Lord, and then conquered my inner demon. In that time, Dakota also gave birth, and that’s what brought me here.

A demon named Asmodeus was after her. Long story short, he used to be a somewhat ally of mine before he got trapped in Purgatory. To escape, he struck a deal with Thanatos, the big bad who ran it—the nephilim for his freedom. I wasn’t about to let that happen, but to stop him, I had to strike a deal of my own with none other than Lucifer himself. He gave me the means to trap Asmodeus in Hell’s prison in exchange for…well, that’s something I still don’t know.

I managed to finish the job. Asmodeus was now rotting in a place called Cocytus, where he’s held under freezing water by chains of ice as ravenous, predatory fish eat away at his flesh. Didn’t come without a price, though. Bastard still managed to stab me before I got him.

Now I was standing on the beach, looking down at my body. Standing over me was a young Filipino woman named Shelly Reyes. She was a nun with a military background, tough as nails, and assigned by an angel named Raziel to protect Dakota and her baby. Before I died, I gave her a spell provided by Lucifer that would provide protection for Dakota and her kid, Malcolm.

The entire world looked different now that I was dead. It wasn’t dark out, but it seemed almost like someone turned down the sunlight. I reached a hand out for Shelly, but it just passed right through her head. And when it did, she reacted, her body straightening. I could see the goosebumps forming on her bare arms.

I couldn’t feel a thing. Not the heat of the sun’s rays or the humidity in the air. The sea breeze had vanished completely as far as my senses were concerned, as did the scent of the ocean and the sound of the waves. I knelt down and reached for the sand, but my hand went through the grains, not feeling a single one. The only sense I had left was sight. It was definitely a surreal feeling.

And that’s when I saw the fog roll in across the ocean. I stood and approached the water, staring out into the distance. The fog had come from nowhere and stretched high into the air. A boat slowly emerged from the cloud—narrow and long, and forged from human bones and skulls.

A solitary figure stood in the back of the boat, an oar clasped between his hands. He wore a heavy cloak with a hood, but his white eyes glowed brightly in the shadows that hid his face. The boat came to a stop and he raised the oar from the water. A sand dune rose from the surface, providing a bridge between myself and him. He extended his arm towards me and beckoned with a single finger.

I knew who he was. Charon, the ferryman of the dead. I’d seen him before. He was the one who took Asmodeus, Tessa, Cain, and myself into Purgatory. And now he was here for me.

I turned my back on him, looking at the beach house. I watched as Dakota emerged, running to Shelly’s side. She fell to her knees and threw her arms on my body. I could see her tears and it seemed like she was alternating between shouting and crying. But I couldn’t hear her.

“You’re not part of this world anymore, Luther,” said Charon. “Your time has come to leave and move on to the next.”

His voice was the only thing I could hear. I took a breath—or I guess I simulated taking a breath since I was now a ghost—and turned towards him.

“And which ‘next world’ would that be?” I asked. “What happens when a Hell Lord dies? Where does his soul go?”

Charon stepped off the boat and onto the dune. He slowly walked towards me and stopped when he came close. “To be honest, I don’t know.”

“How do you not know where you’re taking me?”

“My task is simply to ferry you to the next place. As we travel on the rivers between worlds, it will become clear how you’ve been judged and where your soul belongs.”

“So who does the judging?”

“That’s not my department.”

I scoffed. “For Christ’s sake, do you know anything?”

Charon sighed. “I know even in spite of some recent acts, you were a decent man. You helped many people over the course of your life. That alone may have granted your soul entry into Heaven. But—”

“But I fucked things up when I became a Hell Lord, that’s what you mean to say.”

“It certainly didn’t help matters,” said Charon. “Though I’m not so certain anything would have changed your fate.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Not only are you a cambion, but you’re the son of Abraxas. One of the greatest monsters to have ever lived. I don’t know if you ever had a chance at salvation.”

If that wasn’t a kick in the nuts, I don’t know what would be.

“So what happens to me? Does my Hell Lord status get me any sort of leeway?”

Charon looked away, off into the fog in the distance. “I honestly cannot say.”

“Can’t say because you’re not permitted to, or can’t say because you don’t know the answer?”

He shook his head. “Both. Your situation is unique, Luther. No mortal has ever been a Hell Lord before. What becomes of your soul now is anyone’s guess.”

“While we’re on the river, if it doesn’t become clear where I’m supposed to go, then what?” I asked.

“In cases where the soul’s destination is not a foregone conclusion, a trial is held to determine where it will finally rest. It’s rare, but has been known to happen in the past.”

“You’re talking about sentencing,” I said.

Charon nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Both Heaven and Hell could make a case for why your soul belongs in those domains, if they so choose.”

That didn’t fill me with a lot of confidence. With Raziel missing—possibly dead—I couldn’t count on anyone in Heaven having my back. Pyriel despised me and I doubted Gabriel would stick his neck out for me. Plus, just last year I got my ass kicked by Azrael, the Angel of Death.

“And who’s the judge? Who has final say over where my soul ends up?”

“The final judge of all things,” said Charon.

I scoffed. “Death. As in the horseman.”

He gave a nod. “It will take some time for the proper arrangements to be made. I can take you to a place where you’ll be held until the commencement of the trial.”

A place where I’d be held…I knew what that meant. There was only one place where souls who hadn’t been sentenced to Heaven or Hell had to go. And the man in charge of that place had an axe to grind against me.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” I asked. “You can’t send me to Purgatory.”

“Those are the rules.”

“You know Thanatos wants my head on a pike, and you’re just going to turn me over to him?”

“I apologize, but I have no choice.”

“Bullshit!” I stepped up to Charon, stabbing a finger against his chest. “You had a choice when you took us into Purgatory and when you helped us out. You had a choice all those times you helped Cain. And now you’re going to tell me that you’re just a good little errand boy?”

Charon raised his hands to his hood and slowly lifted it off his head. I saw his face for the first time. It was a map of scar tissue and blistered wounds. His face looked like a shattered glass that had been glued together badly. If I still had a stomach, I’d probably be vomiting all over my shoes at the sight.

He raised the hood again, concealing his wounds. “Thanatos has seen to it that I’ve paid for my transgressions. I can’t betray my duties ever again, not without consequence.”

“If he did that to you, what do you think he’s going to do to me?”

Charon lowered his head. Strange that an immortal being was afraid of something. Even more strange that he seemed to feel remorse for his actions. After all the souls Charon had ferried to the afterlife over eons, you’d think he would no longer be capable of emotion, if he ever was.

“You know, I have no power over the dead,” said Charon. “I just take you from one place to the next. But I can’t force you to board my boat.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“How do you think ghosts even exist, Luther? They’re the souls that refused to come with me.”

“So I do have a choice,” I said. “I can choose to stay behind, to remain on Earth as a spirit.”

“Yes, but that path has risks as well, and you should know of them before you make your decision. Most souls that remain behind do so because there is something tying them to this place. But remaining in the veil, stuck between two worlds, it’s too much for many. They break under the pressure and become trapped in nightmares of their own making. Or they try to inflict their pain on the living.”

I’d encountered my fair share of angry spirits in my time, so I knew exactly what sort of risks Charon was talking about. There wasn’t really any choice, though. If I tried to do things the right way, Thanatos would definitely get his hands on me. Even as a Hell Lord, I doubted anyone downstairs would try to get me out of Thanatos’ hands. Why would they? Lucifer wouldn’t want to risk showing favoritism and Lilith already had a rebellion on her hands to deal with. And the other Hell Lords either feared or despised me.

“I’ll stay.”

“Think about this carefully, Luther,” said Charon. “Soon, you’ll start to relive the past, and you could easily become trapped in it. Your rage will grow, reliving the moments of your life, and you’ll start to lash out against the living. You may not even realize you’re doing it.”

“There’s no other way. I’ve gotta figure something out.” I turned away from Charon and looked at Dakota and Shelly standing over my body. It was like time had frozen. “What’s going on?”

“Time moves differently for us,” said Charon. “You may think we’ve been speaking for a while, but it’s been barely seconds for them.”

“They’re going to need help,” I said. “I’ve reached out to spirits for guidance in the past. If I stay here, I can probably see to it that Dakota and her baby are protected.”

“You might be able to, but affecting the real world isn’t as easy as you believe. It will take time to master that skill. And there’s one other thing you should be concerned about.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Charon started to walk across the sand dune, back towards the boat. As he boarded, the sand retreated beneath the water’s surface and he looked back at me.

“Beware the wraiths,” he said.

“Wraiths?” I asked. “What the hell’s a wraith?”

“I pray you never have to find out.”

The fog rolled over him and slowly retreated, vanishing into the distance. As it did, light returned to the world and I could hear Shelly and Dakota’s voices again. I looked over at them and saw Shelly trying to comfort Dakota and telling her that they had to leave now.

She was right about that. And I’d tag along with them, see if there was something I could do to help. After all, not like I had anything else to worry about now that I was dead.

Ever walk into a place you’ve been a million times before, and even though nothing has changed, it just feels different? That’s what I was thinking as I stepped through the front door of my condo located in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. It felt like I hadn’t been here in years, even though the time was considerably less than that. But dying had a way of changing your perspectively.

My name’s Luther Cross, and I was just resurrected. You could count on one hand the number of times that the spell used on me had been performed successfully, and you’d still have fingers left over. It put me in a pretty exclusive club.

The condo really did look exactly the same. No one had been here since before my untimely death at the hands of a demon I once called friend. Just moments ago, I woke up in my grave and dug myself out to find two angels waiting for me—Gabriel and Raziel. They were my allies in what looked like a battle headed straight for all-out war. A rogue angel named Pyriel was trying to start the apocalypse. He already had the first soldier in his army, his son, a nephilim by the name of Malcolm. And he had the boy’s mother, Dakota, the woman I died protecting.

But we couldn’t just charge in after them. For one thing, Pyriel was good at covering his tracks. And two, Gabriel and Raziel had to try and appeal to the Powers That Be in Heaven. With the exception of those two, angels didn’t care much for me—probably had something to do with the fact that my father was one of The Fallen. So Gabe dropped me off at my condo before he and Raziel went upstairs.

I was glad he did. Running around as a ghost and then waking up in your own grave really made me want to take a shower before I did anything else. I just wanted to enjoy being alive for a night before I jumped back into the chaos my life had become.

I went into the bathroom and stripped off my clothes. They were covered in dirt and dried blood, and seemed unlikely my dry cleaner could do much for them, so I just left them on the floor with the plan to trash them later. I stepped into the walk-in shower and turned on the hot water.

Damn, it felt good. The only real sensations I’d felt since coming back were the feel of the sheets my body was wrapped in followed by the taste of soil as I dug myself out of the grave. I’d forgotten just how good a decent shower could feel.

As I soaped up my torso, I cringed a bit. There was a spot that caused some slight discomfort. I looked down at my side and saw a scar. That was where Asmodeus had stabbed me. Guess Death couldn’t or wouldn’t erase that little memento once he brought me back to life. I ran my finger over the scarred flesh, sucking in air at the hint of pain I felt. It was more of a reminder of what had happened than anything else. I could still remember how the blade felt going in, the taste of copper as blood pooled in my mouth, and how Asmodeus smiled as he twisted the knife.

The memory caused me to spasm and I banged into the shower door. I slipped and fell to the floor. I looked down at the wound and saw blood pouring out of it, dripping down my body and then mixing with the water before circling down the drain.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. The blood was gone—it was never there. No blood, just the white soap turning the water cloudy as it flowed into the drain.

I groaned and pulled myself up to my feet. Seemed resurrection wasn’t enough to erase that feeling when you died. I’d cheated death before, but that time was different.

After finishing in the shower, I toweled my body off and went to the sink. I wiped the mirror and saw the scar reflected in the glass. I broke from that and looked into my own reflection, then turned on the sink and started to apply shaving cream.

As I shaved, I kept staring at my crimson eyes. Kept expecting my reflection to change into the manifestation of my demonic side, but it never did. Looked like I really was successful in controlling that aspect of myself. At least that was something to be happy about.

Once I finished shaving, I put on my black robe, then collected the discarded clothes and took them into the kitchen. I grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink and stuffed the soiled clothing inside, then dropped it on the tiled floor. Planned to take that out to the trash once I had an opportunity.

I walked over to my liquor cabinet in the dining room, located just outside the kitchen. I opened the cabinet and took out the bottle of Laphroaig and poured some into a tumbler. With the drink in hand, I went to my recliner in the living room and settled in, slowly sipping the drink.

That first sip of the smoky, single-malt flavor almost gave me an orgasm. I hadn’t had a real drink in what felt like years. I took another sip. Not as good as the first, but still better than any scotch I’d had in a very long time. I set the drink down on the side table and picked up the cigarette case and lighter.

The entire time I was dead, all I wanted more than anything was a scotch and a cigarette. Now I had the opportunity for both and it was everything I’d hoped for. I took the lit cigarette from my mouth and slowly exhaled, tilting my head back and watching as the smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, moving in a slow spire before dissipating.

There wasn’t anything I could do about Pyriel or his captives, not until I’d heard back from Gabriel and Raziel. Until then, I had to find a way to keep myself busy. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, after all. Felt like what I needed was a bit of action after being apart from the physical world for so long.

Not that kind of action, though I wouldn’t turn that down, either. What I needed was to get my hands dirty, work out some of this pent-up aggression. And fortunately, I had a loose end that needed tying. Would be the perfect way to kill two birds.

* * *

I used to get around by driving a sweet ’69 Camaro, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Guy named Cain smashed in the roof while trying to kill me. In all the chaos that was happening at the time, I never had a chance to look in on it. Damn thing was probably carted off by now, which meant I was without wheels.

I could’ve taken a bus or called an Uber, but Rush Street was only about ten minutes away from the Gold Coast on foot, so I decided to take the time and enjoy having the use of my body once again.

I had a leather trench coat over a pair of jeans and a black shirt. In the past, I’d always worn a suit, but I was feeling more casual ever since the demon and human halves of my soul were brought into cohesion.

March had just begun, though it still didn’t feel like it. Some years, it was common for the cold to last longer than normal. One year, we got hit by a blizzard on the very last day of the month.

Surprisingly though, the cold didn’t bother me. On the one hand, my cambion physiology gave me a bit more resistance to the elements. But on the other, I enjoyed feeling again. The chill in the air slapped my face and reminded me that it all really happened—I’d come back from the dead.

There were likely to be a few people who wouldn’t be too happy about that. I was going after one of them right now. I turned off State Street and started walking down Rush, to the night club district. Even in the cold, people still lined up to come to these things. Had to admire that kind of dedication.

But I wasn’t interested in the regular clubs. There was one I wanted in particular. The one that had the word LUST over the awning above the entrance. I ignored the line and walked up to the bouncer. Without even looking at me, he jerked his thumb towards the people waiting.

“End of the line’s that way, pal.”

“Last time I checked, this place has a unique ownership model,” I said. “It’s the property of a Hell Lord.”

The bouncer froze and looked up. His mouth dropped when he realized who was standing in front of him. I gave him a half-smile.

“M-Mr. Cross…?”

“Hi,” I said.

“But, I’d heard…I mean, the word was...”

“I know,” I said. “Let’s just say the rumors of my death were a bit exaggerated. Now are you going to let me in or what?”

He nodded furiously and unhooked the velvet rope, then stepped aside. I nodded my thanks and opened the front door, stepping inside. The music’s bass was so loud, it felt like a throbbing inside my head. The lights were dim with a red glow, people dancing and grinding to the beat.

I moved through the crowd, heading towards the stairs. Up at the top of the building was the sixth floor, where the office of the club’s manager was located. It hung over the rest of the place, with large windows that granted a view of the dance floor. And that’s where the man I wanted to see was no doubt waiting.

Not too long ago, a demon named Lilith and I got our hands on a powerful item called the Abraxas Stone. Or rather a fragment of it. It was created by my father and by using it to harness the spirit energy of lost souls, I could threaten even Lucifer himself. I was given Asmodeus’ old realm of Hell to rule over, which Lilith had been looking after as my regent.

As for Lust, this had been an embassy of sorts for Asmodeus. He used to run this club, controlling operations to corrupt souls from here. Technically with him gone, it was now mine. Lilith had appointed a demon named Iblis to look after it. He was a smarmy little shit, but he was also only out for himself.

At least I thought so. Until Asmodeus came back and Iblis helped him kill me. That kind of thing hurt my feelings, so I wanted to come down here and get an apology from him in person.

I got up to the sixth floor and two bouncers stood guard in front of the door to the office. Their eyes met mine, flashing yellow. Demons, naturally. Last one of them I fought was Asmodeus, and he was a former angel.

These two, they weren’t shit.

“Boys,” I said, stepping up to them. “I’d like a word with my manager.”

“Don’t know who you are, but you got some guts taking on that dude as a skin-suit.”

“Not sure what you mean,” I said.

“He means Luther Cross is dead. How’d you take possession of his body anyway?”

“Or maybe you’re a changeling?”

“I’m not a changeling and I’m not some demon or spirit hitching a ride in a corpse,” I said. “I’m the real deal. Back and better than ever.”

They chuckled and stepped forward. One of them started stretching his arms while the other cracked his knuckles. It was difficult to contain my excitement—I’d been waiting for the chance to mix it up once again.

“I just wanted you to know that I’m a bit rusty with this whole thing,” I said with a grin. “So be gentle with me.”

Everything had happened so fast. He didn’t even realize how it had all gotten so out of control, so quickly. But the Morningstar had gone from simply asking questions to leading a rebellion against the Divine Choir and the full force of the Host of Heaven. Elysium, the capital city, had gone from a place of peace and tranquility to a burning site of death and savagery.

He remembered being engaged in battle. He had loved his brothers and sisters. And yet, they had come at him with everything they had. Each one trying to destroy his very existence simply because the Divine Choir had ordered it.

And so, Lucifer had no choice but to fight back.

Pahaliah. Sarathiel. Cassiel. Harut. Daniel. Those were just a few of the angels whose blood had now stained his hands. He remembered the look of terror on their faces as he extinguished their light with a sword constructed from the fire of his own soul.

This wasn’t what he was meant to be. He was the Morningstar. The bringer of light and knowledge. Not a slayer of his brethren. Not the ultimate villain that the Choir had tried to portray him as.

He remembered facing off against his brother in battle. At one point, Lucifer would have counted Michael as his hero. They trained together, fought together, laughed together. Not one angel in all of Heaven had been worthier of Lucifer’s respect than him.

And then, Michael had turned on him. Lucifer wasn’t sure how many of his own rebellious angels Michael savagely cut his way through in order to reach him. Not even Azrael had seemed as frightening as Michael on that day.

Lucifer had held back, not wanting to harm his brother. Michael had no such qualms. His ferocity had been unmatched by anything Lucifer had ever seen. And once it was all over and the dust had cleared, Lucifer expected Michael to deliver the killing blow.

Except he never did.

What happened next was a maelstrom of images. Lucifer and the other rebels had been imprisoned within the walls of Gehenna. There was a trial. Angels were in attendance screaming for their blood. One by one, the judgments came forth. Each of the angels who had sided with Lucifer had all received the same sentence—exile.

But after they had announced the verdicts, the court was emptied. Only Lucifer stood in chains before the seraphim who comprised the Divine Choir. The angels were told that Lucifer’s powers of manipulation were so vast that no mere angel should even be in his presence.

The truth, however, was simply that the seraphim feared what Lucifer might say. That he would reveal the secret they had spent eons keeping from the rest of Heaven. Naturally, they would never admit it, not even to Lucifer when no one else was present. But he could sense their uncertainty as they read out the verdict.

“Exile.”

Lucifer had felt defiant in that moment. More so than in any other. And he looked up, the ethereal chains heavy around his neck. His yellow eyes had burned bright, and he remembered asking them a simple question.

“If my crime was so heinous, then why exile?”

“Because, Morningstar, you still have a role to play. One that will continue to serve our cause for generations to come.”

The floor dropped away. Lucifer looked down to see the clouds spiraling below, spinning off into a darkening void. His wings strained against the attraction, but the chains had already fallen down to the abyss. Then, they pulled him down with them.

His wings were useless and he fell. Lucifer had screamed as he descended down through the clouds. The darkness approached, and Lucifer found himself in the depths. It felt like the darkness had gone on for an eternity without end. Lucifer was no longer certain which direction was up and which was down. All he knew was that there was a feeling of extreme loss that only grew deeper the further he fell.

Finally, after what felt like forever, there was light at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn’t the soft, cool light of Heaven. No, this was a harsh light. Lucifer tried to look away from its glare but he couldn’t. Its light burned his soul, searing away the touch of divinity he had been blessed with since creation.

His descent came to an end when he crashed into a shallow pond. The chains had vanished from his naked body and he strained as he tried to move. Lucifer got on his hands and knees and looked into the surface of the water. There he could see his reflection—dark hair, sharp angelic features, he seemed exactly the same.

Yet somehow, there was something that felt very different.

“Morningstar.”

Voices had echoed around him, all calling him by his title. Lucifer looked at the angels who had joined him in his rebellion. They all stood around him.

He realized they were all changing. The holy light had vanished from their eyes, now replaced by the yellow glow they associated with this wasteland of damned souls. Even their wings had changed. The feathers fell from them, leaving just the bony structure beneath. And though Lucifer didn’t know it then, in time leathery skin would grow over those bones, giving the fallen angels a new sort of wings.

However, Lucifer also noticed his wings remained the same. He folded them around his body so he could examine them closely. The feathers were intact and holding firm. Not even a spot of dirt stained them. He had no idea how that was even possible, when the rest of The Fallen were changing right before his very eyes, being transformed in this place.

Lucifer walked towards the edge of a cliff and looked out over the horizon. The skies were a dark, ominous crimson. And when he looked down from the cliff, he saw the legions that had followed him into damnation. All of them looked to him. When he glanced back, he saw the lieutenants—the ones who had been among the first who joined his rebellion and served him valiantly in the war.

“What do we do now?”

“Where are we?”

“Is…is this the end?”

“Can we really never go back?”

Lucifer felt that defiance build up within him once more. He held up his hands and the voices all around him grew silent. And then, he began to speak.

“I hear your despair. We’ve been cast out, separated from the light that had once nourished us. No more Elysium fields, where joy seems to dwell. Instead, hail this new infernal world we now rule. And in this place, I see a new vision of our existence. Where you see horrors, I see opportunity. Because it’s not the location, but the perspective. The mind can make a Heaven of Hell or a Hell of Heaven.

“So why should we care about Heaven? A beautiful prison with glass walls instead of bars is still a prison. Leave it to the angels and the ‘Divine’ Choir. Here, at least, we can be free. Here we are secure. They may have damned us to this hell, but I welcome their damnation and their hatred. And do you know why?”

There were shouts asking him to continue. And Lucifer smiled as he heard their chants, feeling the rush of their devotion. He raised a defiant fist high above his head, and then spoke a rallying cry that would define this new place for centuries to come.

“Because it’s better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven!”

The cheers echoed throughout the desolate landscape. Lucifer wore a broad, defiant smile on his face as he looked back to see his lieutenants similarly cheering him on.

However, though the moment felt exhilarating, Lucifer felt the hint of knowledge deep in his soul that something profound had been lost.

In the beginning, God created Heaven and the angels. The angels were beautiful, powerful creatures, holding no free will of their own, existing only to serve their father. But one angel, considered the most beautiful and beloved of all, was so struck by the sin of pride that he sought to elevate his station above that of even the Almighty. He led a rebellion against God, but he and his followers were defeated and cast down into the pits of Hell. His name was Lucifer.

Or at least, that’s how the story went. But reality was often quite different from what people had been led to believe. And in truth, the angel known throughout the halls of Heaven as the Morningstar was not so struck with pride that he wanted to be a god himself. The truth of the matter is Lucifer had learned a forbidden secret, known to no other angel save the Seraphim who serve as the priests of Heaven.

There was no Almighty, no Presence, no God. Or if there was, no angel in Heaven had ever spoken to him. Lucifer, honoring his title of Lightbringer, sought to free his brothers and sisters from the bondage of servitude. And so he led a rebellion, but was defeated by his own brother and cast into Hell.

That was where Lucifer had remained, presiding over the Infernal Court and generally keeping to himself for thousands of years. But that all changed when he met a man named Luther Cross. The son of one of Lucifer’s lieutenants from the revolt and a human woman. A cambion who saved the world from a rogue angel driven mad by the same knowledge Lucifer had discovered. Lucifer had agreed to help Cross in his campaign in exchange for one thing.

When it was over, Lucifer would walk the Earth and Cross would become the Shaitan, the supreme ruler of Hell.

That was how the Devil found himself in a club located on Chicago’s Rush Street, dressed in a white suit and a black silk shirt with an open collar. His dark hair was neatly combed back and his eyes had a haunting yellow glow to them. While the other angels who had fallen with him ended up corrupted by Hell and transformed into demons over time, there was something different about Lucifer. He still maintained his angelic beauty and his feathered wings. The only mark Hell had left upon him was his sulfur-colored eyes.

He moved on the dance floor, gyrating with two women at once. Their hands moved up and down his torso and he felt sensations he hadn’t experienced since before The Fall. During his time in Hell, he’d mostly stayed isolated from the others, never indulging his urges. It was a form of penance for him after he failed in his stated mission. As the Lightbringer, he saw himself as a disseminator of truth, but the greatest lie of all was still believed by angels and many humans as well. And after Pyriel’s madness, Lucifer realized the other angels would have shared the same fate.

So he declared his penance over and rose to walk the Earth. To experience everything he’d missed out on for centuries. He could feel the perspiration dampen his clothes in a feeble attempt to cool his body. His heart thumped against his chest in excitement as he savored the women’s fingertips moving across his arms and chest, their lips softly pressing against his neck.

The song ended, but the women seemed content to continue even without music. Lucifer was tempted himself and was already whispering into their ears, offering the suggestion they find somewhere a bit more private. They both seemed enthused by that idea and Lucifer wrapped his arms around their waists, leading them from the dance floor and towards the exit.

But before they reached the door, a hand fell on Lucifer’s shoulder. He turned and saw a large man dressed all in black standing behind him. “If you’ll excuse my interruption, sir, but the owner would like to have a word with you.

“Luc, you know the club owner?” asked one of the women.

“How come you didn’t tell us?” asked the other.

Lucifer smiled at the two of them, then turned back to the bouncer, his smile vanishing. “I think you’ve made a mistake, friend.”

The bouncer shook his head. “No mistake whatsoever. She was quite insistent you meet with her immediately. Sire.” The bouncer’s eyes changed yellow, revealing who was truly inside that body.

Lucifer sighed and turned to the women. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take care of something first, ladies. If you wouldn’t mind waiting at the bar, I promise I won’t be long…” he produced a platinum credit card with a wave of his hand and offered it to them, “…and drinks are on me, of course.”

They smiled and took the card. Both simultaneously planted a kiss on each cheek before they went to the bar to make use of the credit card. Lucifer smiled with satisfaction as he watched them go, but when he turned back to the bouncer, once more the smile vanished.

“Very well, let’s go.”

Lucifer was led through the club and up the stairs to the sixth floor. The first floor of Lust was where the main dance floor was. Each subsequent floor up from there was more like an extended balcony wrapped around, with full-service bars, tables, and a view of the dance floor. The sixth floor had one extra feature that set it apart from the rest. And that was a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows looking down at the club. The door was guarded at all times by two men—also demons.

This was where Lucifer left his escort. The two demons bowed their heads as he approached the door and entered. The office was large and spacious. It was colored red and there were burgundy couches and chairs arranged in front of the window with a bar manned by an employee in the far left-hand corner of the room.

Lucifer walked towards the couch and saw a figure sitting there. Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders and she was dressed in a black suit. She raised a hand without looking at Lucifer and beckoned for him to come. He straightened his jacket and circled around, facing her.

She was a demon as well, named Mara. A loyal servant of Lilith, the first human corrupted by Hell. And now, Mara was Lilith’s representative on Earth, ruling over Lust and keeping the demons who managed to make Chicago their home in check. She stared at Lucifer for a few moments, her jaw slackening.

“I…I wasn’t sure it was true…” she stuttered, her wide eyes fixed on him. “I mean, I knew. Of course I knew. But to see you here…in the flesh…”

Lucifer chuckled. “It’s quite all right. Seems I tend to have that effect on people.”

Mara stood slowly, her eyes never wavering. She took a step closer to Lucifer and then bowed down on one knee. Lucifer rolled his eyes and pulled her up to her feet.

“No, don’t do that,” he said.

“But you’re him…the Morningstar…”

“Yes, I know. But one of the reasons I rebelled was because I hated the idea of bondage. Well…that form of bondage, at least.”

“Right, right…umm…” Mara giggled and played with her hair. She glanced back at the bartender. “You want a…a drink or something?”

“A martini would be lovely. Gin, not vodka.”

“Sure, of course.”

She signaled the bartender and he went to work making the drink. When it was ready, he brought it over and Lucifer happily accepted the drink. He glanced at the chair nearby.

“May I sit?”

“Oh! Yes, absolutely. Please.”

Lucifer settled into the leather chair as he sipped his drink. Mara was still standing and staring at him. She had a reputation in Hell as a fearsome warrior. But now she was acting like a schoolgirl talking to her crush. The whole thing made Lucifer a bit uncomfortable. One of the reasons why he’d isolated himself from the rest of Hell in the first place was because he abhorred being worshipped. He might have been arrogant and prideful, but he certainly was no hypocrite.

“Mara, dear, sit.”

“Okay…” she sat back down on the couch.

“Your man said you wanted to speak to me, so I was hoping we could speed things along,” said Lucifer. “You see, I have two very beautiful and very aroused women waiting for me at the bar.”

“Right, I’m sorry to keep you, but it’s just…” She still stammered. “Look, you’re…here. On Earth, I mean. And some people—not me, of course—but some people may think that’s…bad.”

“And what sort of people are we talking about?”

“Well, there’s…” She glanced up and pointed towards the ceiling. “I’m guessing they don’t like you walking around.”

“No, I’d imagine they don’t. But they also won’t move against me unless I give them reason to,” said Lucifer. “Besides, most of their forces are presently focused on monitoring Hell or trying to find that nephilim boy. They won’t be an issue.”

“And what about others? Like the Sons of Solomon? The Opus Dei?”

Lucifer dismissively waved his hand and took another drink. “I don’t concern myself with a bunch of uptight assholes dressing up in robes and jewelry.”

“Okay, but what are your plans?”

Lucifer finished his drink and set the glass down on the table. He set his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. “Ever since The Fall, I’ve been living in seclusion, simply watching from a distance.”

“Watching?”

“Hell. Earth. Just watching from my tower. Never interacting, never participating, never experiencing,” said Lucifer. “It was because I failed that I felt it was necessary to punish myself with seclusion. But now, I feel like my sentence has been lifted and I want to experience things.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded. “That’s it.”

“So you’re just here to get drunk and screw anything that moves?”

“I also enjoy sitting on the beach with an interesting book and dinner at a good restaurant. But in so many words, yes.” His face softened and he smiled at Mara. “Listen, I’m not interested in making trouble for you or the angels or anyone else in this city. I’m just trying to enjoy my retirement. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”

She gave a nod. “I understand. And of course I can. But other people may not feel the same.”

“If they cross my path, they’ll quickly learn just why I was so feared in Heaven,” said Lucifer. “But until then, I do have something to take care of. I trust we won’t be speaking of this matter again?”

“If that’s what you wish. I apologize if I came off as…over-enthusiastic. I just wanted to be certain all your needs were being met.”

Lucifer stood and buttoned his jacket. “Well, not everything. But I’m off to change that. Have a lovely evening, Mara. And thanks for the drink.”

He left the office and bid farewell to the demons standing guard. Lucifer quickly went down the six flights of stairs. As he did, someone bumped into him and Lucifer stopped in his tracks. Flashes appeared in his mind’s eye, clear as if it were his own memory.

He was looking through someone else’s eyes, seeing someone else’s memory. Seated at a bar, there was a glass of wine nearby in front of an empty seat. The man whose memory Lucifer was seeing took out a small bottle and unscrewed the cap. He poured some of the liquid into the wine. A few moments later, a woman with brown hair and in a red dress came to the seat and started talking with the man. She picked up the glass and took a drink.

There was another flash. Lucifer saw the woman look drowsy and start to stumble. The man helped her stay on her feet. He suggested they should get some air. She nodded and he started to lead her from the bar, down the stairs.

And that was where the vision stopped.

It has often been said that the full moon brings out the crazies. And this particular summer night in Chicago proved no different. Even at three in the morning, the night air was warm. The gatehouse for Rosehill Cemetery had the appearance of a gothic cathedral. But in the middle of the night, the gate was supposed to be closed.

A man dressed in a white suit appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his yellow eyes like embers illuminating the darkness. He approached the gate and examined where it had been broken into. A crude job, which suggested he wasn’t dealing with experienced professionals here.

He glanced up at the moon and sighed.  Three AM—the Witching Hour. Or in some circles, the Devil’s Hour (a term he wasn’t very fond of himself). The time of day when the veil between worlds was at its thinnest. And when summoning rituals were at their most effective.

With his hands in his pockets, he calmly walked past the broken gate, as if he were just on a leisurely, Sunday morning stroll through a park. One would have almost expected him to whistle a tune.

A few steps in and he stopped, noticing something on the edge of the grass. The man in white knelt down and reached out, running his fingers over the tire tread. It was fresh. Made just before he arrived. While his fingers brushed over the track, images flashed in his mind.

The trunk opening. A child, bound at the wrists and ankles with tape over his mouth. The boy resists, but there are two men holding him. His thrashing means nothing to them. A third person waits at the trunk, holding it open. The boy is thrown inside. The trunk slams shut.

He stood upright and closed his eyes. Though to the rest of the world he was still as a statue, what he actually did was reach out with his power. He had a kind of sixth sense that allowed him to expand his perceptions and feel for supernatural energies.

And he could get a sense of something in this cemetery. It was very weak, which again reinforced his theory that these were amateurs. But the forces they were messing with were by no means benign. If he didn’t stop these idiots before they completed their ritual, there was no telling what sort of chaos they might unleash.

He wasn’t about to let that happen. The Astaroth affair had caused him enough problems. Things were now on a tenuous footing between him and the angels, and he had no desire to draw any more attention to himself.

The car was a red sedan and had seen better days. A bumper sticker on the back read “WHAT WOULD SATAN DO?” He almost wanted to chuckle—they were about to find out.

It was parked haphazardly in front of the Rosehill Mausoleum. At two stories—one partially underground—it was the largest mausoleum in the city. When he came to the steps leading up to the quartet of white columns, he got a clearer sense of the energies lurking inside.

The door had been pried open and he walked past it and into the main hall. His feet were soft as he moved across the marble floor, not making a single sound. The columns gave way to family tombs, the names etched across the walls in a grid-like formation.

His senses guided him through the mausoleum, towards the back east end of the building. Now he could hear voices echoing as he came closer. Three voices, in fact. Two male, but one was female, and clearly in command of the others. No screaming or crying, which could mean the boy was dead or just still gagged.

Their voices came from behind the doors leading to the John G. Shedd Chapel. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Then, with a gesture, the doors blew open and he strolled right through them.

A skylight was above them, bearing an intricate design of vines, and the moonlight filtered through the glass. The marble room had a series of benches arranged in a semi-square, with a podium standing before the Shedd family tomb. The design on the wall and in the chairs featured aquatic elements.

And in the center of that ring of benches, held down to the ground by the two young men, was the child. A boy of about eight years old. The young woman was standing at the podium, an intricately designed dagger in one hand, the other hand resting on an old grimoire.

“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the young men.

His head was nearly shaved, with just a thin stubble of hair across his scalp. The other had shaggy brown hair, and seemed like any average university student one could spot around the city. The girl was around eighteen or nineteen, with chin-length dark hair and blue eyes that looked upon him with fear and uncertainty.

“That’s an interesting dagger you have there,” said the man in white. “Judging by its design, the book you’re reading, and the innocent child being held down on the floor, would I be wrong in assuming that you’re trying to offer a sacrifice to summon a demon?”

“None of your business!” said the girl.

“On the contrary, I think it’s very much my business…Caitlin.”

What little color remained in her fair skin drained completely. She stammered for a reply, but nothing came out other than a series of noises.

“How do I know your name? Or how do I know that the bald one is Dave and the handsome brunette is Brock?”

The two men exchanged quick confused glances, and then looked at Caitlin. She didn’t acknowledge them, just kept staring at the man in white.

“The answer to all these questions is quite simple. You wanted to summon a demon, well I am the first demon.” He gave a bow as his yellow eyes simmered. “My name is Lucifer.”

The dagger fell from Caitlin’s hand and clattered on the ground. Dave and Brock both loosened their grips on the boy and slowly turned to fully face him. Caitlin staggered forward, coming closer to the Morningstar.

“It…it can’t be…” she whispered. “My dark lord…? Is this really…have we been blessed by your presence?”

Her obsequious nature did little to calm the rage Lucifer felt building within him. In fact, it only increased his hatred for this woman and her two little lapdogs. He was now close enough to touch her, and so he reached out and brushed his hand over her cheek. She shivered in response and closed her eyes, an expression akin to arousal falling over her features.

Lucifer could see her memories flashing before him. A middle-class suburban girl, wanting to rebel against her religious parents. Turned to the black arts, but never accomplished anything other than the most elementary of spells. Floating a pencil for half a second, creating a spark to light a candle, but nothing beyond that. She simply lacked both the natural aptitude towards magic and the discipline to overcompensate for that deficit.

One of the interesting aspects of Lucifer’s psychometric abilities was that they were not a one-way street. He was more than just a receiver of memories—he could also project his own memories or those he’d viewed into the mind of another. And they would feel those memories as if they had experienced them firsthand. Before he came to Rosehill, Lucifer had visited the boy’s home and absorbed memories from his bed.

Lucifer grabbed a fistful of Caitlin’s hair and pulled. She screamed and he placed his other hand on the side of her head, showing her just what the boy had felt as his favorite babysitter pulled him from the bed and kept yelling at him to shut up while her two boyfriends bound and gagged him. Caitlin could feel the boy’s fear, and she shouted in feeble protest, just as he had.

“What did you do to her?” asked Brock, coming at him.

“I showed her what it feels like,” said Lucifer. “Would you like to experience it as well?”

Brock attempted to charge the Morningstar, rushing at him and swinging his fists wildly. Lucifer moved lithely stepping out of the path of the punch, then pushed on Brock’s shoulder and let his own momentum send him stumbling forward and right into the wall.

Dave had picked up the knife and now pointed it at Lucifer. “D-don’t make me do this! I’ll fuck you up, man!”

Lucifer let out a sigh of exasperation. “Little man, do you have any concept of what the word ‘immortal’ means?”

“Nah, you’re not him, you can’t be!” shouted Dave.

“And what makes you say that?” asked Lucifer.

“Satan…he’d be cheering us on! He wants us to slice that little brat open! He needs innocent blood!”

“Don’t believe everything you see in the movies, boy,” said Lucifer. “I was a teacher, a bringer of light and knowledge. I believe in freedom and independence. What you’re trying to do is take away another’s right to live. And I can’t allow that.”

“Yeah…then let’s sacrifice you instead!”

Dave swung the knife wildly on his quick approach. Lucifer evaded each attempted slash with grace and poise, until he finally reached a hand out and grabbed hold of Dave’s wrist. Lucifer twisted the young man’s arm behind his back pushing up until the knife fell from his fingers and hit the marble floor.

But Lucifer didn’t stop there. Even with the knife out of the way, he still continued to apply pressure to the arm. Dave’s screams grew louder, echoing in the chapel until they were deafened by a loud crack. He slumped to the ground, weeping at the pain in his broken arm.

Lucifer stepped back from Dave and Brock tried to attack him from behind. It was a sloppy attack and Lucifer could sense it coming. He grabbed Brock’s arm and flipped him over, dropping him hard onto one of the benches.

Without a word, Lucifer approached the podium and examined the grimoire. It was real, all right. Real and powerful. Even an idiot like these three could accidentally unleash something terrible with a book such as this. But as Lucifer tried to get a read off it, he found he was blocked. He couldn’t see where the book came from or how Caitlin had managed to possess it. That would be a mystery he’d have to unravel later. For now, he closed the book and took it from the podium.

Lucifer knelt down beside the boy, who had fear in his eyes. The Morningstar offered a reassuring smile and the yellow of his eyes dimmed. Gently, he peeled the tape off the boy’s mouth.

“Your name is Anthony, right?” asked Lucifer in a soft voice.

The boy nodded.

“Anthony, my name is…” he paused and then said, “Luc.”

“Y’mean…like Luke Skywalker?”

Lucifer gave a tiny chuckle. “Yes, exactly like Luke Skywalker. Remember what he said to Princess Leia?”

“‘I’m here to rescue you’?”

“That’s correct, and that’s why I’m here, too.”

“So…you’re like…a Jedi?”

“Something like that. Now let’s get you out of here.”

Lucifer removed the bindings and helped Anthony to his feet. He walked the boy to the door leading back into the main hall. With a snap of his finger, he created a small, floating orb of light that moved a few feet in front of them.

“I want you to follow the light to the front entrance. And then wait there for me.”

“But it’s dark. Aren’t there ghosts in the cemetery at night?”

“No, Anthony. I promise you, no ghosts will harm you. I’ll just be a moment. Just stay near the light and it will protect you.”

Anthony gave a somewhat-apprehensive nod, then followed the light out back. Once he was out of earshot, Lucifer turned back to the three would-be demon worshippers.

“As a rule I generally don’t like to lie, particularly not to an impressionable young child like that,” said Lucifer. “But I didn’t want him to be scared. Because you see, there actually are ghosts in this cemetery. Some quite famous ones, too.”

Lucifer held out his arms to the side and begun muttering an incantation in the demonic language of Dimoori Sheol. Feathered wings emerged from his back and raised him off the ground and his eyes had the fiery intensity of a blazing inferno. All three of them could feel a sudden chill, as if the entire room was plunged into winter. As Lucifer continued the incantation, his voice boomed and echoed, like several people speaking all at once.

Once he finished, the wings retracted and his feet touched the marble floor. He turned his back on the three and then stepped out of the chapel.

“Enjoy your evening.”

Lucifer snapped his fingers and the chapel doors closed, locking the three inside. As he strolled through the hall towards the entrance to the mausoleum, their screams followed him.

Andrew Greene had been having a good night. He came out to the Red Lion in Lincoln Square hoping for some good drinks, decent food, and with any luck, a chance for some female companionship. His boss had been on a tear on everyone in the office for the past week to finish their projects before the end of the quarter. Stockholders were getting impatient, which meant so were the higher-ups. And that led to crunch time for everyone else.

But it was Friday and Andrew could at least put that out of his mind for the weekend. And he’d managed to do just that. Standing at the crowded bar and sipping a Guinness, he somehow found himself capable of beginning a conversation with Haley. She said she was a graduate student at the University of Chicago. Andrew had barely finished his undergraduate degree at Southern Illinois University, so right from the start it was obvious that Haley had the edge as far as intelligence was concerned.

Fortunately, Andrew had felt renewed confidence thanks to a little bit of work he’d had done on himself. In the six months since then, he hadn’t had much luck, but tonight he was feeling good. Haley was in her early twenties with chin-length brown hair and green eyes. She had a great body and Andrew was starting to feel confident as she laughed at his jokes.

“Hey…” she said, reaching her hand for her drink. But instead of taking hold of her glass, she brushed her fingers against his hand, which held his own beer. Andrew felt a charge and looked up at her. There was something about those eyes that he kept finding himself being swept up in. Her smile was different than before, a little more sultry. And then she said those words Andrew had been hoping to hear ever since he spotted her: “You wanna get out of here?”

“Wh-what did you have in mind?” asked Andrew.

Haley blushed and smiled as she looked down at the counter and swept a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Well…” She looked just slightly embarrassed when she leaned in closer and said in a softer voice, “my roommate’s out of town this weekend.”

A tingle of feeling in Andrew’s lower regions responded to Haley’s invitation. When she made eye contact with him again and asked, “What do you say?”

Andrew’s response was to finish what was left of his Guinness and set the glass down on the counter. “Where do you live?” he asked.

Haley chuckled at his exuberance and finished her own beer. They left the counter and pushed through the crowded bar to reach the exit. Outside, the air was crisp. Despite it technically being spring, it sometimes took the Chicago weather a few weeks to catch up with the season. Haley shivered and Andrew jumped on the opportunity by wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile as she leaned her head against his chest. “I’m not far, just a little past Western.”

Andrew smiled and the pair walked a few blocks down to the corner of Lawerence and Western. As they waited for the light to change, Andrew glanced around, suddenly feeling the odd sense that they weren’t alone. There were other people around, sure, but it was almost like they were being watched. Andrew looked at the people who waited at the light and further back down the street towards the bar. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

The light changed and Haley pulled him to cross. He gave one more quick survey and then acquiesced. Once across the street, they went another block, but Andrew’s sense that they weren’t alone persisted. He tried to dismiss it as simple nerves and instead allowed Haley to take him down one of the side streets. She then pulled him into an alley.

“C’mon, my building’s just down here. This is a shortcut, we can go in through the back.”

“Yeah, sure…” said Andrew, still feeling the growing sense of dread. Better to get off the street quickly in case they were being followed. Last thing he needed was to get mugged right in front of Haley. He wasn’t much of a fighter and she’d likely feel humiliated if she saw him cower before some gang banger.

Haley stopped right by the back gate of a small tenement. She grabbed Andrew by his jacket and slammed him against the bars. He was shocked at first, but then relaxed once she kissed him. Andrew’s hands found her back and he fell into the kiss. Haley’s body crushed against him and Andrew felt his body warming to her touch.

“We should go inside…” he said.

Haley nodded. “Yeah, inside.” She turned towards the gate and reached inside her purse, rummaging around for the keys. When she pulled them out and searched for the right one, but they slipped from her hands. “Damn, sorry. Butterfingers,” she said and knelt down to pick them up.

Andrew was feeling impatient. Not only because he was excited for what was about to happen, but also because he still felt nervous for what might be out there. And as he looked around, he noticed a guy turn down the alley and start walking towards them. The man was tall and wore a knit cap pulled down to his brow, his chin tucked into his chest to maintain warmth. Not only was he tall, but his shoulders were broad. And there was something about him that made Andrew feel paranoid.

“So…you got that door open yet?” Andrew asked.

“Sorry, give me a sec,” said Haley. “This lock’s a little tricky, I keep telling the super to fix it, but he just says he’ll get to it soon.”

The man was coming closer to them. And now he looked up, making eye contact with Andrew. It could have been a trick of the light, but something seemed strange with his eyes. There was almost a kind of flash Andrew could have sworn he saw, as if the eyes had glowed for just a moment.

The man broke contact and continued on. Andrew let out the breath he’d been clutching and turned back to Haley. It was just paranoia, nothing more. He had to get himself together, didn’t want Haley to think he was some pussy who’d flinch at the first sign of a stranger.

“Hey.”

Andrew’s body stiffened when he heard the sound. He turned around and saw that same man walking towards him. The guy came closer, almost towering over him. Andrew swallowed hard and reached for the pocket that held his wallet, willing to just hand it over quickly.

The guy’s hands were in his pockets. Slowly, he pulled one of them out. Andrew started to shrink down, fearing that it might be a knife or maybe even a gun. But what the man pulled out instead was just a pack of cigarettes.

“You got a light?” he asked. “Think I dropped mine.”

“Oh!” said Andrew, both surprised and relieved. “Sorry, I…uh…I don’t smoke.”

“Prob’ly a good idea, bad habit,” said the man. “Anyway, you have a pleasant evening.”

“You t—”

Andrew’s response and his relief were both cut short when—much to his horror—Haley turned and pounced on the man with a noise that could not have been human. Instantly, her fingers were tipped with razor-sharp claws that tore open the stranger’s jacket and raked across his chest. He fell back on the ground and lay motionless. Haley turned to face Andrew and he was horrified when he saw the fangs in her mouth.

“Holy shit!”

“Hey, hey, easy,” said Haley, holding out her hand as her fangs and claws receded. “Look, okay, yes, I’m a vampire.”

“So…that’s what this all was? You were just trying to lure me back to your place to bite me?”

“What the hell kind of attitude is that?” asked Haley. “Oh right, just because I’m a vampire, that must mean I’m going to kill you?”

“Well…yeah!”

Haley scoffed. “Believe it or not, I actually like you—well, liked. Before I found out what a racist you are.”

“Hold on, you’re actually offended by my reaction?” asked Andrew.

“You’re a young white guy, wouldn’t you be offended if I assumed you were a serial rapist?”

“That’s…that’s not even close to being the same thing!”

“And after I saved your life from that creep, who by the way had been following us ever since we left the bar,” said Haley. “Y’know what, maybe you should just take your bigotry and go home.”

Andrew’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “This is…insane.”

“Maybe next time you shouldn’t judge people based on what you’ve seen in movies!”

Haley slammed the gate behind her and went into the building, leaving Andrew just standing out there alone. He looked down at the body and jumped, almost forgetting it was still there. “Great, now what?”

He turned back to the mouth of the alley and started walking towards it.

“Uhhh, goddammit!”

Andrew’s body froze. That voice was the same as the guy he just saw Haley killed. Slowly, he turned around and saw the man get back to his feet. He looked down at his tattered jacket and sighed. Then he glanced at Andrew while gesturing to the jacket. “You believe this shit? Brand-new fuckin’ jacket…”

“What the hell is happening?”

“Apologies for all that.”

This was a new voice that came from above. Andrew looked up and saw a man perched on a nearby garage. He hopped off and landed flawlessly on the ground. He was tall and bald, dressed in a long coat.

“My associate over there was just supposed to follow you, not engage,” said the new arrival.

“And who are you?” asked Andrew.

“My name is Belial,” he said, then nodded to the other guy. “That’s Erik.”

“And how is Erik not…dead?”

“I’m a lycan, kid,” said Erik. “Or, y’know, ‘werewolf’ if you wanna go with the normie description.’

Andrew’s eyes went large at that. He turned to Belial. “So, does that mean you’re also a…a…”

“A lycan? No. I’m just a demon,” said Belial.

“Wh-what the hell is going on tonight?” asked Andrew.

“The vampire was just some bad luck,” said Belial.

“Yeah, sorry about that, kid. I thought she was actually going to bite you, so that’s why I stepped in,” said Erik.

“So you guys are what? Monsters hunting monsters? Trying to protect humanity in an attempt to redeem yourselves or something?” asked Andrew.

“No, actually, we’re here because you made a deal about six months ago,” said Belial.

“This is about what I owe? So you’re saying you’re supernatural loan sharks?”

“Basically, yeah,” said Erik.

“A service was performed for you. You were given six months to pay what you owe,” said Belial. “I’m here to claim what’s due.”

Andrew sighed. “C’mon, man. Can’t you just give me a little more time?”

Belial removed his gloved hands from his coat pockets and cracked his knuckles as his eyes flashed yellow. “Do I look like a patient hellspawn, Mr. Greene?”

Andrew sighed. “I mean…it’s just…things are rough out there…”

“Perhaps you’d like to know what happens to deadbeats in Hell?” asked Belial. “I can show you, though I doubt you’ll find it a pleasant experience.”

Andrew sighed and took out his phone. “Okay, just give me the account details…”

Erik took out his own phone and walked over to Andrew. “I got you covered, kid. Let’s settle this now and then you can go home.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

As the two performed the digital transaction, Belial looked at the apartment building Haley had retreated into. Vampires looking for actual one-night stands, sorcerers performing spells on demand, demons and werewolves acting as loan sharks. This was definitely a unique world he’d found himself in.

“Okay, big guy, we’re all set here. Andrew’s gonna get himself home and probably jack off through tears to the soft, blue glow of his computer,” said Erik.

“And my fee?” asked Belial.

“Already taken care of, deposited right in your account,” said Erik.

“Right…my account…” Belial reached into his pocket for the phone. He was still uncomfortable with this human technology, but he was starting to learn.

“Oh, and I got a message from the boss,” said Erik. “He said if you need more work, he’d be happy to toss it your way.”

“Thank you,” said Belial. “Out of curiosity, what kind of spell did Odysseus Black perform for the boy?”

Erik chuckled. “You won’t believe this. Kid wanted a few extra inches below the belt.”

Belial cocked his brow. “Penis enlargement? That’s what this was all about?”

Erik shrugged. “Normies, man. What can I tell ya? Anyway, so about that extra work?”

Belial sighed. “I suppose so.”

“Your boss is okay with this, right?” asked Erik. “Mr. Black wouldn’t want to piss off the Morningstar or nothin’.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine,” said Belial. “The Morningstar is…laying low for the time being.”

A flash of pure, blue light appeared in the night sky above the shore of Lake Michigan. The light quickly took shape and slowly faded as it transformed into a beautiful woman with long, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and feathered wings wrapped around her body. The angel named Anael unfurled her wings and they gently lowered her to the surface of the water, where she was able to set her feet down as if she were standing on solid ground.

Her wings folded back and the feathers emitted a soft, azure glow. The wings receded into her back and once they were gone, so was the illumination. Anael walked across the water’s surface and came to the edge, stepping onto the soft sand.

This part of the lake bordered Evanston’s Lakeshore Historic District. The homes here were large mansions, bordering areas of far more economic distress. A perfect microcosm of humanity—those with the means to help ignoring the problems right in front of them.

Anael hadn’t come here for a stroll along the lakefront, nor to admire the beauty of the excessive mansions. She was here to visit one home in particular, and to tell the occupant that she was well and truly done with him once and for all.

That might have sounded dramatic, if it were the first time Anael had done such a thing. But she felt it was starting to become a pattern with the man she had once loved and pledged her soul to. He had promise once, but he threw it all away. And in her attempts to try to help him find his way back, she herself was now a pariah. She hadn’t even tried to return to Heaven yet, so fearful was she of what the reactions would be once she did set foot in the capital city of Elysium.

The Tudor-style mansion was just across the road from the lake. The streets were empty, and yet Anael still found herself hesitating before crossing the distance. She took a deep breath and then set a foot off the curb. Her steps were slow and methodical, but soon, she had reached the front door. When she raised her hand to press the doorbell, her finger just hovered over the button.

“This is stupid…” she chastised herself and then pressed it.

She could hear the melodic ringing of the chimes from behind the door and she waited for a few moments. When no answer came, she pressed the button a second time. It was then that the door finally opened and she looked up into the face of a man with broad shoulders, a shaved head, and yellow eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” said Belial.

“Might be too soon for gratitude,” said Anael. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“Come in.” Belial held the door open for her and Anael stepped inside.

She was somewhat taken aback by the demon’s manner. Normally, theirs was an antagonistic relationship and they had exchanged blows on more than one occasion. In this very house, in fact. But now, he was extremely cordial—almost deferential. She found herself missing the animosity.

As Belial led her through the house, she was surprised to see two unfamiliar figures sitting in the library. Anael stopped to examine them and the pair turned their heads in synchronous movements to look at her. They were dressed in identical black suits with leather gloves and sunglasses. One was completely bald and rail-thin. The other was stockier with straggly hair framing his face and a full beard. They weren’t demons, nor were they human. Anael couldn’t quite a sense of what exactly they were. But something about them both unnerved her.

“A condition of Lucifer’s ‘bail,’ for lack of a better term,” said Belial. “Consider them court-appointed monitors.”

“Who are they?” she asked. “For that matter, what are they?”

“Their names are Grant and Moore,” said Belial. “As for what they are…that’s more difficult to answer. They’re agents of Purgatory and that’s all anyone really knows of them. This way.”

Belial led her away from the library and down the corridor to the kitchen.

“I don’t understand. Why is Purgatory involved in this?”

“They’re not, but they serve as a neutral third party. The Court was divided on whether or not the Morningstar could be allowed free on his own recognizance and any monitors proposed by one camp would be seen as suspect by the other.”

“No honor among demons?”

Belial ignored her jab and just opened the door in the kitchen that led to the patio. “He’s in the pool.”

Anael walked through the door and stepped out onto the wooden deck. There was a staircase that led down to the ground level, where an in-ground pool sat. The lights beneath the water illuminated the blue-painted concrete, and the silhouette of a man swam laps from one end to the other.

She walked down the steps, keeping her eyes on his form. Once she reached the foot of the stairs, Anael stepped up to the pool’s edge. He didn’t stop to acknowledge her, just continued swimming. But on the final lap, he didn’t swim to the end of the pool, instead coming towards her. He sunk beneath the water and Anael was surprised to see a bright light emerging from beneath the surface. The pool started to bubble, as if it were boiling. Anael stepped back and watched in surprise, the percolation intensifying. And then his head pierced the surface, his body rising from the pool in full defiance of gravity, with large wings spread out behind him. When he opened his eyes, they were yellow and burning as bright as the afternoon sun.

He hovered above the water and his wings carried him over to the pool’s edge. His bare feet touched down and his wings receded into his back. Rings of flame-like energy encircled his body, forging clothing over his naked form. The energy dissipated and Lucifer stood before Anael, wearing a smile on his face.

“It’s good to see you, Ana,” he said.

“Hardly the words I’d expect after our last encounter,” said Anael. “I see you managed to get your powers back. So returning to Hell did the trick, huh?”

“Not without some challenges along the way,” said Lucifer. “Since you’re here, I take it Mara delivered the message?”

“She did,” said Anael. “And I have to say, I’m pretty confused.”

“About what?”

“Try everything.”

Lucifer gave a chuckle and walked over to a table with a bottle of brandy resting on top with two glasses. He sat in one of the deck chairs and gestured for Anael to take the other. She remained standing. Lucifer just shrugged and poured himself a drink.

“My actions started all of this. Humanity’s awakening, the war, eons of conflict, Cocytus—it can all be traced back to a decision I made long ago,” said Lucifer. “And so my guilt is going to be judged by the people of Hell.”

“And what’s the charge?” asked Anael.

“Conspiring against them by working in concert with the Divine Choir.”

Anael scoffed. “You weren’t working with the Choir, you were working against them.”

“Was I?” asked Lucifer. “Every good story requires a good villain. By holding onto the secrets I’d learned, I was doing exactly what the Choir wanted me to do. I was perpetuating the great lie and thus, continuing their work. All while posing as some sort of liberator.”

“Mara told me about Raum. And how he broadcast the secret all across Hell,” said Anael. “I imagine people aren’t very happy about it.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Lucifer. “Once that initial shock wore off, most simply came to accept it. They all hated the Choir already, so coming to terms with that sort of duplicity from the seraphim was the easy part. It was my role in all this that’s spurred the most anger. And that’s something I expected, which is why I offered to put myself on trial before the calls for blood began.”

“Do you really believe you can get a fair trial in Hell? These are the people who thought you were their savior and now they see you as just a pawn of their oppressors.”

Lucifer took a sip of the brandy. “Do I take it you’re now willing to accept the truth I once tried to share with you?”

“What, that the Choir invented the concept of the Presence? That it was all a tool for control?” Anael shook her head. “Of course not. I think this entire thing is nonsense.”

“Then why are you here?”

Anael stepped up to the table and leaned over it, her azure eyes flashing as she stared into Lucifer’s face. “I came here to tell you that I’ve had it. Stop dragging me into your craziness, Lucifer. It’s already cost me more than I’d care to give up.”

Lucifer furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about? Cost you what?”

She stood upright. “Uriel’s taking credit for getting you to return to Hell, reporting to the Choir that I failed in my assignment because I let my feelings for you interfere with the mission.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Lucifer. “I haven’t returned to Hell at all. Cross still sits on the throne. And you tried everything possible to complete your mission, but nothing would force me back onto the throne.”

“Uriel only cares about the details that make him look good. And he’s now let word spread that I’m compromised. That maybe I’m more loyal to you than Heaven. I haven’t dared return to Elysium because of that, so I’m stuck here on Earth.”

“All the more reason to help me,” said Lucifer. “You take up the cause of defending me, and together we can prove that these structures of control are inhibiting all of us.”

“No.” Anael crossed her arms. “Listen to me, Lucifer—despite what nonsense Uriel is spreading, I am loyal to the Choir and all it stands for. I’m not going to justify Uriel’s lies by taking sides with you in some sort of kangaroo court.”

“You really believe you’ll ever be good enough?” asked Lucifer. “As far as the Choir is concerned, you’re forever tainted because of your association with me. Doesn’t matter that you were simply trying to do the right thing. Scum like Uriel only deal in absolutes, and they’ll twist the truth in whatever shapes are necessary in order to achieve their desires. And the Choir? They don’t care at all. As long as they can maintain the status quo, they’ll happily swallow whatever Uriel feeds them. They’ll sacrifice anyone—even an angel who’s been as loyal as you have.”

“And if I were to help you, what would that do? How would that benefit me?”

Lucifer looked down. His silence was the clearest answer he could give.

“That’s what I thought,” said Anael. “There’s nothing to be gained from helping you, Lucifer. This is just another war that you’ll end up on the losing side of. I refused to fall with you then and I refuse to do it now.”

She turned away and her wings emerged from her back. Lucifer called out to her, and his words caused her to wait.

“So what will you do, then?” he asked.

Anael sighed. “I wish I had an answer to that question. All I know is that associating with you has never been anything but disastrous for me.”

Rather than using her wings to teleport away, Anael took to the skies. She felt like relishing in the freedom of just flying among the clouds and she didn’t give a damn if anyone saw her. All she wanted was freedom from the craziness.

Uriel, Lucifer, all of it. Every time Anael had managed to gain some ground, something happened to set her back. Nothing would ever satisfy either of them. She didn’t know how this would end between those two, but she no longer cared, either.

Now that she was a pariah among the angels, she’d have to find a new path.

A demon and an angel walked into a bar.

No, that’s not the set-up for a joke. In this case, the demon and the angel were on the run from both the forces of Heaven and Hell, which left them few avenues to remain invisible.

The demon was none other than Lucifer himself. After centuries of living in isolation and ruminating over his failed rebellion, the Morningstar finally reached his limit and abdicated the throne. He attempted to retire to Earth, leaving behind the politics of Heaven and Hell.

It wasn’t long before he got dragged back into those same politics, eventually ending in a trial in Hell where he was found guilty of betraying his revolutionary principles for his own self-interest.

His companion was Anael. Several lifetimes ago, they were lovers. But that was before the war and everything that followed. When Lucifer left Hell, it was Anael who was tasked to get him to return to the throne. It took some time, but soon, Anael learned it was just another attempt at gamesmanship on the part of Heaven.

Now they were both on the run. Anael had violated her orders by defending Lucifer in his trial and then refused to return to Heaven. Instead, she sacrificed any chance for forgiveness by aiding Lucifer in his escape.

Lucifer had conned Kushiel, Heaven’s jailer, into helping them abscond. Then as soon as he brought them back to Earth, Lucifer killed him. It wasn’t the proudest moment, but it was a necessary evil. They both knew it would only be a matter of time before the energy expelled by Kushiel’s demise drew attention, and so they left Lucifer’s home in Evanston’s Lakeshore Historic District on the border of Chicago.

Their first stop was a dive bar in Englewood. Far from the most pleasant of neighborhoods in Chicago, but they needed the help of the man who ran his operations out of there.

Lucifer pushed the door open and the stench of smoke hit both him and Anael as soon as they entered. It seemed darker in here than the street. Conversations hushed when they saw the pair enter.

The bartender was tall and broad-shouldered. His eyes had a reddish tint to them and he gave a nod by way of welcome to the two.

“Mr. L., wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight,” he said.

“Erik, right?” asked Lucifer.

The man nodded. “That’s right, sir.” His glance turned to Anael and he focused on her unnatural blue eyes. Without breaking his gaze, he spoke again to Lucifer. “Though not sure why she’s here with you. Boss hasn’t had a good track record with her kind.”

Anael tightened her lips, restraining her anger. Lucifer had informed her on the way here what sort of resistance they were likely to encounter, but she was on edge already and this wasn’t helping.

“She’s with me, that’s all you need to know,” said Lucifer to defuse the situation. “And speaking of your boss, we’d like a quick word with him. Just a few minutes of his time and then we’ll be on our way.”

Erik kept his eyes on Anael as he drew his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text. His phone beeped a few moments later with a response.

“Boss says you can go in,” he said.

Lucifer smiled and slightly bowed his head. “Thank you, Erik. You’re a gracious host.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind,” said Erik just as Lucifer and Anael were about to head to the back room. “Belial hasn’t been answering any messages. Was wondering if he was okay?”

Lucifer’s face darkened, but he wouldn’t give away the truth. “He’s…wrapped up in something at the moment. I’m sure he’ll contact you as soon as he’s able.”

They entered the door leading to Odysseus Black’s office. A powerful sorcerer in his own right, he also had his hands in a lot of Chicago’s supernatural underworld. Black sat behind a large desk and had a glass of rum in one hand and a cigar clutched between the fingers of the other.

“Well, well, the Morningstar himself gracing me with his presence yet again.” Black glanced at Anael. “But I gotta tell you, Lucy, I’m not so fond of your company. Sure, she’s easier on the eyes than Belial, but that’s not enough to distract from the halo of self-righteousness.”

“Okay, I’ve been playing nice, but I’ve just about had it,” said Anael as she stepped forward.

Lucifer stepped in front of her before she could move any closer to Black. He stared into her eyes and whispered, “I know you’re on edge. But if we’re going to get this done, we need his help, like it or not.”

Anael stepped back and folded her arms over her chest. Her lips remained taut.

Lucifer turned to the sorcerer. “Odysseus, my friend. We’re in a bit of an unusual situation.”

“I figured somethin’ must be up. Word on the street is that ol’ silvertop is happier than a pig in shit up in that ivory tower.”

“You’re talking about Uriel,” said Lucifer.

Black nodded. “He won’t stop crowing about how this is the dawn of a new day and all that.”

“Is he saying anything else?”

Black shook his head. “Nah, won’t go into specifics, even when asked. Meanwhile, Mara has been holed up inside her office at Lust. Won’t come out for nothin’, it seems. Not even taking appointments. I know, I’ve tried.”

“We’re in something of a unique situation at the moment,” said Lucifer.

“This something that Uncle Odysseus should be made aware of?”

Lucifer wasn’t sure how much he should divulge. Black had provided him aid and comfort in the past, but he was also an unpredictable sort with no real allegiance to anyone other than himself.

“Anael and I are on a bit of a scavenger hunt, so to speak. We need quiet passage to some of the other realms.”

“Which realms?”

“We have to go to three places. The first two are easy enough for us to access on our own. But the third is a little trickier, at least not without drawing attention.”

Odysseus took a few puffs on his cigar as he studied Lucifer’s features. He exhaled the smoke into his glass, allowing it to linger on the surface of the rum before he took a sip.

“You gonna make me guess?” he asked.

“Alfheim.”

Odysseus took another sip, then set the glass down on his desk. He picked up his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Pick a different place.”

“This isn’t a matter of choosing a vacation destination, Odysseus. We have to go to Alfheim.”

“That’s a very risky proposition,” said Odysseus. “The fae aren’t very kind to visitors. Especially not ones associated with Heaven or Hell. Don’t think I gotta remind you of your history.”

Lucifer shook his head. “No, you don’t. But unfortunately, we don’t have much of a choice in this.”

“You gotta give me a little more to go on if I’m gonna help you out,” said Odysseus.

“My house,” said Lucifer. “It’s a real nice piece of property and if you assist us, then once this is over, it’s all yours.”

Odysseus chuckled. “What would I want with a piece of real estate in some fancy-ass neighborhood like that? Cops’d be kicking in my door every day of the week and twice on Sundays.”

“You don’t have to live there, you can do whatever you want with it,” said Lucifer.

“To get you passage into Alfheim, I’ll need somethin’ more than that.”

“Belial, you’ve been satisfied with the work he’s done for you?” asked Lucifer.

“Sure. Good worker, nice violent streak. Payments have been a lot more regular when he’s on the job.”

“As you know, he’s been splitting his time between the two of us, but once this is all over, I won’t have need of his services anymore. He’d be completely available to pursue other avenues and I could convince him to become a permanent fixture among your entourage.”

Odysseus nodded along while he puffed the cigar. “Okay, now we’re gettin’ somewhere. But it’s still not worth the trouble of running afoul of the fae. Gonna need you to put a cherry on top.”

“Fine, I have one more thing to offer,” said Lucifer. “How much business does your product do in Lust?”

“A fair bit,” said Odysseus.

“But you’ve got competition, don’t you?”

“You know I do.” Odysseus cocked an eyebrow. “What’re you hintin’ at, Nick Scratch?”

“I can’t make any deals on behalf of Lust’s management, but I do have a pretty good working relationship with Mara,” said Lucifer. “You help us out, I can see to it that she grants your people exclusive distribution rights in Lust.”

“You think she’d do that? Crack down on all dealers except mine?”

“If you give us what we want, I’m sure I can convince her,” said Lucifer.

“She won’t agree to a deal like that without a taste. What could you get her down to?”

“Fifteen percent of your take,” said Lucifer.

Odysseus shook his head and held up two fingers. Lucifer scoffed.

“Two percent is pushing it, Black. What about ten?”

“With Belial on my crew, it’d be cheaper to muscle out the competition.”

“You only get Belial if you help me out, so I wouldn’t bet on that.”

Odysseus grumbled. “Five.”

“Okay, I can get her down to five. But only if you do something else for us.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

“We’re not very popular among either the halo or the pitchfork crowd at the moment. We need a way to stay off their radars while we go about our business,” said Lucifer. “And nobody works a spell like Odysseus Black.”

“You’re really in it, ain’tcha?” he asked. “What sort of scavenger hunt are you two on?”

“That’s not part of the deal. I just need to know that you can provide us with the protection we need.”

“A concealment spell from both Heaven and Hell? I can work something like that, but you gotta be careful,” said Odysseus. “Camouflage doesn’t work so well if you run around screaming like a damn fool.”

“Meaning?” asked Anael.

“Meaning that the more you flash those fancy powers of yours, the less effective the spell will be,” said Odysseus. “You can manage some stuff—little bit of strength here, little bit of spellcraft there. But you gotta stay grounded and keep your powder dry. You start flashing your wings or whipping out soulfire weapons, the spell won’t be much good to you.”

* * *

Before coming to Englewood, Lucifer had already known that too much use of their powers would draw attention, so he’d arranged for a car. Anael kept quiet throughout most of the meeting, but once they got back into the car, she voiced her misgivings.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” she asked.

“If you know someone else who can get us into Alfheim, I’m all ears,” said Lucifer.

“You have to convince Mara to go along with this and then there’s the matter of Belial,” said Anael. “Or do I have to remind you that he’s currently trapped in Hell?”

“It’s my fault that he’s there, so of course I haven’t forgotten,” said Lucifer.

“So to recap, we have to rescue Belial from Hell, convince Mara to go along with this deal, and then retrieve Khronus’s pages from Purgatory, the Dreamscape, and Alfheim. And all of that has to be done before we have a hope of making the changes we need.”

“You’re forgetting something, Ana,” said Lucifer. “We’re going to change the timeline. So for the first time ever, we get to operate free from consequences.”

Anael scrunched her brows together. “I’m not so sure that’s how it works, Lucifer. This spell isn’t a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. Khronus said that it’s not something to be trifled with. Everything has consequences.”

“What consequences are there?” asked Lucifer as he started the car. “We go back in time, we change all of this from ever happening. Everything gets set right. And if by chance it doesn’t work, then we can just do it again. We literally have all the time in the world.”

The bear moved through the bare trees on the snow-dusted mountain, its own brown hairs coated with a light tuft of white. Dawn had just broken and the animal was out hunting for its morning prey.

He wasn't the only one.

From a cliff overlooking the bear's position stood a man dressed in furs, the snow shifting off the hairs on his coat and beard as he moved. He wore a hat with a wide brim to keep the sun off his eyes, which held an unusual green hue.

He'd held many names in his unnaturally long life, but the moniker that stuck with him more often than not was the one of his birth...and of his curse.

Cain.

If one believed the legends, he was the world's first murderer. In a fit of jealousy, Cain found the heaviest rock he could lift and used it to bash in his brother's skull. He was cursed by God to be a fugitive for eternity, branded with a mark to identify him to all others.

The legend wasn't quite accurate, though at the time Cain himself didn't even know that. The being he and his brother Abel thought was God was actually just an angel manipulating the pair. It wasn't until centuries later that Cain learned there was no true god, at least none who had ever made its presence known to humanity.

Cain had left his home and in the time since, he'd drifted between many different roles and names. During several instances, he embraced his curse, reveling in murder and mayhem, spilling blood wherever he could, and taking whatever he desired.

But each time Cain traveled down that path, he eventually found it to be a dead end. And that would inevitably lead him to a period of self-exile.

Nothing seemed to change much for him. He'd found community a few times in his life, but it always ended with him leaving. Until recently, he'd accompanied a young witch on her adventures. But as usual, he soon felt himself growing restless and desiring solitude.

There was something else that had gnawed at him. Whenever Cain became too comfortable, the Mark began to itch. It was more than just a simple brand—it had a kind of sentience of its own and a power it held over the immortal.

That was why Cain found himself spying on the bear on this particular morning. He had no need for food--there was more than enough stored at his cabin. Nor was he hunting the bear for sport--Cain never found the killing of any creature to be particularly enjoyable.

He was here because the Mark thirsted.

Cain had been keeping note of this particular bear's movements for the past month, knowing the time would come soon when the Mark would demand an offering. That time had arrived.

He stuck low to the ground, keeping very still and not making a single noise. Cain's ethereal green eyes stayed glued to the bear's movements.

The beast sniffed around the area, clearly aware of something. He raised his head and let out a roar as a signal to anyone that he wasn't to be trifled with. Cain didn't react to the warning, not even a flinch.

The bear raised his leg to relieve himself and then moved down the mountain. Cain jumped from the cliff to a sturdy tree branch and grabbed it with his hands. He swung a few times and released, flying to another tree. His grip almost faltered, but he held tightly.

The tree rustled in response to the added weight and the bear started his attention towards the noise. He gazed at the tree, watching until its slight back-and-forth movement subsided. Nothing of note, it seemed, and so the bear turned away and continued on.

Cain sighed in annoyance. Stupid, over-exuberant moron, he cursed himself. He climbed onto the limb and looked across at the next tree, then down at the bear, who moved gingerly down the mountain. Time was running low and he would have to act quick if he was going to accomplish anything this morning.

The immortal jumped to the next tree, his boots touching the limb and his arm embracing the trunk to keep from falling. Far less noise this time and the bear hadn't even noticed.

Close enough now. Ready for the strike. Cain's hand went beneath his furs and wrapped around a wooden hilt. He drew the machete from its sheath on his belt, the morning sunlight reflecting off its stainless surface.

He jumped, the machete gripped in two hands, its blades pointed at the brown-furred beast below. The machete cleanly slid between the bear's shoulder blades, and the animal's cry of pain shook the branches.

The bear stood on his hind legs and threw Cain off, the machete still lodged in his back. Cain struck the ground on his back and rolled a few times. He stopped and propped himself up on his elbows, quickly melting snow and dead leaves clinging to his coat. His hat had been lost during the fall, displaying his pale, shaved head.

Cain stood, the bear just a few paces away from him. The animal's gold-tinted eyes narrowed, awakened with a fiery rage. He roared, but this time it wasn't in pain--it was a cry of anger.

The immortal was unfazed. Cain had gone up against far deadlier creatures than this. The bear wasn't a threat to him--he was just a morning workout.

The bear rose up and swung his arms out to emphasize his size. He lumbered at Cain, bringing his right arm down first. Thick claws, nearly half a foot in length, threatened to tear open Cain's chest.

Cain grabbed the arm, holding the claws at bay. The bear swung with his left arm, but Cain ducked around to the right, leaving the arm in the spot he just stood. The animal's claws tore into his own flesh, eliciting another loud roar.

The Mark provided Cain with more than just immortality--it also gifted him with uncanny strength far greater than even his large frame suggested. Cain had never tested the limits of his power, but it was certainly enough to fistfight a bear.

Cain grabbed a tuft of the animal's fur and pulled himself up. The fingers of his free hand curled into a fist and he punched the bear in the side of the face. The sound of superhuman knuckles striking hard bone sent a loud noise reverberating through the forest.

The bear reeled, clearly stunned by just how powerful his opponent was. This was an intelligent animal and even he knew when he was in a tough fight. The bear rolled onto his legs and attempted to try to flee the scene.

But Cain wasn't finished. He gave chase, easily catching up to the bear and jumping on his back. The machete was still lodged between the bear's shoulder blades. Cain gripped it tightly and pulled it free from the mass of muscle and fur. Blood spurted out and the bear winced and flailed.

Machete in one hand, Cain grabbed the animal's fur with the other and dug his heels into the bear's hide, holding to the beast. His emerald eyes burned with murderous intent and Cain slashed the bear's arm, disabling one of his weapons.

He rolled off the bear, standing face-to-face with his enemy. The bear rose on his hind legs again and that provided Cain with the opening he needed. He moved closer to the bear and thrust the machete up, right into the beast's throat. The bear tried to roar, but his voice was cut off and blood instead dribbled past his razor-sharp teeth.

Cain pulled the machete out and the bear collapsed at his feet. The immortal stood over the beast and stabbed him again to ensure death. And then he stabbed again. And again.

The strikes continued raining down on the bear's corpse. Cain's face was a mask of homicidal fury that bordered on glee. Life had long left the bear, but the blows continued. For Cain, he saw nothing but white-hot rage, completely lost in the moment. Everything was just a blur of red, the screams of the past echoing in Cain's mind.

And then, it just stopped.

Cain dropped to his knees in the puddle of gore that he'd turned the bear into. Blood dripped from his machete and stained his furs and face. The moment was gone and he felt a tingle come from the Mark. It was satiated, at least for now.

Once Cain had pulled himself out of his state, he found his hat and began his trek back through the forest to his home. But he paused and glanced around the area. He felt a distinct impression that he wasn't completely alone here. Cain waited, watching for some sign of other activity in the forest.

Nothing came. Though Cain wasn't completely satisfied with what his senses were telling him, he accepted it and continued on his path.

* * *

Cain's suspicions were more than simple paranoia--he was being watched. Once he'd departed, one of the trees seemed to come to life. Something split off from the rest of the tree, stepping into the forest. It was a man of sorts, or at least it had the appearance of one. Tall, broad, and with pale skin that held a wooden texture, with hair like that of leaves. His eyes were round and dark with a reflective surface.

The strange being walked over to the remains of the bear and knelt down by the side of the corpse. He laid a hand on the bear's lifeless head, long, branch-like fingers gently touching it. The plant-like man closed his eyes sensing the lack of life within the bear. It was no surprise, of course, but there was still a feeling of a kind of loss in the creature's passing.

There was a rustle of leaves, but the tree-man wasn't concerned. He soon felt a lithe hand fall on his shoulder.

"You okay, Dex?" asked a soft voice.

The being called Dex raised his hand and touched the soft, human fingers on his shoulder. He sighed and stared at the bear's remains.

"He did nothing. He was no danger. Why?"

The young woman with her hand on Dex's shoulder looked down at her friend. "It's the curse he's walked with all his long life. It's why he's out here on his own."

"Why are we here, Maya?" asked Dex.

"You know why," she replied. "Cain is too dangerous to be left unattended to. Even after all these centuries, no one has been willing to address his situation. We're the ones who are going to change that, once and for all. Before he causes any further damage."

Nestled on the banks of the Cape Fear River, Southport exuded a tranquil coastal charm. The town's streets wound past well-preserved colonial buildings. The waterfront sported a marina filled with boats swaying in the harbor. Seagulls glided overhead in the early morning rays of the sun as shops and cafés were welcoming visitors either on vacation or on their way to work.

But for Cain, none of this mattered. He stood on the docks of the marina with a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses shielding his face from the sun’s summer rays. He’d spent weeks running down leads only to hit dead end after dead end. The latest one led him to this coastal town in North Carolina. Despite the heat, he still wore a light jacket. The temperature didn't affect him, but a jacket hid his weapons.

“Anything yet?”

The voice of Maya Thacker came through the Bluetooth earpiece he wore. Although she couldn’t see him, Cain still shook his head reflexively. “Goose egg. This better not be another bust.”

“This is the job, Cain. We wait, we watch, we investigate. Once we get the intel we need, then we move.”

“I’m more partial to the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ approach.”

“Yeah, and you ended up in a morgue drawer, or have you forgotten?”

“For the record, I woke up before they put me in the icebox.”

“Details. Point is, your approach didn’t work, and you agreed to follow my lead on this.”

Cain bristled when confronted with his own admission. Their current situation resulted from his refusal to obey orders in Seattle. It resulted in a failure to recover Kelryn, the missing pixie they had sought to rescue. Dexane’s capture made the situation even worse, causing Maya to become more angered as he was her partner.

A zealot named Robert Lynch now had both of them. As far as the public was concerned, Lynch was just the charismatic, media-friendly leader of Purefire Ministries. But Cain and Maya’s investigation found he was also involved in Humanity Front, an extremist militia that sought to eliminate all supernatural beings. They were the ones that took both Dex and Kel captive. The reasons were still a mystery.

Cain reached into his pocket for the phone and checked the image again. They were after Richard Sturbridge. A figure who’d grown to some prominence in Humanity Front and had been photographed in Lynch’s presence in the past. He likely had knowledge of where Dex and Kel were taken. Tracking him had proven difficult, though, and had taken them to half a dozen cities across the country before ending up here in Southport. Cain couldn't forget the image of the blond man with a goatee and bright blue eyes, having checked the photo repeatedly.

Cain had been observing a small office building registered to a shell company associated with Purefire. Despite the uncertainty, it remained their most promising option. Cain's watch paid off when three individuals emerged.

“I think I’ve got eyes on Sturbridge,” Cain said into the earpiece.

“Stay back, don’t engage yet,” said Maya. “They know you, they know your face.”

“But I’m wearing sunglasses and a hat.”

A pause filled the air, and Cain detected a sigh through the earpiece. Then finally, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Stay back, stay out of sight. Follow them, but keep your distance. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Cain wanted to object, but he held his tongue. “You’re the boss.”

“Good, now tell me what else you see.”

“There are two people with him, guy and a girl. The guy looks young, maybe mid-twenties. White as can be, with brown hair and one of those stupid soul patch things.”

“Ugh, I thought that trend had died a well-deserved death. Clearly, he’s evil incarnate, so he dies first,” said Maya. “What about the girl?”

“Short, dark hair. Hispanic features. Probably about the same age as Soul Patch.”

“Send some photos, I’ll see if the Black Lodge has any info on them.”

Cain reached for his sunglasses. To any passersby, it seemed he was just adjusting them. But there was a camera built into the sunglasses and linked to his phone. He took pictures of what he saw. He double-checked the images on the phone and then sent them to Maya.

“Got it, thanks. Now watch them while I try to see what we’ve got.”

The trio started walking down the street from the office. Cain left the marina and discreetly followed them across the street, maintaining a safe distance. With their backs turned, he safely crossed to their side of the street. They stopped in front of a small coffee shop and Sturbridge’s followers stood outside as Sturbridge himself went in.

“Cain, I’ve got some info on them,” said Maya. “They’re both known members of Humanity Front. The guy is Lucas Blackwood. He’s got his own show streaming on one of those YouTube knock-offs. He’s about as unpleasant as you imagine. The girl looks like she might be Isabel Sanchez, another online influencer.”

“They’re not from Southport, are they?” asked Cain.

“Nope, they’re out-of-towners, just like Sturbridge. Which means they must be here for some other reason and we have to find out what.”

Cain looked back at them and he saw Lucas staring right in his direction. Cain abruptly turned away and set off walking in the other direction. “Shit.”

“What?” asked Maya.

“I think Blackwood spotted me.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m moving away.”

“You didn’t move too quickly, did you?”

“Yeah, I turned right around and started walking away.”

“Goddammit, Cain!”

“What?”

“That makes you look even more suspicious!”

Cain groaned. “So, what do you want me to do?” He glanced back over his shoulder. Blackwood and Sanchez seamlessly picked up their conversation. “It’s fine, he’s not looking at me anymore.”

“Just…just go around the corner or something. Stay out of sight, don’t be conspicuous.”

Cain turned and waited around a corner briefly. He took the sunglasses off and held them down by his side, the lenses pointed toward the coffee shop. In his other hand, he held his phone to monitor the camera feed. Sturbridge emerged from the coffee shop with a small tray and three cups. Sanchez took one cup.

“Wait, where’s Blackwood?” Cain muttered to himself.

His supernatural senses snapped into action, and Cain felt a presence. But he was too slow to move before he felt a knife slide between his ribs. Cain looked up and saw Blackwood smiling at him.

“Thought you were so clever, huh?” asked Blackwood as he twisted the knife. “Let’s see how clever you are when you’re bleeding out.”

Cain grabbed Blackwood’s hand and gazed into the young man’s dark eyes. He squeezed Blackwood’s fingers as he pulled the knife out of his body. Blackwood’s sneer turned to panic as he felt the pain of his hand being crushed.

“Joke’s on you, kid.” Cain’s fingers gripped Blackwood’s hair and then slammed his head into the side of the building. “I don’t bleed out.”

Cain slammed Blackwood’s head again and then thrust him back. The knife clattered on the ground and Cain picked it up. He held it up so Blackwood could watch as Cain snapped the blade off, then tossed the two pieces over his shoulders. He reached under his jacket and drew his own blade, with runes and sigils set into the metal.

“This here’s what a real knife looks like. And I’m gonna show you how it works.”

Blackwood backed away from Cain, his body sliding into the shadows cast by the building. Cain lunged for him, but Blackwood vanished completely, disappearing into the shadows. Cain hit the building and steadied himself, glancing around.

“What’s going on?” asked Maya over the earpiece.

“Thanks for letting me know that Blackwood’s a shadow walker,” said Cain.

“What?”

“He just disappeared into the shadows.”

“That’s…” Maya paused as Cain assumed she double-checked her files. “We’ve got nothing on him having any powers.”

“Some intelligence…” Cain muttered.

He took a deep breath and centered himself, focusing his senses. Cain couldn’t allow his anger to get the better of him. The background noise of Southport faded into the background. His attention was now limited to supernatural entities, including Maya and a few others nearby.

“Maya, keep an eye on Sanchez. I’m getting some readings off her,” said Cain.

“What the hell? We’ve got nothing about that.”

“You also had nothing about Blackwood.”

Cain detected a surge of supernatural energy, unexpectedly coming from behind him. He waited until the last possible instant and then spun on his heel. His hand reached out and gripped Blackwood’s throat as he materialized from the shadows. Cain suddenly threw him from the shadows into the street.

Horns blared and cars swerved and skidded to stops to avoid hitting the young man that had just entered their paths. Cain strolled into the street, ignoring the honks and the screams. Grasping Blackwood's collar, he dragged him to the opposite side of the street, still under the sun.

“Can’t shadow walk if there aren’t any shadows for you to use,” said Cain. “Maybe you should’ve stuck to a more gloomy city, you fucking idiot.”

Cain felt an intense heat surrounding him. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow and falling into his eyes. His clothes dampened. And the smile on Blackwood’s face told him it wasn’t natural.

“Thought you got the drop on us, didn’t you?” he asked with a sneer.

Cain glanced over his shoulder and saw Sanchez approaching. Her eyes were burning like red-hot coals and her fingers were outstretched, pointing in his direction. And then, Cain’s jacket suddenly burst into flames.

Cain jerked away from Blackwood, tearing the coat from his body. He locked eyes with Sanchez, who spread out her fingers as she gestured her hand towards him.

“Burn, motherfucker!”

Under his jacket, Cain had dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans, both of which had now spontaneously combusted. He ignored the flames and walked towards Sanchez. She seemed surprised by his continued approach.

“I said burn!”

Despite the intensifying flames, Cain remained undeterred. He revealed the concealed holster under his jacket as he reached for it. In a quick-draw motion, Cain pulled the enchanted pistol from the holster and aimed it at Sanchez. He squeezed the trigger, firing off several rounds. Despite the flames, Cain's sudden movement caught Sanchez off guard, leaving her unable to react to the gun. Each bullet struck its mark, and she collapsed, lifelessly on the sidewalk.

“You fucking monster!” Blackwood screamed before charging at Cain. He jumped onto Cain’s back, pounding his fists against the back of Cain’s head.

“What is this, a temper tantrum?”

Cain reached behind his back and grabbed Blackwood, then slammed him onto the sidewalk. He put his foot on Blackwood’s chest, but then realized that the bastard was still sneering.

“What’s so funny? I just killed your girlfriend and now I’ve got you dead to rights,” said Cain.

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” asked Blackwood.

Shit, Cain thought to himself. In all the chaos of fighting Blackwood and Sanchez, Sturbridge slipped his mind.

“Maya, you copy?” he asked.

* * *

“This is why I told you to stay back,” said Maya.

“Gimme a break. They attacked me,” came Cain’s reply over Maya’s earpiece.

“They wouldn’t have even noticed you if you’d just kept your fucking distance.” Maya groaned and then took a beat. “Okay, just forget it. I’ve still got eyes on Sturbridge. You just keep Blackwood incapacitated.”

Maya never lost sight of Sturbridge. She scrutinized him, aware that he was the big fish. So while Sanchez and Blackwood were dealing with Cain, Maya followed as Sturbridge left the area and tried to move in secrecy.

Sturbridge climbed into a car and drove off. Keeping up with him on-foot wasn’t possible, but Maya figured she could throw up some mystical blockades to slow him down. Her mastery over magic was far from being as solid as she’d hoped, but some simple probability spells could impede his escape. She focused on the flow of traffic, using probability magic to increase the likelihood of Sturbridge catching red lights. As long as he was trying to keep from drawing attention, that left him vulnerable to traffic laws.

Stoplights enabled Maya to keep pace, though she still trailed behind by a good distance. Too much magic would reveal their presence, and Sturbridge would summon reinforcements. They already had enough to worry about after Lynch had exposed Cain on a live broadcast.

For weeks, Sturbridge had the advantage. They’d never gotten this close, and Maya refused to let him escape again. Drastic action was called for. And so, Maya used probability fields again to increase the likelihood of the car suffering a blowout.

The rear left tire burst, and the car careened across the lanes of traffic. Sturbridge swerved and slammed on the brakes, the car sliding to a stop right in the middle of an intersection and causing irate drivers to slam on their horns and skid and swerve to stops.

Maya moved towards the car, quickening her pace. Sturbridge stepped out of the vehicle and spotted her coming towards him. Swiftly, he broke into a run, leaving the car behind.

“Shit!”

Maya ran after him, charging into the street. Many cars had stopped thanks to the blowout, and she climbed over the vehicles blocking her path, earning several curses and horn-honks from the drivers. Maya reached the street's end and saw Sturbridge turning a corner.

She charged down the sidewalk, running as fast as her legs could carry her. Maya took a sudden, sharp turn around the same corner Sturbridge had turned. But he was out of sight.

Undeterred, Maya ran down the street. He couldn’t have gotten far was what she reasoned. He didn’t have any supernatural abilities, but the Black Lodge’s files also said nothing about Blackwood or Sanchez. Therefore, determining the accuracy of their information was impossible.

Maya rushed up the street, peering down each turn, alley, and crevice. His whereabouts were crucial; finding Dex and Kel's location depended on Sturbridge.

Eventually, Maya peered around a corner and there she saw Sturbridge lying unconscious. She ran over to him and kneeled down beside his body. She only hoped he hadn’t had a sudden heart attack or some other calamity.

“Relax, he’ll be fine.”

The voice that echoed down the alley had a deep baritone cadence. Maya looked to the source, though she’d already recognized it. Emerging from the shadows was an older man in a trench coat, his long, silver hair and beard each styled into single plaits.

“Qarhan?” asked Maya, surprised to see the old wizard here.

“My friend’s still missing. I was getting impatient,” said Qarhan. “So consider me part of this game starting now.”

The young girl stared up in awe at the giant machine that stood before her. The mechanical wolf was a modern of engineering, colored blue with white accents. Lightning marks covered its body and an omega symbol adorned the spot where the forehead and brows met.

“What’s that?” she asked, her small hand balled into a fist with a single finger pointing at the mech.

“That—” said the old bearded man, kneeling down before her, a bony finger pointed up, “—is not for children.”

“Ease up on her, Orion.” The man who spoke up in the girl’s defense was her father, David Kim. It was his hand that the girl held tightly as she stood in the large bay called the Enclave.

Orion stood and crossed his arms over his jumpsuit. He narrowed his eyes at the younger man. “We have rules in this place, Kim. This isn’t a playground, it’s a highly classified center of interdimensional security.”

“She’s ten, and she lives on Sanctuary with us. Who’s she gonna tell? The Russians?”

Orion scoffed. “Not. The. Point. We can’t just break protocol whenever we feel like it.” He jerked a thumb at himself. “I’m in charge of the Titans. What if she damaged one of them? Then what?”

David rolled his eyes. “If you’re so worried about the damage a little girl could do to the Titans, then how are they expected to hold up against giant monsters from other worlds?”

Orion, clearly growing frustrated with the discussion, jabbed a finger in David’s direction. “Just don’t let her touch anything, okay? I hate kids and their sticky hands.”

“You hate everyone.”

The fresh voice belonged to a man of twenty-seven with long, dark hair tied behind him in a ponytail. He wore what looked like a white tracksuit with red accents and a red omega symbol emblazoned on the left pectoral.

“Not the point. Just stay out of my workspace, okay?” Orion turned and stormed off back to his office.

David turned towards the newcomer, while the daughter remained fixated on the mechanical wolf.

“Thanks for butting in, Caleb.”

“It’s no problem. Orion’s just ornery, as usual.” He then knelt down in front of the girl, though the child tried to peer around the obstruction to continue staring at the wolf. “And who do we have here?”

The girl said nothing and instead persisted in her focus on the machine. She felt a tug on the larger hand that gripped hers and then her father’s chiding voice.

“Rachel, Caleb’s trying to talk to you.”

“Sorry…” said Rachel, and then shyly met the young man’s gaze. “I’m Rachel.”

“Nice to meet you, Rachel. My name’s Caleb.”

He offered his hand, and Rachel hesitantly shook it.

“Caleb is one of our Knights,” said David.

“Knight?” asked Rachel.

“Basically, I’m kind of like a superhero,” said Caleb with a grin.

He saw Rachel glance sideways and tilt her head towards the beast. Caleb turned and glanced at it alongside her.

“That’s Raiju.”

“Raiju?” asked Rachel. “What a weird name.”

Caleb chuckled. “It’s Japanese. Do you know what Shinto is?”

Rachel shook her head.

“Shinto is an old religious belief from Japan. And in Shinto, there’s a god of lightning—”

“You mean like Thor?” asked Rachel, her eyes brightening. “He’s my favorite Avenger.”

Caleb smiled at the youthful exuberance. “Yeah, kind of like Thor. Except in Shinto, he’s called Raijin and, just like Thor, he’s a warrior and protector who commands thunder and lightning. But one important difference is that he’s usually accompanied by his companion, a wolf-like creature called Raiju.”

Rachel studied Caleb’s expression throughout the explanation, then looked back at the beast. “He must have been really big if his dog is a giant.”

“These robots aren’t exactly the actual forms of those creatures. Instead, they just house the spirits of them,” said Caleb.

“So the real Raiju is a regular-size wolf?”

Caleb hesitated a moment and then said, “To be honest, we don’t actually know much about where the Titans came from. Maybe at some point, they were actual creatures. Or maybe they were something else.”

Rachel let go of her father’s hand and walked past Caleb, moving a little closer to the giant wolf. She continued to stare up at it.

“So…is it alive?”

“Yeah, the Titans are alive. If we’re ever in a serious situation, we call on them to help us in a fight,” said Caleb.

“And Raiju is yours?” asked Rachel.

“They don’t really belong to anyone. It’s more like a…friendship, I guess,” said Caleb. “But no, I don’t pilot Raiju. My Titan is the Phoenix.”

“So Knights get to drive these Titans,” said Rachel.

“Yeah, basically. Though we use the word pilot.”

Rachel became muted and just focused on Raiju’s mechanical frame.

“What’s going through your mind right now, little one?” asked David.

Rachel smiled as she stared into the beast’s vacant eyes. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a Knight. And I’m gonna pilot Raiju.”

David looked down and rubbed his eyes. “Honey, I know you want that. But being a Knight…it’s not like other jobs. You have to be chosen.”

“I will be,” said Rachel, with all the determination she could muster.

“Just don’t get your hopes up.” David checked his watch. “It’s almost lunchtime. Let’s go get some food.”

Rachel hesitantly turned from Raiju and started following her father. She stopped before Caleb. “Thanks for telling me about Raiju.”

“You’re welcome.” Caleb knelt down in front of her. Then he leaned in and whispered. “By the way, I believe you. You will be a Knight some day.”

[[ WARNING! WARNING! SYSTEM FAILURE! ]]

Tom Stone ignored the shouts of the system and pulled hard on the stick. The large jet designed in the image of a giant phoenix was sluggish to respond as he tried to pull up from an uncontrolled descent.

“C’mon…c’mon…”

He could feel the same emotions as the ship’s essence. It was a wondrous fusion of modern technology and a mysterious energy source that could only be called magic. They were called Titans, and they were more than just machines—each contained the essence of a mythical creature that had a link with its pilot. Tom could sense that the Phoenix was terrified, which only added to his own fear. Was there any possibility of surviving this outing?

“I know you’re scared, girl. But we’ve got to get back to the others. You’re the Phoenix, right? You always bounce back. Not even death can stop you.”

Strange enough, but his pep talk seemed to do the trick. The controls started responding. Tom felt the bird’s orientation change. They were rising back up through the air. He smiled behind the emotionless helmet that covered his head and patted the console.

“That’s my girl. Now let’s help our friends.”

He throttled up and the Phoenix Titan responded, its rear thrusters rocketing back towards the site of the battle. The fiery, crimson wings tore through the sky, rocketing closer to his destination, when a welcome surprise greeted him as a voice coming through the speakers.

“—ed Knight respond. Red Knight, do you read?”

Finally, the crackle of restored communications. Tom let out a sigh of relief and responded. “Red Knight, online and back in the fight.”

“Status report.”

“The Phoenix Titan’s seen better days. She’s scared, Control.”

“Don’t push the Titan past her limits. A strategic retreat is advised.”

“A retreat? Are you fucking high?”

“You mind repeating that, Red Knight?”

Tom sighed. “What I mean is that my team needs me and I’m not about to give up on them.”

There was a moment of silence and then the last thing Tom wanted to hear: “The team is gone, Red Knight.”

Behind the visor of his crimson helmet, Tom’s eyes nearly popped out of his sockets. The team gone? Impossible. He wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. There was no way he was the only one left.

“Red Knight, did you copy? I said your team is gone. Strategic retreat is advised. Please respond.”

“I’m not turning back, Control.”

“Red Knight, you must return to base immediately! That’s an order!”

“Then you can write me up for insubordination later, but I’m not giving up on my friends.”

“Red Knight! Red Knigh—”

“Disable comms,” Tom ordered the Titan. The crackle of Control’s frantic orders was suddenly silenced. Tom took a deep breath. “Better.”

Concern emanated from the Phoenix. She was worried not only about Tom’s uncharacteristic insubordination, but also the fate of the rest of the team. Tom tried his best to calm the spirit housed in the robot.

“Everything’s fine. We got cut off from communications when we were blown back. More than likely, that’s also what happened to the others,” he said. “You’ll see. We’ll get there and everything will be fine. Now come on. It’s time to save the goddamn day.”

The heads-up display marked the location of the enemy on a holographic map. Tom pushed on the stick and the Phoenix burst through the clouds. The massive wraparound monitor gave a panoramic view of what was right in front of the Titan, and as the clouds parted ways, Tom could see a serpentine monster below. It was black and covered with scales, with the head of a snake. The long neck extended down into the body of a giant lizard. The neck was wrapped around a giant crab-like robot. Giant pincers adorned the robot, which had shades of green. This robot was another of the Titans and piloted by the team’s leader, Scott Taylor.

“See, what’d I tell you?” Tom asked his Titan. “Karkinos is still active, which means so is Scott. Gonna take a lot more than a creepy snake monster to finish off the Green Knight.”

The Phoenix remained unconvinced but didn’t protest. Tom tried to survey the rest of the ground as best he could. He couldn’t see the rest of the team from this vantage point.

“No sign of the others yet.”

Concern emanated from the Phoenix, and Tom again had to play a soothing role.

“I know we have no sign of the others. But we had no sign of the Green Knight until just now, so don’t lose hope. Instead, how about we give our pal some help?”

The Phoenix slowed its descent, holding out its wings far to the sides. Crimson energy started coursing from the Titan’s eyes and chest, flowing out to its wings. A fiery aura surrounded the mechanical beast, drawing the snake monster’s attention. As the creature looked away from the Karkinos Titan, the Phoenix swooped its wings forward, unleashing the fiery energy in a massive discharge of elemental power and knocking it back into a mountain.

Tom attempted to open a secure comms channel with the Karkinos Titan.

“Green, do you copy?”

“What took you so long, Red? You napping on the job?”

Tom chuckled at Scott’s ribbing. “Nah, just didn’t want to upstage our fearless leader. Thought I’d give you a chance to prove yourself.”

“Right, right. Guess I gotta do everything myself around here.”

“What’s the status of the others?”

Silence came as a response. Tom checked to make sure the line was still open. “Scott?”

“I don’t know, okay? And stick to call signs.”

“Phoenix, can you locate the others?” asked Tom.

The map appeared on the HUD once again, pinpointing the locations of the other team members.

“I need visual.”

The Phoenix turned its head around, trying to see the rest of the team. Lying just off to the side and sprawled out on the ground was the Wyvern Titan, a pink robot with large wings and a serpentine body. Near the Wyvern was the Unicorn Titan. A yellow equine robot with a large horn knocked over on its side. And covered with rocks was the Raiju Titan, a blue robot that resembled a gigantic wolf.

“Titans are down. Vitals?”

There was a buzzer-like sound and then the phrase [[ SIGNAL NOT FOUND ]] flashed on the HUD.

“Signal not found…doesn’t mean they’re gone…could just be transmission damage.” Tom’s attempts at reassurances weren’t convincing. He didn’t even really know if they were for Scott or himself, but he was sure neither believed them. “How are you doing?”

“Honestly? I’ve seen better days. The Karkinos, too. Not sure how much more we can take.”

A warning blared as the snake monster

“It’s back!”

The snake monster went on the offensive, tackling the Karkinos Titan from behind. Its neck extended, wrapping around the Titan’s pincer arm and squeezing. Even in his cockpit, Tom could hear metal being rent until the pincer snapped right off.

“Shit!”

“Scott!” Tom flew back into action, readying the Phoenix’s weapons. “We need another elemental blast!”

[[ Insufficient power, ]] came the computer’s response. [[ Utilizing the Phoenix Flame without proper cool-down could cause catastrophic damage. ]]

“Well, what goddamn choice do we have?”

The snake continued slithering around, expanding its body to impossible lengths. It continued wrapping itself around the Karkinos Titan, and the sound of metal crunching beneath it was torture for the Red Knight.

“Reroute all power to the Phoenix Flame.”

[[ Utilizing the Phoenix Flame without proper cool-down— ]]

“I know, dammit! Just do it now!”

Warnings continued to flash across the HUD as Tom pushed the Phoenix Titan to its limits. He could feel the Phoenix’s fear mixed with a sense of betrayal, but it was the one shot he had left. The only way he could save his team.

Once again, the Phoenix spread its wings and unleashed a powerful burst of crimson energy, which consumed the snake. Instead of releasing the Karkinos, the creature only coiled around the Titan even tighter, screeching and throwing its head back in pain.

Tom was losing control of the Phoenix. It started diving into free-fall, with warnings continuing to flash. He pulled the emergency eject lever, and the canopy flew off. His chair shot up into the air and into relative safety due to the ejection.

The parachute opened and Tom descended from the sky as he watched the Phoenix Titan crash into the snake and the Karkinos. There was an explosion that engulfed all three of the massive behemoths.

“Scott!” Tom tried to activate his helmet’s comms. “Scott, do you read me?”

Static was all that filled the space of his helmet. Once Tom landed to safety, he pulled the parachute off and darted for the flaming wreckage. Finally, the snake’s charred corpse loosened from the Karkinos, but all that remained of the two Titans was flaming metal.

Kyoko Nakamura lowered the Seven Stars cigarette to the tray and tapped it with her thumb to discard the loose ash from the smoldering end. With her head lowered slightly, her long, dark hair masked her face. An attractive woman in her mid-thirties, who could easily make herself look ten years younger when she chose to apply make-up.

But tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Tonight she sat in a corner of the fifth-floor shot bar, the counter up against the window overlooking Osaka’s Namba neighborhood. Kyoko raised the highball to her lips and sipped it slowly, staring at her reflection in the window. In that reflection, she saw another woman approaching her. This woman wore a long skirt with a fashionable top and her handbag looked like it cost more than the rent Kyoko paid on her small apartment. The woman was quite a distinction from Kyoko’s burgundy top, jeans, and beat-up leather jacket.

Setting the drink down, she stared at the woman’s reflection. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said while offering a slight bow. “Did we have to meet here?”

“I like it here,” said Kyoko with a shrug. “Do you want something to drink?”

The woman shook her head. “No, no thank you, Ms. Nakamura. I’d just like to know what you discovered, if you don’t mind.”

“Have a seat.” Kyoko reached for the bag beside her chair and brought it onto her lap. She procured a black, plastic folder and laid it on the table. The woman carefully sat in the tall chair next to Kyoko and stared at the folder. She reached for it, but Kyoko placed her hand on top of the folder. The woman looked up and saw Kyoko staring at her with some sympathy in her eyes.

“Before you look at this, I want you to know something,” said Kyoko. “You paid me to follow your husband, but it’s your choice whether or not you actually want to see what I found out.”

“Do you think I shouldn’t?”

Kyoko shook her head. “I can’t answer that. You need to decide for yourself. Some people can’t live with not knowing, they need certainty. But sometimes, that certainty can be far worse than paranoid suspicions. Some people can’t live with that knowledge.”

The woman’s eyes drifted back to the folder with Kyoko’s hand resting on top of it. She took a deep breath and offered a meek nod. “I think…I have to know the truth. I can’t live with the suspicion.”

“If you’re sure.” Kyoko removed her hand from the folder and the woman reached for it. She pulled the documents and the photos out and looked over them. The woman gasped at the images.

“Judging by the financial statements, it seems he’s been seeing her for at least a year,” said Kyoko. “He’s also paying the rent on her apartment.”

Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes beginning to tear up. “I-I know her…she works at his company…met her at a function one night…”

Kyoko sighed. “There’s more, I’m afraid. Keep looking.”

The woman shuffled through the documents and then she stumbled upon it. Photos of the two of them entering a women’s clinic. “Judging by her increase in weight, I’d say she’s pregnant.”

The documents and photographs fell from her hands, hitting her lap and scattering over the area. It took her a moment to realize that she’d dropped them and by that time, Kyoko was already collecting and collating them once more.

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine. I can destroy these if you’d like.”

“No…I want to hold onto them.”

Kyoko nodded and placed them back in the folder. She reached for her cigarette and took a drag on it. “Would you like that drink now?”

Her client shook her head, taking the folder and placing it in her handbag. She was clutching the bag so tightly, her knuckles began to whiten. “No…I think I should just go home…”

“What will you do? Confront him?”

“I don’t know…I need to think about it. I’m just a housewife, I don’t know if I’d be able to survive out there without him.”

“I understand,” said Kyoko. “Shikata ga nai.”

“Yes, shikata ga nai,” the woman repeated as she stood. “Thank you, Nakamura-san. I’ll have the rest of your fee wired to your account tomorrow.”

Kyoko sipped her highball, watching through the window’s reflection as her now-former client left the shot bar. Once she finished the drink, she signaled to the bartender to refill it and looked out over Shinsekai, thinking about her final words to the woman.

Shikata ga nai—a common Japanese phrase meaning the situation couldn’t be helped—hopeless could be used to sum it up. As a private investigator, those situations were unfortunately how Kyoko Nakamura made her living.

The cheap vodka burned a path down Akane Suzuki’s throat. She coughed after swallowing the last drop of alcohol and set the glass down on the tatami-mat floor. Akane raised the bottle to eye level. Focusing on the label was difficult—it seemed to be intentionally moving.

Taunting her.

“Baka da yo,” she grumbled, then lifted the glass to refill it. Setting the bottle’s lip on the edge of the glass, her hand shook as the liquid poured in, splashing on her wrist.

Akane put the bottle on the tatami and took another long drink from the glass. Standing from the futon spread out on the tatami floor, Akane walked over to the stereo and hit the play button.

Bouncy, upbeat pop music blared through the speakers. Akane nearly stumbled as she crossed the short distance from the stereo back to the futon. She plopped down on the bedding, more vodka spilling over her hand as she did.

Akane swayed to the beat, tears forming in her eyes as she did. At first, she only lip-synced the words. But after a few more sips, she started singing them herself. Her voice matched one of the five singers perfectly.

“‘We were both exciting when I first saw you…You write a letter and the flashback starts…’”

Akane started crying as she tried to sing along to the lyrics. She finished the drink and poured herself another. After taking a fresh sip, she cringed and held the bottle up to examine it once again.

The same cheap, off-brand vodka she usually bought. Only a few hundred yen. But why did it taste funny? Did it go bad? Could vodka go bad?

Forget it, just keep drinking. She took a bigger sip—more a gulp—and continued singing.

What happened to her? To her life? Akane rose from the futon, stumbling to the stereo and looking at the pictures pinned to her wall. It was lined with purikura pictures, special photo booths frequented by many girls in Japan. Some of them were photos of her and her friends from high school. Others featured her with a young, handsome man whose hair was dyed a golden color.

Many featured her with her former bandmates. The same girls who graced the cover of the CD lying atop the stereo. Akane picked up the CD case and looked at herself. Dressed in a school uniform, back-to-back with her headlining colleague. The other three girls flanking the two of them. The word ‘Koibito’ written across the top in colorful, rounded katakana characters.

Aka and Aya they were called. Even when things were tough, despite the times they were at each other’s throats, Akane always felt like she could trust Ayano.

That smile Akane wore on the CD cover. Akane couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled an actual smile, let alone one that large. Before it all went downhill. Before she threw away her career for what she thought was love.

Akane screamed and threw the CD case across the room. It hit the balcony doors and the two halves split at the hinge. She ejected the CD, shouting and cursing at it as she snapped it in half.

The glass was empty again. Akane stumbled to the futon and fell right onto it. She felt weak, like the bottle had somehow gotten heavier. Still, she managed to refill the glass, but it slipped from her hand and landed on its side. The alcohol seeped from the glass, spreading out along the tatami.

Who needs a glass anyway? Her lips wrapped around the bottle and she tipped her head back. It burned going down. When the bottle was finished, Akane let it fall to the floor.

Why was it so hot in here? She crawled across her futon, moving towards the balcony. Akane raised her hand up, trying to grab the latch and using it to pull herself up. She flipped open the latch and tugged at the door.

It felt so heavy.

The room was spinning. But she just needed some fresh air. Akane pushed the door open and stumbled out onto the balcony, striking the railing. The night lights of Osaka’s Shinsekai neighborhood blurred and she blinked, trying in vain to bring them into focus.

A pain stabbed through her stomach. Like that time she had food poisoning after eating some bad sushi she bought from the convenience store. Vodka was a bad idea, she realized, feeling it surge its way back up her throat. Akane bent over the railing and threw up. She had barely eaten anything, so it was mostly just vodka and stomach acid that flew from her mouth and down the eight stories towards the street below.

Her heart pounded against her chest. Akane looked at her hand and noticed it was shaking, moving in and out of focus. She pushed herself away from the railing, her back slamming against the wall. The pain was great and she screamed.

She could hear a pounding noise—thump, thump. Thump, thump. Her creepy neighbor. Akane shouted right back at him. “Go to hell, you old bastard!”

The pounding continued and Akane fell to her knees, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. Why was it so hot today? Wasn’t it supposed to be fall? She breathed heavily, finding each successive breath even harder to take in than the one before.

It was a few moments of sitting like that, the entire world spinning around her, before Akane realized that the pounding wasn’t coming from next door. No, it was her own heart. Thump, thump. She opened her eyes, but the vertigo had gotten even worse. All she wanted to do was sleep.

Akane rose to her feet and stumbled, grabbing the rail. She looked over the edge and down to the street below and laughed. That would have been bad, tripping and falling over the railing.

But would it have been such a bad thing? To just jump? To finally put an end to everything? No more struggle, no more doing things she hated for money. Just finally being at peace.

She held onto the railing and stared over the edge. There were bicycles chained to a rack in the small alley, but they kept moving from side to side. Akane squinted, trying to bring them into focus. Leaning further over, using her shaking hands to grip the railing.

Then, she felt free. Like she was flying. Akane laughed for a moment.

After that moment, there was nothing.

Shinsekai at night, a place where if you had the cash, you could find just about anything you desired. As he walked through the alleys and winding roads making up the Osaka district, his eyes avoided the neon-lit signs advertising hostess clubs and cabaret bars. Passed by the massage parlors. His gaze never lingered once on any of the young women standing on the streets, wearing dresses in bright primary colors—low-cut necks, hemmed around mid-thigh. Makeup caked on their faces.

Painted whores, every last one of them.

No, he had something else in mind. This place disgusted him, but there was purpose in coming here. A reason for him to move through this pit. He knew he was tainting his own soul just by setting foot on these streets, but sacrifices had to be made.

He felt a vibration against his leg. Without pausing his stride, he reached his hand into the pocket and took out a smartphone. On the backlit screen was a message:

I’m here, where are you?

On my way 😍

The phone buzzed again before he had a chance to even put it back in his pocket. The same sender, this time a picture. A cartoon bunny clasping its hands together, a lovestruck expression on its face.

He scoffed and put the phone back in his pocket. She had no idea what she was in for.

When he turned the next corner, he saw her off in the distance, standing in front of a set of vending machines. Her hair was blond and she wore a button-down white shirt, open down to her cleavage, leaving just a hint of the black bra she wore beneath. Black socks ended just below her knees. Her gray, pleated skirt barely covered her—had she bent over even a little, she would flash her panties at the entire street.

And judging from the kind of people milling about, they would enjoy it.

She held a smartphone in her hand, her fingertips adorned with long, fake nails, with a purse hanging from a strap over her shoulder. As she brushed a few strands of hair from her face, she turned her head and looked in his direction. Of course, she didn’t know who she was looking for.

But he knew she was the one. He’d been watching her on these streets. Waiting. Planning. Watching as night after night, she wandered around, always a different man on her arms. Always one who was at least old enough to be her father, if not her grandfather.

Her face was just as dolled up as the other whores in Shinsekai. Lips red as blood, cheeks with a hint of pink, and eyeshadow that made the blue contact lenses she wore stand out even more.

There was not one inch of her that wasn’t artificial.

The time had come. He’d planned for this. Fantasized about this. So why, when he sent a signal to his legs, did they refuse to move? The desire was strong. He could already feel his pulse increasing, the blood rushing to his loins and a tightness in his pants. His lips parted slightly as his breaths came in shorter and faster.

You can’t back out now. Not after all this. You have to see it through to the end.

He inhaled a lungful of air through his nostrils. With his eyes closed, he held it in for a moment before finally breathing out slowly. That helped his nerves somewhat. When he opened his eyes, he now took a step towards her.

The distance between them wasn’t far. But with each step he took, it felt like the gap increased. Her head kept swiveling from side to side, then going back to her phone. His eyes traveled down her body as he approached, lingering on her breasts and the black bra teasing through her white shirt.

Her head turned again and when she spotted him, her eyes lingered. She tipped her head to the side and then she smiled. Happy to see him? Or happy to have a client? It didn’t matter which.

“Shiro?” she asked.

He opened his mouth. No sound came forth. A pause. He looked down at the ground. His cheeks had no doubt reddened. Why was he so nervous?

“Are you Shiro?”

He managed a nod this time. Of course, his name wasn’t really Shiro. But she didn’t know that. She flashed a smile at him and bowed, lingering just a bit. No doubt in order to tempt him with her cleavage.

“Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

Shiro returned the bow. This time, he was able to squeak out the word, “Yoroshiku.”

“So, ready to go?”

He tried to speak. A slight noise crept out from his throat, but it couldn’t be described as a word. Don’t fuck this up, do what you came here to do. After closing his mouth for a moment, he managed to speak.

“Hai.” Yes.

She smiled at him, her ruby lips parting to reveal uneven teeth. “Okay, let’s go!”

She pushed up against him, looping her right arm around his left. When she laid her head against his arm, a tingle ran up his body. He couldn’t help the scent of her invading his nose.

His body warmed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He knew what she was. Knew what he had to do tonight. But there was a rush to having her this close to him. Something unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Not like the others.

They walked through the streets. The girl prattled on, her voice high-pitched and her speech rapid. She cycled through topics so fast, he would have felt dizzy if he’d been paying attention. But he couldn’t focus on her words. All he could focus on was her fragrance. Like a spring morning in the countryside. Her touch was electric. Every now and then, she would brush her fingers lightly along his chest and a charge shot through his body. He wanted—no, he craved more.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. But he supposed this would work just as well. He knew where he had to go from here. If he could manage to get the words out.

“I was wondering…”

“Mmm?”

Shiro glanced down and saw her faux blue eyes staring quizzically into his own, the edges of her lips drawn up in a smile. He stopped in his tracks. She circled around in front of him, the smile fading as she examined his face in curiosity.

“What is it, Shiro?” she asked. “You’re pretty quiet. Do you…are you not having a good time with me?”

Shiro shook his head. And in fact, this wasn’t a lie. Just being near her was intoxicating. “No, I just…I was wondering…can we go somewhere?”

She smiled and nodded. “Of course! Where should we go? You wanna do karaoke? Grab something to eat?”

“I was hoping…” Shiro looked away from her, his eyes scanning down the street. They settled on a sign outside a building. The katakana characters spelled out the words LOVE HOTEL. He turned his gaze back to her and saw she was looking at the sign, too.

The girl looked back at him and kept that smile on her face. “Sure! Let’s go!”

She took him by the hand and pulled him down the street. He felt some resistance in his legs, but he pushed forward, walking after her. The automatic doors parted for them once they ascended the single step up to the ledge.

The girl escorted him into the lobby. A board with pictures of rooms was laid out against the wall, each one with a button below. A backlight illuminated the rooms that were vacant. She looked back at Shiro.

“Which one you want?”

He looked over the images. One would do just as good as another. Shiro pressed the button for one of the standard rooms. They went to the elevator and took it up to the appropriate floor. Once stepping into the hall, a light indicated which room was theirs.

She knew the routine, leading him through as if she’d done this a thousand times—which she probably had. The door to the room opened and they entered. The genkan was fairly large and closed off by another door. They removed their shoes and stepped up the level, walking into the room.

A large bed was the centerpiece. The headboard had a series of controls for the room and a flat-panel TV screen was placed in front of it. On the headboard was also a box of tissues and a small plate with three condoms laid out. Shiro’s eyes traveled around the room. There was also a karaoke machine and a massage chair. The door to the shower room was open and he saw a mat pushed up against the wall.

She pulled his attention away from the bathroom by pressing her lips to his. He was surprised at first, but after a moment, he returned the kiss in kind, closing his eyes and sliding his tongue past her lips. His arms embraced her and he could feel her hands exploring his body, sliding up and down his sides, one of them tiptoeing closer to his crotch.

This was happening.

She broke the kiss and took him by the hand, leading him to the bed. After easing him onto it, she started to unbutton her shirt. As she opened it, she pulled the tails out from the waistband of her skirt, revealing the black bra concealing her breasts. She placed one knee on the bed and leaned over him, resting her crotch on his thigh.

The lust overcame him. He knew it shouldn’t have, but it did. Shiro grabbed her and flipped her over on the bed, kissing down her neck as he started undoing his pants. The rush was strong now. His mind swam with sensation. She removed her panties and passed him one of the condoms.

Her body was warm. She welcomed him into her, breathing heavily with each thrust, calling out his fake name. Shiro felt the build-up inside of him and knew the time was coming. The time to accomplish the task he’d set out here for.

Shiro leaned over her, kissed her parted lips one last time, letting the taste of her peach-flavored lip gloss linger. His hands cupped her breasts, relishing the feel of her hard nipples beneath his palms. He traveled upwards, sliding his hands along her chest until they reached her neck. His fingers wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

She gasped, her eyes opening wide. She struggled against him, but each attempt to get him off only caused his grip to tighten. The rush was incredible now and he couldn’t stop thrusting inside her. He could tell she was trying to scream. Her small hands slapped his arms, her nails scratching at him. She drew blood, but he didn’t care.

His pulse raced. The more fight she put up, the more pleasure he experienced. Shiro wanted nothing more than to stretch it out, make it last as long as possible. Waves of euphoria fell over his body. Her strikes grew weaker.

Shiro gasped, his eyelids closing as he reached his own climax.

He fell over her body, lying there for a few moments, just allowing himself to breathe again. When he finally looked up, he stared into her face. Her eyes were closed. He moved his fingers to the side of her neck, feeling along for a pulse.

Nothing.

Shiro pulled out of her and took a tissue from the box. He removed the condom and wrapped it in a tissue, then grabbed his pants and slid it into the pocket. Wouldn’t do to leave something like that behind.

He dressed quickly, staring down at the body. His first in more respects than one.

And he was just getting started.

Night had already fallen by the time Shoma Mizuno stepped outside Kobashigawa High School in Ibaraki, a suburb northeast of Osaka. The humidity caused his glasses to fog up and he took them off to wipe them on the red tie that was part of his school uniform.

When the sixteen-year-old boy put the glasses back on, he saw three older boys standing near the stone markers that bordered the campus entry, sitting atop mopeds. They were around seventeen or eighteen. The tallest among them had something of a goatee growing and the edges of his dark hair curled out from under the bottom of his knit cap. Another had his hair cut so short to his scalp, he was almost bald. And the third wore his hair in a spiked fashion.

They wore the same Kobashigawa uniform, but unlike Shoma’s, theirs were in states of undress. The jackets were nowhere to be seen, sleeves were rolled out, tails hanging over their pants, and collars open with either a loosened tie or none at all.

Shoma held the straps of his backpack and looked at the ground as he approached the entrance. He could feel their eyes on him, but he tried to do what his uncle told him and just ignore them. There were some nights when they would just let him pass. Shoma hoped this would be one of them.

“Where you off to, kin?” asked the one in the cap. Katsuya Kaito. One of the most popular kids in school, and a star on the Kobashigawa baseball team.

The taunt was Japanese for germ. Shoma ignored it, though he’d been called that name more times in the past six years than he’d been called by his proper one. He wondered if these guys even knew his real name anymore.

Shoma walked past them and turned the corner, heading down the street. He heard the sound of the bikes starting up and quickened his pace a little.

Katsuya called after him. “Slow down, kin. Don’t be rude.”

The bikes revved up and Shoma heard the sound of their engines growing louder. The bald one raced past Shoma and pulled a quick turn to block his path. Yasuo Uchiha, he was Katsuya’s muscle. The one who would usually administer the beatings Shoma received while Katsuya provided the taunts.

“We’re trying to talk to you and you’re not really being very polite,” said Yasuo.

Shoma tried to protest. “I have to go home…the train…”

The other two bikes came to a stop behind him. Shoma looked over his shoulder and saw they were basically locking him into a triangle.

“Guess they don’t have much manners up in Fukushima,” said the third boy. Takumi Obara, basically Katsuya’s little lapdog. Wherever Katsuya went, Takumi was never far behind. Sometimes even echoing the exact same words Katsuya said.

“Please, my uncle’s waiting for me. I’m already running late,” said Shoma.

“Don’t worry about it, kin. We’ll let you go…just as soon as you give us what’s ours,” said Katsuya.

Shoma shook his head. “I-I don’t…I don’t have anything…”

“What about all that money you got from the government? That’s taxpayer money. You’re livin’ off our money, kin. We want it back.”

Katsuya got off his bike and stepped closer to him. Shoma tried to back away, but bumped into Yasuo. The big guy shoved Shoma forward and he stumbled, falling to his knees right in front of Katsuya. The leader knelt down and grabbed Shoma by his hair to pull his head up.

“I’m not gonna ask you again. You give us back our money or we take it out of you.”

“Maybe we could sell him to a pedophile, get our cash that way,” said Takumi.

“Hey, I kinda like that idea,” said Katsuya with a sickening grin. He grabbed Shoma’s chin and squeezed it. “What do you think, kin? You wanna be some pederast’s butt buddy? Earn us back that money you stole from us?”

“Nah, that won’t work,” said Yasuo. “He’s too radioactive. No one would touch him.”

“I-I don’t have any money!”

Katsuya shoved Shoma and he fell on his backpack. Shoma’s heart started pounding. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take of this, but he knew he had to get out of there. Blood pumped furiously through his veins and he could feel his anxiety heightening. Adrenaline kicked in and Shoma used it to his advantage.

He ran.

Shoma charged forward, pushing past Takumi and running down the street. He could hear Katsuya barking orders to the other two and their bike engines revving. Shoma turned the first corner he could and darted down an alley, then took another narrow street, followed by another.

He raced through the neighborhood of Naka-Sojiji-cho, trying as hard as he could to reach Sojiji Station. Once he got there, he could get on the Hankyu-Kyoto line and he’d be home safe.

That was assuming he made it there before Katsuya and his gang caught up to him.

Shoma’s breathing grew ragged and his legs screamed in pain, but he couldn’t allow himself to stop. He couldn’t hear the bikes over the sound of the other street traffic, but he couldn’t be sure he’d actually lost them. The best thing to do was to keep moving, take a few more random streets before he finally ended up at the station.

It wasn’t the first time Shoma had to take this twisting, curving route to get to the station. He’d had to deal with not only Katsuya, but several bullies in the six years since he’d moved to Ibaraki. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last given everything he’d already been through.

Shoma kept running until he finally made it to Sojiji Station. Almost home free. But then he heard the bikes behind him. Shoma looked over his shoulder and saw Katsuya, Takumi, and Yasuo walking through the main entrance.

He turned around and kept his head down, walking towards the ticket gate. Shoma fumbled in his pocket, looking for the case holding his train pass. He found it and moved with the rest of the crowd, but then it slipped from his grasp. Kneeling down to retrieve it, Shoma’s fingers were just about to grab the holder, but a passing commuter unknowingly kicked it with her foot and sent it flying to the automated ticketing machines.

Shoma sighed and stood, running over to grab the pass. He knelt down and picked it up and just as he stood, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His blood ran cold as he heard Katsuya’s voice whisper in his ear.

“Man, you are one clumsy little shit, aren’t you, kin?”

Shoma turned and saw the gang staring at him. Katsuya moved beside Shoma and draped his arm over the younger boy’s shoulders.

“Listen up, it’s not nice to run from us like that,” he said. “Especially when we were having such a friendly little chat. So what I’m thinkin’ is we need to take you outside, show you a little bit about how people in Kansai treat each other, okay?”

He was running out of time. He had to get to the train, get away from Katsuya and his followers. Shoma only had one chance, but it was a risk. If he messed this up, they’d probably kill him. But he had to try.

Shoma drove his elbow into Katsuya’s stomach and the older bully recoiled, bending over in pain. Yasuo and Takumi were too shocked to really make sense of what had just happened, and that gave Shoma the opening he needed.

The younger high school student darted from the bullies, making a beeline straight for the gate. He pushed his pass to the sensor and the gates opened, granting him access to the platform. Shoma raced out, coming to a stop on the platform and bending over, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

He did it. He’d finally gotten away from them. Now he’d get on the train, go home, have a nice dinner with his uncle, and then tomorrow…

Tomorrow…

Dread filled Shoma’s thoughts. Tomorrow would be the same as today. After standing up to Katsuya, it might even prove to be worse. They’d come after him again. Just like before. They’d tease him, beat him up, steal his money, tear up his homework. He’d probably go home and find several taunting messages on social media and in his email.

Six years. Not once in that time had they ever stopped calling him germ or radioactive. Not once did they ever relent in their torment. If anything, it had only gotten worse, especially as Katsuya and his friends had started hanging around with a bosozoku biker gang.

They were predators and he was their prey. Shoma didn’t know what to do. He was too ashamed to tell his uncle the extent of the bullying. He tried to go to the teachers, but…well, they didn’t really give much of a damn about that. They pretended it wasn’t happening.

How much more could he really take? There seemed like no way out.

He heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder. Katsuya and his gang were coming. This time, the beating would be worse than before. Shoma couldn’t face it, not again. He felt a pit in his stomach and he wanted to throw up.

A light in the distance. There was one way out. Probably the only way he could stand now. He didn’t want to leave his uncle alone, but maybe it was for the best. His uncle wouldn’t have to worry about raising a teenager all by himself. And as for Shoma, he could see his parents again. His thoughts drifted back to that day six years ago—March 11th, 2011. The day of the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami.

The day his parents died.

His life had never been the same since. With each passing day, it only got worse. Shoma couldn’t keep this up any longer. Couldn’t face another day of the bullying. He hated Ibaraki, hated Kansai, hated Kobashigawa High. Hated Katsuya and all the other kids at school. Hated the teachers.

The light grew closer. Shoma knew this was the only way out. The only option he had left. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, offering a silent apology to his uncle.

Laughter came from behind him, followed by Katsuya’s taunting voice. “What are you doing, kin? Turn around and look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Shoma didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes closed and ran to the edge of the platform. And he kept running just as the train passed through. The last thing Shoma Mizuno heard were screams of horror from the commuters standing on the platform.

And then, he was gone.

The stillness of Earth’s moon was interrupted by a figure who appeared suddenly on the surface. The man walked carefully along the dusty terrain in his spacesuit, one that was exactly like the AZL suits worn on the Apollo 11 lunar walk. In contrast to his outfit, by his side was a different creature, humanoid and completely silver, without a single identifying characteristic. Unlike the man in the suit, the automaton had no need to fear the vacuum of space. The robot bent his arm out in front of his face and a holographic image appeared above his wrist. It displayed a variety of information that flashed in rapid succession, far too quick for the human eye to discern, but for the robot, it was a simple matter to observe and analyze every last bit of data as if casually reading a magazine. Strangely, without even the benefit of eyesight.

The display vanished and he lowered his arm. “Transport was successful.” His voice had a definite tinny quality to it. “In the parlance of this era, the date is December Twenty-First, Two Thousand and Twelve.”

From behind the visor of his helmet, the man smiled. “Of course it was successful. Was there ever any doubt?”

“If I may query, what is the purpose of this garb?”

“Oh this?” He moved about in the suit, looking down at it. “This, my dear Progenitor, is a classic. While wearing this, mankind took his first steps onto a world other than their own. It was a milestone in human evolution, and it serves as fitting a point as any for what comes next.”

They continued to walk along the surface, the astronaut enjoying the feel of the moon’s low gravity as he jumped from one point to the next. Progenitor, however, simply followed along as normal, not comprehending his companion’s merriment.

Just over the horizon, they found a four-wheeled vehicle, left abandoned for decades. And not far from it was a pole; attached to the top was a plain, white flag. The astronaut approached the flag, touching its fabric between his gloved fingers.

“A place of historical significance. And from here, we can bring mankind into another turning point.” He faced his robotic companion. “Are we ready?”

Progenitor nodded. “Are you certain of this? Unleashing such a force on this species could have disastrous consequences.”

“We’ve both seen the future, my friend. If humanity is to survive, this action must be taken.”

“Why this date?”

The astronaut smiled again beneath his helmet. “There’s a long-standing myth that this particular day will mark the beginning of a new era. I’m partial to that kind of symmetry. Do you understand?”

“I comprehend your words, yet the meaning escapes me.”

“Then let’s just say I’m sentimental,” said the astronaut. “You can begin.”

“Acknowledged.”

The Progenitor held his arms out and stared up at the stars. He brought his legs together and slowly rose above the surface and remained there for several moments, seemingly doing nothing. His silver body began to pulse with a golden glow from within. Within moments, the Progenitor’s entire body was glowing, expanding ever-outward. A brilliant burst of energy shot forth from him, forming into a ball and growing larger as it traversed the distance from the Earth to the moon. Upon reaching the planet, the ball exploded into millions of small streaks of light, fading away as they pierced the Earth’s atmosphere.

The Progenitor lowered back to the surface, facing the astronaut. “It is done. The energy will linger in the atmosphere and over time, will be absorbed by the human genome and encoded into the DNA.”

“How long?” asked the astronaut.

“This depends upon the individual. Some will develop new traits immediately. For others, it may take months or years. But for many, the transformation will remain dormant in their genetic code, perhaps for generations.”

The astronaut frowned. “I suppose we can only work with what we’ve got. The important thing is that the new age has begun.”

The Future

The man known as Chronos stood amongst the ashes and rubble of New York’s Times Square. Once upon a time, this intersection was a constant bustle of life—brightly illuminated, with the sounds of traffic and thousands crossing through the streets.

Now darkness permeated the area, the massive screens displaying propaganda and ash and rubble replacing the people and cars that once populated the area. And hovering in the skies above were massive alien warships.

Chronos stared through his silver visor and bent his arm up to his face. A hologram displaying the current date projected from his gauntlet. He’d already checked it numerous times but still couldn’t believe his eyes.

“The invasion has come far too early,” said Chronos’ companion, the sleek, silver robot called the Progenitor.

“But why?” asked Chronos. “What brought the Kotharians here ahead of schedule?”

“Chronos, my sensors are detecting hostiles!”

Chronos’ own armor alerted him as well. He held out his arm and a small baton extended from his gauntlet and into his waiting hand. Once he gripped it, the baton telescoped into a long staff with a glowing point on the end.

A small, two-man Kotharian craft descended from the air, streaking towards them. Chronos took aim with his staff and fired an energy blast from the glowing tip. The ship curved to the side to evade and from the turret beneath its body, fired its own energy blasts. Chronos held up his free hand, an orb of orange energy surrounding him and shielding him from the blast.

The Progenitor rose in the air and unleashed azure blasts from his eyes and hands at their attacker. The Kotharian ship turned to the new threat and the Progenitor flew, the Kotharian pursuing him.

The robot flew higher and faster, shooting between the destroyed buildings. The Kotharian ship was surprisingly agile, keeping pace with every single one of his maneuvers. The Progenitor even tried flying through the destroyed floors of the building, too small for the ship to follow.

But much to his surprise, he found the ship waiting for him as he came out the other end. Its turrets spun, releasing a flurry of shots. The Progenitor rocketed up through the floors, the craft rising to follow him.

The Progenitor crashed through the ceiling and azure auras circled his clenched fists, his eyes burning brightly. The Progenitor launched himself down to the rising ship, his fists held out in front of him. He plowed into the Kotharian attacker, the ship exploding in the night sky.

Chronos jumped into the air, components from his leg armor sliding down and forming a circular platform beneath his feet. The platform hovered in the air and took Chronos towards the explosion caused by his companion. Chronos lowered the platform to the wreckage of the Kotharian ship and watched, not sure what to expect.

A gleaming, silver hand burst through the rubble and the Progenitor pulled himself out. Chronos breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the maker. Scared the hell outta me.”

“There will be reinforcements. We must travel back earlier in the timestream, discover when the invasion occurred.”

Chronos gave a nod. “Yeah, let’s get outta here.” He bent his arm in front of him, a holographic keyboard and display appearing above the gauntlet. Chronos entered some commands and on the display was a date selector. He changed it to the appropriate date and tried to activate the portal.

But nothing happened.

“Uhh…we’ve got a problem…”

“Yes, I know. I’m detecting more hostiles approaching.”

“No, not that!” said Chronos. “The suit’s not responding! I can’t activate the portal!”

“We are trapped?” asked the Progenitor.

Chronos looked up at his companion and gave a solemn nod. “Yeah…looks like…”

“Very well.” The Progenitor rose up in the air, his body glowing brightly, drawing the attention of the approaching Kotharian vessels.

“What are you doing?” asked Chronos.

“Providing you with an opportunity to escape,” said the Progenitor.

“What? What about you?”

“My role in this is over, now it is up to you to prevent the invasion. Repair the chronal emitter and return to the past!”

The Kotharians closed in and the Progenitor flew off into the night. The ships followed him, ignoring Chronos on the ground.

“Damn!” he cursed. He wanted nothing more than to go after them, to help fight off those Kotharians. But Chronos knew that the Progenitor was right. This was their last ditch effort to save humanity and something had clearly gone wrong. Now, Chronos’ only choice was to continue with the mission. Repair the suit and go back further, discover what changed to bring about the invasion so soon.

The Future

Chronos found himself in the bowels of a massive airship called the Icarus. Seated before him was a man whose entire body was encased in the metal of his hoverchair. Only his wrinkled face was visible, which bore a thin, silver mustache above his withered lips and haunting eyes that sent a chill through the time traveler.

“What did you say?” asked Chronos.

“I said you are responsible for what has happened to this world,” said the old man, who had introduced himself as the Analyst.

Chronos looked to the people who surrounded him, the members of the team called Vanguard—Sharkskin, Shift, Ink, and Talon. “No, that’s not right. I tried to stop the invasion!”

“What the hell’s going on here?” Sharkskin pointed at Chronos. “You mean to tell me the world has gone to shit because of this guy?”

“Of course not, that’s ridiculous!” said Chronos.

“Then what’s the Analyst talking about?” asked Shift.

“Your memories are open to me,” said the Analyst, his gaze never moving from Chronos. “The moment you set foot onto our ship, I scanned your mind. Now tell my team what I already know. Tell them where you come from.”

Chronos looked at the people surrounding him and gave a nod. “I’m a time traveler from the twenty-fifth century.”

Sharkskin chortled and Shift elbowed him in the side to get him to stop.

“About forty years from today, the Kotharian empire will begin an invasion of Earth. It was quick and brutal. Our forces were virtually wiped out overnight.”

“Uhh, gonna have to stop you there, buddy.” Ink was the one who spoke. She had long, dark hair tied behind her head. Her arms and back were exposed and lined with tattoos. “The Kotharians are here and they’ve been here since I was a baby.”

“I know, which means something’s not right,” said Chronos.

“Tell them about your history,” said the Analyst.

“I was born in the camps. When I was fifteen, a resistance attack allowed me to escape. Naturally, I signed up with the rebels to try and fight off the Kotharians. But it wasn’t easy,” said Chronos. “Until we learned about the Chaknaar.”

“That doesn’t make sense, we’ve known about the Chaknaar since before the invasion,” said Shift.

“Please, Erin. Allow our visitor to finish,” said the Analyst.

“Right, well the Kotharians have these psionic abilities and they’re gained through exposure to something they call the Chaknaar. We managed to get our hands on some of it and ran some trials. What we found was that if humans are exposed to it, they can also develop powers as well,” said Chronos. “Except it’s not completely compatible. The Chaknaar only worked on a small percentage of our test subjects. And the ones it did work on, their powers weren’t consistent, unlike the Kotharians.”

Chronos gestured to his body, showing off his armor. “The Kotharians also developed the chronal emitter, which is incorporated into my suit. A prototype device that allows the wearer to travel through time. My mission was to go to the dawn of the twenty-first century and release our Chaknaar reserves throughout the Earth. Even if only a subset of humanity gained powers, that subset would probably be able to fend off the invasion. It was hoped that the decades between would allow the Chaknaar to spread, give people time to develop and learn how to use their abilities. But then we tried jumping forward and something happened. The chronal emitter was damaged somehow in the trip and we landed here, centuries before our own era. And then we saw that the invasion had already happened.”

Sharkskin folded his arms across his broad chest. “So you’re saying you’re responsible for the Event?”

“What’s the Event?” asked Chronos.

“Decades ago, an anomalous gene was discovered in humanity, one that caused some of them to develop superhuman abilities,” said the Analyst. “We’ve referred to whatever caused this change as the Event.”

“You said ‘we’?” Talon was the youngest of the group, possibly late teens. Her skin was pale and when transformed, she possessed wings and razor-sharp talons for fingers, much like her namesake.

Chronos nodded. “When we raided a Kotharian facility, we found an artificial intelligence that had been enslaved by their human collaborators. We restored his autonomy and he joined our cause.”

“An AI?” asked Shift, perking up. “What was his name?”

“Actually, he couldn’t remember much from before the invasion,” said Chronos. “But he started calling himself the Progenitor. He’s the one who told us about the Chaknaar and helped us steal it. And he came back with me on the mission. But when we arrived here, we were attacked. He led the attackers away from me so I could escape, told me it was my duty to repair the chronal emitter and find out what’s going on here.”

Chronos looked at each of the specials, gesturing to them as he spoke. “But this isn’t right. I mean, look at you guys. Clearly, we were successful. So how did this happen? And why did it happen so much earlier than it was supposed to?”

The Analyst closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Chronos, do you believe in destiny?”

He shook his head. “I believe in free will. Do you think I’d even make this trip if I didn’t believe the future couldn’t be changed?”

“I’d say our current predicament is evidence against your beliefs,” said the Analyst. “Maybe there is no way to change the future. Maybe this is our destiny.”

“You can’t believe that,” said Shift. “If this is meant to happen, then why do we keep fighting?”

“I’m wondering that myself.” The Analyst looked at Chronos. “You see, it was the Chaknaar that drew the Kotharians to us. They could detect its presence across the galaxies. They sent a scout, who confirmed their readings. And then the invasion came.”

Chronos backed away. His heartbeat sped up and his breathing became labored. Vanguard stood around him, surrounding him. He knew what had happened here. He knew the cause of the invasion.

“Don’t you see?” asked the Analyst. “You tried to prevent the invasion. But all you did was hasten it.”

The Future

Chronos stood in front of a large window, leaning against the guardrail, looking out over the clouds. If he squinted, he could barely make out the lights of one of the cities far down below against the darkness of the night. He’d removed his armor and was given some clothes to wear—a pair of sweatpants and a black t-shirt.

“You settled in?”

Chronos turned from the guardrail and saw the youngest member of Vanguard standing behind him. Her name was Talon and the name was an apt description of what her fingers transformed into. She could also sprout wings from her back at will. But now, she looked like just a normal, teenage girl. Chin-length, dark hair tied behind her head in a ponytail.

“More or less,” said Chronos. “Felt a little weird having the chance to take a real shower.”

Talon smiled and approached the guardrail, leaning against it beside him. “Beautiful, huh? Even though the world’s in hell, I still feel a little grateful that I got to grow up with a view like this.”

“You grew up on the Icarus?”

She nodded. “Pretty much. Uncle Lee built it when I was still a baby. Before that, my parents say that we mostly moved from location to location. Grandpa Leo had a lot of secret bases he knew about, I guess.”

“So it’s a family operation then?”

“Of sorts. Uncle Lee and Grandpa Leo, they weren’t blood relatives. But Dad always says that family’s the people who take you in, not always the people you share DNA with.”

“And Dad is…?”

Talon gave a smirk. “What, you couldn’t see the resemblance? You just got done talking with my parents.”

“Sharkskin and Shift,” said Chronos. “Yeah, you do look like your dad, I guess. And you clearly got the shapeshifting gift from both of them.”

“My name’s Vicky, by the way,” she said. “Vicky Asano.”

“I’m…just Chronos,” he said.

“No real name?”

He shook his head. “We weren’t given names in the camp. Just numbers.” Chronos turned his head so Vicky could see the barcode tattooed on the back of his neck.

Vicky reached a hand out, her fingers almost brushing against the barcode. But she retracted her arm before she could touch. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Chronos turned his head back around. “So this place…?”

“Yeah, Uncle Lee built it. Or renovated it, I guess. Vanguard took command of a Kotharian warship and after the battle, Uncle Lee did a lot of work gutting the Kotharian elements, anything that could track us, and launched it as our new mobile base. We kind of needed the extra room.”

“Why’s that?”

Vicky moved from the guardrail and waved her hand for Chronos to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Chronos jogged quickly to catch up to her. Vicky took him to the elevators and they rode up to the middle levels. When the doors opened, they found themselves in a large cafeteria. Staff were dispensing food to a line of people that included men, women, and children. Some of them had strange appearances, mutations that Chronos imagined were caused by the special gene.

“We’ve got a few hundred families onboard here,” said Vicky. “Nobody is turned away, but most work to help the cause. Some of them work in the kitchen or in maintenance here on the Icarus. Others may work in the infirmary or as teachers. We have a lot who monitor communications traffic, trying to figure out where any at-risk specials might be.”

“So everyone here’s a special?” asked Chronos.

“No, we’ve got humans mixed in as well,” said Vicky. “At first, the Kotharians were targeting specials. Then they started targeting humans who had a high probability of their special gene activating or who might have children who would be active specials. That barcode you have? We’ve got something similar. Genetic markers are injected into every newborn baby so the occupation government can monitor the special genes.”

Vicky and Chronos walked past the cafeteria tables, with a few people offering greetings to the youngest Vanguardian. She returned their greetings with smiles and pleasantries of her own.

“Basically, if you’re a human without any special potential, you get to live your life as you please,” said Vicky. “Most of the widespread fighting has ceased. There’s still a Kotharian military presence just outside of Earth’s orbit, but for the most part, the human co-conspirators are the ones in charge of the planet.”

“In some ways, things might be better for you guys than they were in my time,” said Chronos. “Everyone was born into slavery. Being able to turn the Earth’s population against a small minority is pretty useful. You can get them to do anything you want.”

“Uncle Zen used to say people in power have always been able to easily exploit humanity’s prejudices for their own benefit.”

“And Vanguard?” asked Chronos. “You guys seem to have an army onboard this ship. Why not take the fight to the Kotharians?”

“Because things aren’t always that simple.”

Chronos turned at the sound of a new voice. He saw a woman in her forties with brown skin and long, black hair standing behind him. She wore a green and brown uniform with the Vanguard symbol on it.

“Chronos, this is Tuwa,” said Vicky. “She and my parents were friends back before the war.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Chronos.

Tuwa didn’t offer a greeting, just eyed him with curiosity. “So I understand you’re the one to blame for the world being in this state?”

Chronos blinked. Vicky glared hard at Tuwa, but the older woman was unfazed. She fixed her gaze on the Icarus’ new arrival.

“And to answer your question, Chronos. Just because these people are specials doesn’t make them fighters,” she added. “We don’t force anyone to become a soldier. There are those who volunteer, however. We train them, send them on missions, and see what they can bring back.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just asking a question.”

“Just like you didn’t mean to bring the Kotharians to our doorstep?” Tuwa stepped closer, her brown eyes burning with barely restrained anger. “Do you know how many friends I’ve lost over the past twenty years?”

“I didn’t know.”

“And you didn’t even bother to consider the possibility of what ramifications could come from screwing with the timeline.” Tuwa pushed him out of the way and walked off.

Chronos watched her leave, his mouth hanging open. Vicky placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and he looked at her. She tried to flash a faint smile, but it was only a small comfort.

“Sorry about that. Mom says she wasn’t always like that.”

“What happened?” asked Chronos.

“I don’t really know,” said Vicky. “I asked Mom once and all she said was Tuwa lost someone very important. She mostly keeps to herself, barely interacts with anyone unless she has to. To be honest, I’m surprised to see her in the cafeteria.”

Vicky patted him on the back. “Anyway, come on. I’ll show you the rest of the ship.”

* * *

In the center of the darkened war room was a round table. The Analyst, in his mobile life-support unit, stared at the holographic map projected above the table. Both Koji Asano and Erin Hastings also stood around the table, looking at the map.

“This is our target,” said the Analyst. “According to my source, this is where the tachyon experiments are occurring. If we can get our hands on that technology, perhaps Chronos can use it to repair his chronal emitter.”

Koji folded his arms and frowned as he studied the projection. “I don’t like it, boss. How can we trust this mysterious source when you won’t tell us who it is?”

“It’s part of the arrangement, Mr. Asano, you know that,” said the Analyst.

“And you really believe that Chronos can do what he says? That he can somehow stop the invasion before it happens?”

“His story seems to be on the level,” said the Analyst. “His memories are a bit fractured, but they do paint a picture of an alternate timeline that he successfully changed.”

“Yeah, but that change brought the Kotharians here sooner,” said Koji. “Say he goes back again. What if this time he makes it so we’re being ruled by Nazi dinosaurs or something?”

The Analyst blinked a few times. “Koji, I am continually amazed at your ability to leave me dumbfounded and speechless.”

“It’s a gift,” said Koji. “But you see my point, right?”

“I do. And you’re right, we’re messing with forces we can’t even begin to comprehend. There is definitely a possibility of Chronos actually making things worse instead of better. But then again, isn’t that something we risk every time we undertake a mission against the Kotharians? We take these chances because to do nothing would be worse than failure.”

Koji clicked his tongue. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“What about the team?” asked Erin.

“You will lead a squad composed of your husband, Ink, Tuwa, Cache, and Talon,” said the Analyst.

Erin shook her head. “No way, not happening.”

The Analyst sighed. “Erin, we’ve spoken about this.”

“I’m not sending my daughter on a mission like this. Search and rescue, fine. She can handle the Gunsmiths. But going into a Kotharian research facility? Where security will be amped up? No way, it’s too dangerous.”

“We need her. Sentinel’s death has dealt a blow to our readiness.”

“Then get someone else,” said Erin. “Fuerte.”

“She’s off on a recon mission trying to intercept some specials being rounded up in Europe.”

“Pyre.”

“He’s off the grid,” said the Analyst. “I fear he may be dead or captured.”

“Then what about—”

“Erin, please,” said the Analyst. “I care for Victoria as if she were my own blood. But we need her in the field. She’s ready. Now, I understand your reluctance—”

“No, you don’t.” Erin turned from the table and marched out of the war room.

The Analyst sighed and looked at Koji. He closed his eyes and gave a nod. Koji chased after her, emerging into the corridor and calling out to her. “Hey, Erin!”

She stopped and turned, folding her arms over her chest. Koji approached her and looked into her yellow eyes. “Look, I know you’re scared. But the Analyst’s got a point. We’re running on fumes here and if Vic can help us turn the tide, then don’t we owe it to her and to ourselves to see that this mission is successful? And besides, she’s about the same age you were when you joined the team.”

“That was a different time,” said Erin. “We weren’t living under an alien dictatorship.”

“Yeah, I know. But if we pull it off, then we can change all that.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of…” Erin muttered under her breath.

Koji raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Changing the past. What if…what if it was the war that brought us together?” she asked. “Being prisoners back then? What if by changing the past, Vicky’s never born?”

Koji sighed. He wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her close to him. “We just gotta have faith.”

But in truth, that same worry had been plaguing him since the Analyst first mentioned his plan.

Vicky Asano stared at the date on the newspaper, her eyes fixated on it. Twenty years in the past. Was it possible? Had M’Lak succeeded in his mad plan to open a portal through time?

Unless she was hallucinating, that seemed exactly what had happened. Vicky looked away from the date and her eyes traveled to the headline on the front page: VANGUARD DEFEATS ALIEN THREAT.

Defeated? Did that mean Chronos was successful? The Kotharians were gone? Or was this from a time before the invasion, when Vanguard had defeated J’Karra? Vicky looked at the date again. It didn’t mean much, though. She knew years, but not specific dates.

“Hey, you gonna buy that or what?”

Vicky was stunned by the newsstand owner’s call. She dropped the paper on the stack of others and quickly moved away. Even if she did have any money on her, there was no reason to believe it was the same currency used in this period. In fact, she could almost certainly guarantee it wasn’t.

No, her goal was obvious. First thing she had to do was find Vanguard. Go to their Atlas base, that’s what they were still using in this era. But then again, she was brought there by the Red Fist. Vicky herself had no real idea of how to find it.

Instinct told her to look at the smartwatch on her wrist, and so she did. But when she tried to activate it, the watch simply reported that there was no network available. Maybe with modifications, she could access the networks of this time, but Vicky had no idea how to make those changes herself—Cassie always took care of those things.

No, she had to find another way. Learn more about this era. Maybe then she could find a way to reach out to Vanguard. Of course, that in itself brought up a whole other host of issues. What was Vicky going to say to them? What was she going to say to her parents? She knew from her mother’s stories that they didn’t fall for each other until they were captives of the Kotharians. To tell them that she was their daughter from a possible apocalyptic future…? It might kill any chance they have of ever getting together, thus erasing Vicky herself from existence.

There had to be another way. Vicky simply wouldn’t tell them of her parentage. That did mean she’d need another surname. She thought back to her teammate, Ink—Reina Davis. Vicky Davis. Seemed just as good a name as any, no one would question her that way.

Vicky continued wandering the streets for what felt like hours. There was nothing she wanted to do more than unleash her wings and take to the skies. But she knew she had to stay grounded, at least for now.

Eventually, she came across a public library and went inside. Computers were available for public Internet usage and Vicky claimed an empty one for herself. Far slower than what she was used to. The Kotharians had accelerated technological development in her time—keep the humans entertained with flashy toys and they wouldn’t give a second thought to the fact that they were controlled by an occupation government.

Vicky clicked the web search and typed in VANGUARD. A host of articles and websites appeared. All of them extremely positive, praising the team for all the good they’ve done.

“That…doesn’t make sense…” She kept her voice low as she whispered the words. From the stories she’d heard growing up, Vanguard had their fair amount of detractors in the media. There was one her father mentioned a few times, and Vicky remembered his name. But entering “Eric Fox” into the search box returned very few results. The top one was an obituary.

Vicky clicked on the headline: TABLOID JOURNALIST COMMITS SUICIDE. After reading the obituary, she was more than a little stunned. The article mentioned drug use, a string of failed marriages, and numerous scandals, including a known bias against the world’s greatest heroes. It seemed like a strange route to take when you were supposed to be celebrating a reporter’s life.

She went back to researching the stories about Vanguard. All the top results were positive. It took several pages before she found some critical of the team. Yet these articles were mostly only stored on archive pages. Some conspiracy sites had particularly vile things to say about the group.

Maybe another path was needed, so she did a search for Cerberus. An article from a few months ago stated that the United Nations Security Council made the decision to integrate the Cerberus agency with Vanguard.

Vicky raised an eyebrow at that article. How much had things changed in this world? Vanguard universally loved without anyone having a bad thing to say about them? And now Cerberus and Vanguard together? There were things about this that didn’t add up for her.

Continuing her research into the alien threat, she discovered that it was indeed J’Karra Vanguard had stopped, killing her. Vicky wasn’t really a fan of that notion, but if it stopped the threat, all the better. Yet it wasn’t a guarantee—that meant there was still the chance the Kotharians under M’Lak’s leadership were still on their way.

Stopping J’Karra came at a cost. According to what Vicky had read, she’d managed to kill President Dennis Lawson before Vanguard took her down. The only thing Vicky could do now was locate her team. Was it Chronos’ warning that ordered them to kill her? And if so, did that also mean Chronos had killed Paragon?

Her accidental trip to this era only raised more questions than they answered. All this time, Vicky thought if she’d managed to make it back here, to see the history she’d grown up hearing stories about unfold before her eyes, that the things which had always confounded her would be made clear.

A news alert flashed across the screen. An attack by a rogue special in the middle of Times Square. Vicky looked up a route from her current location to Times Square, paying attention to the compass on the web-based map. Standing from the desk, she turned and walked briskly to the library’s exit. Part of her hoped this meant she could run into Vanguard if she went to the scene. Another part of her knew that whether or not Vanguard was there, she spent her whole life training for just these kinds of threats.

Once exiting the library, Vicky circled around the building until she was out of sight. After confirming the coast was clear, large, feathered wings sprung from her back, her eyes took on a golden color, and long claws grew from her fingertips, completing her transformation into Talon.

Several flaps of the wings gave her lift and soon, she’d built up enough speed to shoot through the air. Fortunately, the portal had dropped her just outside of New York City and so the trip wouldn’t take too much time to make under her own flight capability. Talon’s wings propelled her forward until she saw smoke rising up in the distance.

Talon flapped her wings harder, flying towards the smoke. On her approach, she saw the flaming cars on the ground and a man who hovered above the brightly lit square, a flaming man hurling fireballs at buildings, vehicles, and pedestrians.

Pyre. She recognized him. In her time, he’d even joined Vanguard, taking some jobs for them and aiding specials trying to hide from Cerberus. But in this time, before the invasion, he was still apparently on the wrong side of the law.

Talon wasted no time in diving towards him, preparing to strike.

The small speedboat bobbed in the Caribbean waves as Elisa Hill anchored it to the small island via a large rock. She was dressed in a black tank top and khaki cargo pants. Her long, dark hair stayed out of her way by virtue of being tied into a tight bun.

There came a sound of metal scraping against something and Elisa sighed. She turned to the source and saw five men standing before her, wielding curved swords which she recognized as Middle Eastern scimitars. Each of them appeared to be of mixed ancestry, almost impossible to determine. Elisa's hands went behind her back, wrapping around the hilts of her own weapons she had holstered at the small of her back. She drew both blades at once. They were Nepalese kukri daggers, her personal weapon of choice. Curved blades which allowed for a more efficient stabbing motion.

One of them jumped from the rock formation he stood on, bringing the sword down in a large arc. Elisa defended herself, bringing the kukri together above her head as the sword clanged against them. She allowed his force to push her down a little, still holding on to her footing and then thrusting upwards, forcing him back. She crossed her arms in front of her and rapidly separated them, the kukri slicing open the man's chest. A quick kick to the head took him out of the fight completely.

Fighter number two came at her next, swinging his sword like an axe. Elisa bent backwards and the blade passed harmlessly over her torso. She used her hands to brace herself as she brought her legs around, kicking him in the jaw as she flipped over. When she got back to her feet, she brought a kukri down directly into his chest, sliding it between his ribs and piercing his heart.

She fought off the third and fourth men simultaneously, using her daggers to deflect their swords. She concentrated mostly on defense, bobbing and weaving where necessary. Elisa found herself trapped between them and as one of them thrust forward, she jumped, his sword impaling his partner. Elisa landed behind him and quickly slit his throat.

Only one left and Elisa eyed him carefully. Despite watching her take out four highly-trained assassins single-handedly, his confidence seemed to remain intact. He charged towards her and Elisa took careful aim, throwing one of her kukri daggers and it struck him right between the eyes. He made it a few more paces before he fell dead right at her feet.

She moved forward, to the reason for her trip. A short hike up the hill from the shore was an opening in the ground. Elisa took a few glow sticks from her pack and cracked them, dropping them into the cove. She anchored a rappel cable to the top and hooked the other end to her belt, then climbed over the edge. Due to the limited light, she moved slowly down the hole.

Once she reached ground, Elisa produced a flare and removed the top, the sparks bursting on ignition. Carefully, she moved through the cavern, using it to illuminate the spaces a few feet in front of her.

The walls were covered with ancient engravings and scripture, which she barely even recognized and knew it would take some time to translate. Holding the flare in one hand, Elisa drew a digital camera from a side pocket on her pack and took a few photographs of the ancient scribbling. She checked them in the camera's display—the flash had illuminated them enough to see, so that much was good.

Moving deeper, the light from the flare fell on something  in the distance. She moved closer towards it, hovering the flare over what she found.

A map of the world engraved into a stone tablet, affixed to the wall. And in the Pacific Ocean was an additional landmass she had never seen on any official maps of the planet. Beneath the map were more engravings and ancient writing she could not decipher. Elisa took a photo but when she checked the camera, she saw that it fell short of her expectations. The tablet was dirty, covered with grime and it'd be difficult to translate it just from the photo.

Her hands felt along the edge and she was surprised at how she could easily pull it loose from its mounting. It had a surprisingly light weight to it and she knelt down on the ground, laying it carefully on the stone floor. The pack was on the ground in an instant and she wrapped it in a cloth before sliding it inside.

The caverns began to rumble and quake. Elisa pulled the pack back on and ran to the hole she entered from, hooking the cable to her belt and began her ascent.

As the quakes continued, she pushed her legs against one side of the hole, resting her back against the other and gripping the cable tightly, waiting for them to subside. Once her window came, she pulled herself up to the opening, the warm sun bathing her in heat and light.

As she gathered her cable, she heard the sound of a helicopter up ahead. Her eyes went up and she noticed something come out of the side door, something aimed at her boat.

A grenade launcher.

“NO!”

Her cry came too late and all she could do was shield herself as the grenade launcher reduced her speedboat to flaming splinters. Elisa started to move towards it, but she heard the cocking of a shotgun behind her. Muttering a curse under her breath, she carefully raised her arms.

“That's a girl. Now be a doll and drop those pig stickers of yours. Slowly, please.”

The voice carried tinges of a Mediterranean accent. One of the Greek islands. Elisa Hill cursed herself for not planning for this eventuality to begin with. Instead, she did as the gunman ordered, slowly drawing the kukri and letting them clatter to the ground.

He grabbed something from her pack and then shoved her forward. Elisa turned around and saw the shotgun wielder. Shaggy, sand-colored hair and green eyes. The sun reflected nicely on his olive skin tone and his face needed a shave. He wore khaki cargo pants and a black tank top with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the high-powered shotgun kept fully trained on his target. “I see you're still relying on those ancient toys,” he said.

“Lucas Davalos.” She almost spat the name.

“Elisa Hill,” said Lucas with a smile. “When are you going to wake up and join the ranks of twenty-first century weaponry?”

“Why don't you come a little closer and I'll show you just how effective they can be?”

“I'm good.” He held up the tablet. “Can't thank you enough for this. Promises to make me a lot of money. What is it anyway, Mayan?”

“You don't even know what it is,” said Elisa. She looked at the dead assassins. “Were these men because of you as well?”

“Not entirely, call it a partnership,” said Lucas.

“I wonder if you'll end up leaving them in the middle of the desert, too. Stone tablets aren't really your style. Not shiny enough.”

“Still sour over that little misunderstanding, eh?” asked Lucas. “Listen babe, just so you know, that was nothing personal—just business.”

“Fine by me,” said Elisa. “And just so you know, when I tear out your throat, that won't be personal. Just business.”

He placed the tablet inside the duffel bag and zipped it up. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarillo and a lighter. “I'd offer you a smoke, but I've only got one left.”

“A gentleman to the end.”

Lucas lit the cigarillo and puffed on it before speaking once again. “Doesn't have to be this way, Elsie. If this tablet is what I think it is, I could use a partner on this one.”

“No thanks, I've seen how you reward your partners,” said Elisa.

Lucas shrugged. “Your loss. The people I'm working for pay very well.”

Elisa slowly nodded. “Right, of course. Ancient artifact, skilled assassins, you're working with the Order, aren't you?”

“What can I say, they're my biggest fans,” said Lucas. “By the way, I can't apologize enough for what happened to your boat. But you know how these things go.”

“You're an asshole, Davalos. Always have been. Nothing but a typical grave-robber.”

“Oh, and you're so much better?” asked Lucas. “Don't make me laugh, Elsie. You see, at the end of the day, we're the same. We've both killed...” He glanced at the bodies. “...although, I think you've got me beat for today. And we've both used people to get what we want.”

“Difference is my ends justify the means,” said Elisa. “I'm helping people. What are you doing? Who are you helping?”

“Myself, who else?” asked Lucas. “See, I'm a believer of the pay it forward principle. I help myself and that in turn leads to other people being helped. If I'm a rich bastard, I buy a lot of things, I hire a lot of people. I'm helping people put their kids through college.”

“That's some twisted logic you've got.”

“Helps me sleep at night.”

Elisa glared at him, her crystal eyes seeming to flash with anger. “Lucas, I am warning you.”

“Oh no, she's warning me. I just may shit my pants.”

“If you give that tablet to the Order, there's no telling what sort of chaos you'll unleash,” said Elisa.

“See, now you do have a point there, Elsie. But there is a simple flaw in your logic.”

“And what's that?” she asked.

Lucas raised his arm in the air and the helicopter hovered closer to them. As it did, a rope ladder fell from it and Lucas caught it in one hand. “I just couldn't care less. Enjoy the swim back to Tortuga.”

Keeping the gun trained on Elisa, Lucas started to climb up the ladder as the helicopter pulled away from the small island.

“Oh and Elsie? Better luck next time!”

There were few people who would risk climbing Mount Rushmore alone. Even fewer would do so in the dark. And to perform a free solo climb, without the use of any support equipment in the dead of night is what most would term insanity.

Elisa Hill might be termed insane by many. To begin with, despite being a respected professor of mythology at the prestigious Burroughs University in Lester City, she spent her off-hours operating as what many in academia might refer to as a “crank.” Elisa spent her time away from the university exploring the legends and mythologies of the world. Stories which any rational person knew were pure fiction.

A cool wind chased away the heat of the day as she dangled between the monolithic features of Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln. She ignored the hooks driven into the cliff face for the use of the National Park Service, because a rope climb would take more time than she could afford.

The night-vision goggles she wore were indispensable on such a climb and the pack fixed to her back was light. She carried only emergency supplies, flashlight and smartphone onto which she had downloaded maps of the area. Affixed to the back of her belt were a pair of scabbards filled with kukri—curved Nepalese daggers. Hanging by her side were a rope and grapple. Normally she preferred to travel with a bit more protection, but she had to travel light on this expedition.

Elisa’s hands were gloved, the grips on the palm aiding her ascent. As she chimney-climbed up an opening, the anticipation almost made her mouth water. She was on the verge of uncovering a myth long associated with the North American continent, one which Coronado had set out to discover centuries earlier.

Her night-vision goggles flooded her eyes with a sudden brightness that blinded as she reached for a handhold.  She slipped, skidding down the rock, blindly scrambling to catch some projection that might arrest her fall. She stuck out a foot, managing to land some slight leverage on a climbing hook for the National Park Service maintenance team. Her hands found some cracks she could jam her fingers in and maintain her balance. Once she was sure that she could maintain her grip, she removed the goggles. At first she saw nothing but spots swimming before her eyes and she wondered if the sudden flare of light might have permanently damaged her vision, but slowly her eyesight returned and when she looked toward the summit she saw the night sky illuminated by a floodlight.

She feared that momentarily the spotlight might be shifted to reveal her hanging on the face of the cliff so she shifted her body in order to reach the grapple. Elisa had to act fast to avoid detection, but nothing could prepare her for what came at her next. Looking up at the summit, the light was obscured by a silhouette of a man. The silhouette raised his arms and something he held in them.

Elisa threw the grapple and it clattered across the bridge of Roosevelt's nose. She carefully reeled the rope tight and breathed a sigh of relief as the grapple latched  onto Roosevelt’s mustache. She released her body from its tenuous perch and swung from the rope just as the man opened fire on her with an automatic weapon. The muzzle flash strobed against Roosevelt's features and bullets cast past Elisa. On the apex of her swing, Elisa realized that her rope wasn't long enough to take her to safety. With the black chasm of the steep cliff face yawning below her, Elisa took a horrible chance and released the rope. Her momentum sent her flying to the tip of Roosevelt’s nose. She impacted and made a grab for some sort of hold, but her hands could not beat the force of gravity which pulled her inexorably downward.

Elisa exhaled in relief when her feet found leverage on Roosevelt's mustache. She drew one of the kukri, jamming it into a crevice between strands of Roosevelt's mustache hair and holding her grip. The gunman changed position on top of the cliff and Elisa drew her second kukri. It was forty feet from the spot where Elisa clung to below Roosevelt's nose and where the gunman took up his new vantage point. Forty feet was a considerable throw on flat land, let alone straight upward—but Elisa rarely let the odds deter her. She threw the kukri at the gunman, striking him in the shoulder just as he was about to open fire again.

The wound was a surprise and the gunman lost his hold on his rifle. It clattered down the side of the monument, echoing as it fell.

She rested atop Roosevelt’s mustache and pulled the kukri from the stone. Before she could continue her ascent, the wind began to pick up and Elisa heard the thumping sound of a rotor. Looking over her shoulder, she witnessed a helicopter rising through the gloom, a belly-mounted spotlight sweeping across the craggy faces of the past presidents as it neared her location.

“Oh you have got to be kidding!” she muttered.

The helicopter hovered with the side door facing Elisa. It opened and a gunman emerged, taking aim with his rifle. Before Elisa was revealed in the spotlight she knew she had to take decisive action—something unexpected. Something crazy. She clamped the kukri between her teeth and sprang from the monument. She soared over the gap, the jagged slopes yawning beneath her, as the gunman opened fire. Bullets whined past her, narrowly missing her athletic form. Elisa’s hands latched onto the skid and the gunman tried to peer over the edge of the copter to get a good shot off. Elisa switched her orientation so she was facing the monument and swung her legs up with all her might.

The soles of her boots struck the gunman’s rifle, shoving it back into his chest. She swung again, this time releasing the skid and flying into the copter’s cabin, temporarily pinning the groaning gunman to the ground beneath her legs. She could see his fallen rifle lying on the floor of the helicopter and she reached out to grab it—the kukri still between her teeth.

Her intention was to turn the rifle on the pilot before the gunman beneath her legs could recover from the stunning blow she had dealt him, but her attention had been so focused on that gunman that she had failed to realize there were actually a total of three men in the chopper.

The second passenger pushed a Beretta against her head and she heard the click of the bullet loading into the chamber as he pulled back the slide. This passenger's face was deadly serious beneath his closely-cropped brown hair and thin beard. “Drop the rifle. And the knife.”

Elisa opened her mouth, the kukri falling from her teeth and clattering on the floor.  Then she uncurled her fingers from around the stock of the rifle and let it drop. She raised her arms in surrender. The gunman relaxed a little. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. I’d heard stories about how good you were but they’re not as impressive as seeing you in action.”

“You know me?”

The man chuckled and relaxed the Beretta. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a myth hunter who doesn’t know about you, Ms. Hill. Not to mention your family.”

“Who are you?” asked Elisa.

“My name is Jason Shroud,” he said.

“I’ve never heard of a myth hunter by that name.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” said Shroud. “My organization goes to great lengths to keep our activities a secret.”

“What organization?”

“If you’re willing to remain civil, I can put this gun away and explain everything to you once we land. Deal?”

Elisa nodded and Shroud smiled as he clicked the safety on the Beretta. “That’s better.” He turned to the pilot. “Take us home.”

The pilot nodded. “Yessir.”

The helicopter banked and flew around Washington’s head. Part of the mountain ridge seemed to flicker as they approached. Elisa watched as that small portion of the mountain suddenly vanished, revealing an entrance carved into the mountain.

The skids touched down in a hangar bay within the entrance. Shroud motioned to Elisa. “Leave the knife and gun. You won’t need them.”

He climbed out of the chopper first. Elisa was tempted to pick up at least her kukri but given the number of armed men she saw in the hangar, she felt it better not to tempt fate. Her eyes glanced around the hangar area and found a few other helicopters housed within the gleaming walls. They were sleek and black with no identifying marks on them. The soldiers in the hangar also wore all black uniforms. Again, no markings whatsoever.

“A military base inside Mount Rushmore?” she asked.

Shroud smiled. “Welcome to a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream, Ms. Hill.”

An automatic door slid open and Shroud led Elisa down a series of corridors. He took several twists and turns along the way and each hall looked identical to the last. Elisa assumed this was done intentionally so that any visitors who came to this facility would be unable to remember the layout with any sort of clarity.

The corridors were essentially tunnels in the mountain, with metal walkways laid on the ground and rows of lights embedded into the rock. Still, those lights were bright enough to illuminate the corridors quite clearly.

They finally came to another closed door and Shroud opened it by punching a code into a keypad. It wasn’t a traditional keypad, however. The buttons were labeled, but with symbols Elisa couldn’t decipher at first glance.

The door opened and inside was a decent-sized office with a desk, a large chair behind it, and a smaller chair in front. On the wall behind the desk, a symbol was carved into the rock. The symbol was a square ruler positioned as a V with a compass centered over it in a pointed arch.

“This is a joke, right?” asked Elisa.

Shroud walked past her and sat behind the desk. “I take it you recognize the symbol?”

“Who wouldn’t?” she asked. “I wasn’t aware the Freemasons were myth hunters.”

“Not completely,” said Shroud. He gestured to the chair in front of the desk and Elisa sat. “But it’s definitely part of our interests. Although we do like to keep it secret.”

“And why did you bring me here instead of killing me or turning me over to the NPS?” asked Elisa.

“As a rule, we should have. And had you come to this place on your own, that’s probably what we would have done,” said Shroud.

Elisa scoffed. “You make it sound like you knew I was coming.”

Shroud smiled even wider.

“Oh bull,” said Elisa. “How did you know?”

“The Zuni.”

“Why would the Zuni tell the Masons anything?” asked Elisa.

“Because we intentionally fed them the wrong information,” said Shroud. “Planted evidence that pointed you to Rushmore as the site of the Seven Cities of Cibola. I felt it was time to have a face-to-face with you.”

Elisa fidgeted in her seat. Shroud seemed to know an awful lot about her and she wasn’t the least bit comfortable with that.

“We’ve been following your exploits with great interest, Elisa.”

“But why?”

“Because you were well-trained by Finch and your parents,” said Shroud. “And when you started off hunting for the Order, we were suspicious. We had to keep an eye on you. Luckily, you came around to your parents’ way of thinking.”

“Are you telling me you knew my parents?” asked Elisa.

Shroud shook his head. “They weren’t Masons if that’s what you’re asking. On occasion, our interests aligned and we’d contract them out for jobs—just as we do with other myth hunters from time to time. And your recent investigation of Lemuria definitely caught our interest.”

Shroud leaned forward, his eyes filled with excitement like a kid at Christmas. “So tell me, did you find it?”

She folded her arms and frowned. “Your men shot at me. Almost got me killed. And you put a gun to my head. All as some form of test. And now you want me to sit and chat with you?”

Shroud sat back in his chair. “You’re right, probably wasn’t the best way to go about things. But I had to know if you were as good as your reputation.”

“You know my reputation, then I’m sure you also know how I feel about men who try to kill me.”

“I do. That Seth character’s disappeared ever since he was last spotted in Japan. Your doing?”

“Figure it out, you seem to know so much already.”

“I’ll draw my own conclusions. And for the record? My men were using blanks. You were never in any danger from their weapons.”

Elisa almost jumped from her seat at that revelation, but restrained herself. “You mean to tell me that I risked my life jumping around Roosevelt’s face just because you wanted to test me?”

Shroud sighed and stood. He turned and faced the Masonic emblem. “Do you know the history of Freemasonry?”

“For the most part. Began in the late sixteenth century in Scotland, right?”

Shroud turned his face to Elisa. “Actually, the order was founded by the very same men who built the Temple of Solomon.”

“I thought that was just an allegorical myth.”

“No, it’s true. Throughout the ages, we’ve adapted and been called by different names, including the Knights Templar and the Illuminati. And there are lots of legends about us—how we’re plotting to control the world, how we manipulate world events for our own means, all sorts of nonsense.”

“So what are you, then?” asked Elisa.

“We’re like you—seekers of knowledge,” said Shroud. “Solomon was known for his quest for knowledge and we’re no different. And that’s why I arranged this meeting—because I want to know just what you discovered about Lemuria.”

“Then I’m sorry, but you wasted your time and mine,” said Elisa, standing from her seat. “If you came to me directly, I might be willing to talk to you. But after you pulled this cloak and dagger shit, I’ve had my fill of you, Shroud.”

Shroud sighed and approached her. “I want you to think carefully about this, Elisa. Our resources could be a great help to you.”

“You’re right, they could,” said Elisa. “But I’ve just about had my fill of secret societies. So until you’re willing to tell me what you’re all about, I want nothing to do with you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Shroud. “Of course, your position is understandable.”

Shroud came up to her and handed her a card. On it was a simple phone number. “If you change your mind, just call this number.”

“You’re giving an outsider your cell?” asked Elisa. “Seems a little strange to me.”

“Actually, it’s a cloned number, but after rerouting your call several times, you’ll eventually get to me,” said Shroud. “I hope in the future we can find a way to trust each other.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Elisa.

Every February, the woman known only as Asami made it a point to embark on a journey to Odori Park, one of the sites of the Yuki Matsuri, Sapporo’s annual snow festival. Sapporo held the distinction of being the largest city in Hokkaido, the northern-most island prefecture of Japan.

Asami had the honor of being present at the inaugural Yuki Matsuri in 1950, when six local high school students built six snow statues in the park. Since then, the event has only grown, with hundreds of snow statues across the three sites of the festival. Odori Park was not only the original, but also still the source of the largest number of statues, with a majority of them located in the large expanse.

While the other festival-goers were decked out in heavy winter coats to combat Sapporo’s frigid winter cold, Asami wandered the park in the clothes she practically lived in—a black, pinstripe suit tailored to her lithe figure, a deep crimson shirt, black tie and fedora. A normal person wearing just that get-up in the middle of Sapporo in February would have been freezing, but for Asami, it was of no consequence.

Asami was not the typical Japanese woman. Technically, she wasn’t a woman at all. She was one of the yokai—supernatural beings known throughout Japanese mythology. Specifically, Asami was kitsune, a type of changeling who could shift between the guises of a human or a fox. That accounted for not only her immunity to the cold, but also the strange copper eyes she sported.

The last time Asami was in Asia, she was not in her homeland, but rather China. The experience was far from a pleasant one, and she almost lost her life and the lives of her companions. Normally a solitary woman, Asami had, for the first time in decades, found herself tied down.

She lived in America these days, accompanying an adventurer named Elisa Hill. Her kind referred to themselves as myth hunters—individuals who seek out the mysterious and supernatural elements of the world. Some, like Elisa, sought to satisfy intellectual curiosity. Others, like the type of individuals they often butted heads against, were more interested in profit and exploitation of those elements.

Although Asami promised herself she would return to Hokkaido for the Yuki Matsuri, she still felt a sense of loss. Her and Elisa shared a bond far stronger than simple friendship—they were intractably linked for as long as Elisa walked the Earth. That was the responsibility Elisa took on when she saved Asami’s life last year. The bracelet of white orbs Asami wore around her wrist was a constant reminder of that bond.

As dusk fell, spotlights of various colors lit up the sculptures. Asami wandered past the sculptures. There were some characters from popular Japanese animation or comic books, while others were made of celebrities. Asami walked to one of the various food stands set up and placed an order for yakisoba. She cradled the plastic container in one hand, the other using the wooden chopsticks to draw the noodles, pork, and lettuce up to her mouth.

“…Was the weirdest thing. Could’ve sworn I saw a woman from the lift.”

The Yuki Matsuri was a very popular event, drawing visitors not only from other parts of Japan, but also the world. Many foreigners living in the country would take time off work and travel up for the festival. So the sound of English was not uncommon in Odori Park, but the context of the conversation caused Asami’s ears to perk up.

“You’re full of it.”

“Hey man, I know what I saw. And what I saw was a woman with white skin in a kimono just walking through the snow.”

“Bullshit.”

Asami listened closer. It was a group of three young foreigners. One of them had an English accent, but the other two were less distinctive—probably American or Canadian. They all had cups of warm sake in their hands to help them battle the cold.

“I’m telling you, I was on the gondola and heading up to the mountain. I look down and there she is, plain as day.”

The Englishman chuckled. “Nonsense.” He looked at the third member of their group. “Did you see her?”

“Nope, I was taking pictures of the mountain. He told me about it once we got up there.”

Pale woman, white kimono, wandering in the snow. It was a tale as old as time, one Asami had known very well in her travels. She was inclined to discover some more, but…no. She told herself not to get involved. No one was hurt and it was best to just leave it at that. Ignore what she’d heard and continue enjoying her vacation.

Asami slurped a few sauce-covered noodles. She started to wander from the three travelers. That’s it, girl. Just keep on walking. Don’t get sucked in. After all, she wasn’t Elisa Hill.

That was the thought that made Asami pause. Elisa wouldn’t have just walked away from the situation. At the very least she would have investigated it. Made sure there was nothing more going on. If Asami’s suspicions about what the man saw were true, that meant a yokai was near a populated tourist area. That couldn’t end well.

She sighed and turned, walking back toward the foreigners. “Excuse me,” she said.

The three men looked at her. One of them smiled at her. He was likely fresh out of college. Maybe here on vacation, or perhaps he worked as an English teacher. “Hey…umm…konnichiwa. Atashi no…namae wa…Jimmy de-su.”

She rolled her eyes. “I live in America, Ace. I’m not the kind of girl who thinks a foreigner butchering my language is charming. So save yourself a lot of embarrassment and just stick to English.”

Jimmy turned away, sipping his drink as he did, trying to hide his humiliation by pretending to admire the lights and sculptures.

“What do you want?” asked the English guy.

“You.” She pointed at the third one, who had yet to talk to her.

“Me?” He pointed to himself and then extended a hand. “I’m Craig, nice to me—”

“Not interested in your name,” she said. “I overheard you talking about that woman you saw from the gondola. Tell me everything. And don’t spare any details.”

Craig looked at Jimmy and their English friend. He shrugged and cleared his throat. “Okay…umm… Jimmy and I were up at Kurodake for some skiing. And we were on the gondola and I looked out the window. Just sort of glancing around. Then down at the bottom, trudging through the snow, there was this woman. She was wandering out there, looked like she was wearing nothing but a kimono. Could’ve sworn she had white skin, too.”

“Pale skin or white skin?” asked Asami.

“What’s the difference?” asked the Englishman.

Asami glared at him out of the corner of her eyes. “You have no lines in this play. Please make yourself useful and go wander in traffic.”

“Whatever.” He motioned to one of the food stands. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

Jimmy nodded and looked at Craig. “You coming?”

“I’ll be along,” said Craig.

Once his friends left, Asami smiled. “There, much more peaceful. Now, did she have pale skin or white skin?”

“I-I’m not real sure, I was kind of far away,” he said. “But I think it was white.”

“And was she trudging through the snow?”

“What?” Confusion fell upon his face.

“Was she actually trudging through the snow?”

“Yeah. I mean, again, I was far away,” said Craig. “But there was a lot on the ground. She would have to have trudged through it…right?”

“Any signs of that? Footprints, shifting snow banks, anything?”

Craig took another sip of his sake as he thought back. “Well…now that you mention it, I don’t think I saw anything. But I was—”

Asami nodded. “Right, right. You were far away. I got that part. Thanks for the help.”

She turned and walked off. Craig just watched her go and called after her. “Umm… you’re welcome? I guess…?”

She ignored him, dropping the now-empty plastic container in the nearest trash bin. From what Craig had told her, it seemed her suspicions were correct. Asami groaned at the prospect of spending her holiday vacation hunting down a yuki-onna.

Somewhere in the waters of the South China Sea, two stowaways on a freighter ship were brought before the captain at gunpoint. The entire crew was composed of members of the Chinese Triads and they kept their submachine guns trained on the two intruders as they escorted them to the captain on the ship’s deck. The captives’ hands were bound behind their backs with cable ties and they were forced on their knees before the captain.

“So, what do we have here?” he asked, pacing before the two young women. “An American and a Japanese sneaking aboard my ship. And such beautiful specimens. If you wanted to work for us, you should have simply volunteered.” He punctuated his statement with a sickening grin. “Beauties such as yourselves will fetch high prices.”

One of the crew approached the captain and told him something in Cantonese before handing him a pair of daggers. The captain accepted the weapons and scoffed as he looked at them. “Why invade my ship?”

“You’re in possession of an object you shouldn’t have.” The American had tanned skin, possibly of mixed ethnicity. She had long, dark hair brushed behind her shoulders and piercing, crystal eyes, dressed in khaki pants and black top beneath a brown leather jacket.

The crew laughed and the captain joined in their revelry before kneeling down before his prisoner. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“This was a great idea,” the Japanese woman mumbled to her American companion. She wore a black, pinstripe suit with a fedora and had unique, copper-colored eyes. “‘Hey, why don’t you meet me in Malaysia? I’ve got a lead on a Hand of Glory. Should be a quick gig, low stress.’ Last time I listen to you.”

The captain’s smile faded. “I see. So you planned to steal the Hand with these as the only weapons between the two of you?” He held up the daggers with their curved blades—Nepalese weapons called kukri. “Tell me, before I put the two of you to work once we reach Hong Kong, who are you?”

The American grinned. “Asami, why don’t you show the good captain just who you are?”

The captain cast a confused glance at the Japanese woman. Asami smiled as well and her copper eyes flashed. Orange fur emerged from her pores and her nails elongated into claws. She pulled hard on the cable ties, snapping them easily.

“What the f—”

The captain’s curse was silenced when the American sprung from her knees, ramming her shoulder into his abdomen. Asami’s appearance was something of a hybrid between a human and a fox and the few Triad who weren’t still in shock turned their focus—and their guns—on her. She hopped around the deck, moving like an orange blur to take out her attackers.

With the kukri free from the captain’s grasp, the American rolled towards one of them, gripping the handle and working the blade on her ties. Within seconds, she was free, just as the captain rose to his feet and took a pistol from his jacket. She performed a leg-sweep to bring him to the ground and she hopped to her feet, stomping on his chest for good measure.

“That’s Asami, in case you didn’t know. And as for me, the name’s Elisa Hill.” She pinned her knee on the captain’s chest and held one of the kukri against his throat. “Now tell me where I can find the Hand of Glory.”

“My cabin…just below this deck.”

Elisa flashed him a smile. “Very helpful, thanks.” She punched him in the forehead with her hand still grasping the kukri’s hilt, knocking him out cold.

“Get down, Hill!”

Elisa glanced over her shoulder to see one of the Triads readying his weapon. Asami hurled the man she’d been grappling with at Elisa’s would-be assassin, his gun going off as he was struck and firing wildly off its mark, taking out a few of his fellow brothers with friendly fire. Elisa darted across the deck to find some cover behind a crate to avoid the bullets. Asami came up to her side, startling the myth hunter enough that she almost stabbed her friend with one of her daggers.

“Whoa!”

Elisa stopped herself and let out a breath of relief. She peered around the crate and could see the entrance to the lower decks. “You think you can stay alive for five minutes?”

“Sure, no problem.” Asami did a double-take and shook her head. “Ohhh no, you are not leaving me alone!”

Elisa sheathed her daggers and held up five fingers. “Honestly, five minutes, that’s all I need to get the Hand.”

Asami huffed. “Remind me why I stick around with you?”

“Saved your life and now you’re eternally bonded to me.”

“Oh, right. Damn mystic blood debt…” Asami sighed. “Okay, fine. What do you need me to do?”

“Draw their fire long enough for me to get to that door.”

Asami gave a nod and leapt onto the crate. “Hey, over here!” As expected, the Triads on-deck threw their attention—and their bullets—directly at the changeling. Asami jumped from the crate and darted across the surface of the ship—fast enough to avoid injury but just slow enough that they could still see her.

With the diversion in play, Elisa had a clear path to the door. She double-checked the coast and then darted across the distance. Elisa opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it behind her.

As she moved slowly down the metal steps, she could hear footsteps coming down the corridor adjacent to the stairwell. Elisa drew her kukri and kept her back to the railing, taking each step slowly. The stairs ended in a small clearing where there was an opening leading to the corridor. She listened as the footsteps grew louder and she sprung out at the right moment, delivering a high-kick to the Triad’s head. She jammed one kukri into the arm holding his gun. He screamed in pain and let out a string of expletives in Cantonese, the gun falling from his fingers. Elisa took her other kukri and stabbed him between the eyes. She took both weapons from his corpse and shook off the blood, staying low as she moved carefully down the remainder of the corridor.

The hall curved to the right. Elisa pressed up against the wall, moving to the corner and holding a kukri in a reverse grip with the edge in. She crossed her arm over her chest, listening for footsteps rushing closer. Elisa swung her arm out, stabbing the approaching Triad in the throat. She pulled the dagger, cutting across his neck until the blade came free from the flesh.

She sprinted towards the door at the corridor’s dead end. Elisa sheathed one of the knives and took hold of the handle, glad to find the door unlocked. One of the few things that had gone right on this job. The captain’s quarters were not very large, just enough room for a bed against one wall, a table against the other, and a small bathroom. The table was scattered with papers, but Elisa ignored those. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the wooden box ornately adorned with gold hinges. Elisa unhooked the latch and raised the lid, looking down at the prize.

Inside was a severed, shriveled hand with a brownish-green color, a result of the pickling and drying process. The legend said that the hand, cut from a murderer as he still hung from the gallows, could render any lock useless. Whether or not this crew meant to use it themselves or simply procured it for another party didn’t really matter to the myth hunter, she was only interested in keeping that power out of their grasp.

Elisa closed the lid and took the box.

* * *

Asami shifted completely into her fox-form to better contend with her attackers. She moved swiftly across the deck, avoiding the bullets to the best of her ability. Although she looked to be in her twenties, in reality she was over a century old. Asami was a kitsune, supernatural beings known as yokai by the Japanese. In addition to her ability to shift between human and fox forms, Asami also possessed some degree of magical ability, which would grow more powerful as she aged.

She found herself cornered by five Triads and Asami’s copper eyes burned like hot coals. The pearl bracelet she wore hummed with a soft glow and she opened her mouth wide. A small spark appeared above her tongue and moved from her mouth, growing into a larger fireball. All of the Triads ran when they saw this display of power, but one remained frozen in place and the fireball quickly engulfed him in flames.

“Huxian!” shouted one of them, uttering the Chinese name for the kitsune.

By the time the smoke had cleared, there was no sign of Asami. The captain strode amongst them, holding his pistol up. He walked up to the man who said huxian and slapped him on the back of his head. “It’s a trick, you moron! Fan out, find her!” He repeated the command once more in Cantonese. The remaining Triads searched around the deck, the captain turning his attention to the door that led to the lower decks. He’d seen Elisa gone down there and wouldn’t let her get away with his cargo. Their client planned to pay handsomely for it and he’d be damned if he let some interlopers ruin such a profitable opportunity.

One of the Triads stalked along the side of the ship, his eyes focused forward. A clawed, furry hand reached out from over the rail and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him overboard. Asami hung from the edge and shimmied further along just as she heard the splash. She pulled herself up and threw her legs out, locking them around the neck of another Triad and yanked him over the edge as well. Asami flipped up and landed on the deck gracefully, but found herself staring down the barrels of several guns.

“Well, shit.”

* * *

Once Elisa emerged from the door onto the upper deck, she felt the barrel of a gun pressed against her head. She groaned in annoyance and held up her arms, one hand holding the box. A glance out of the corner of her eye confirmed it was the captain standing beside her, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger on his pistol. He held out his free hand.

“The box. Give it to me.”

Elisa sighed and passed the box to him. The captain smiled and backed away, still keeping the weapon trained on her. His men escorted Asami over, bringing her beside Elisa.

“Any fireworks?” Elisa asked her partner.

“Already used that trick, gonna take some time before I can do it again,” said Asami.

“I was a little surprised when my client asked me to procure this item for him,” said the captain. “I thought, why would anyone want some mummified hand? And now you come aboard my ship to steal it from me? Perhaps it’s worth more than he told me.”

“We’re doing you a favor,” said Elisa. “That thing is cursed and the best thing you could do is throw it over the edge.”

The captain laughed. “I think not. And now here we are again, where we were before your attempted escape. But this time, my men are prepared for your tricks. There is no way out of this—”

The sound of a helicopter was heard above. A spotlight shone on the deck of the ship. Everyone gathered looked up to see the helicopter hovering above and moving closer to the deck. The wind it generated threw hats off heads and made it hard to hear the Cantonese shouts of surprise. A few warning shots from above came next, striking the deck.

“We have weapons trained on you,” came a voice over a megaphone from the helicopter. “Release the women and you get out of this alive.”

Someone in the helicopter threw down a rope ladder. The crew looked to the captain, who nodded. Elisa and Asami exchanged confused glances but they weren’t about to throw away their one chance. They quickly scrambled up the ladder and as they climbed, the helicopter started to rise.

“Let them go!” said the captain, shouting over the sound of the blades. “At least we still have the hand.” He lifted the lid to find the box was completely empty. The captain cursed and shouted back at the helicopter, but it had already departed.

1946

He felt the cold even through his winter clothing, moving carefully through the snow-covered mountains of the Himalayas. Walter Horn paused for a moment to reach into the pocket of his heavy coat and draw out a compass. The medieval scholar-cum-soldier opened the lid and saw the needle spinning all round.

“That won’t be much help to you, friend.”

Walter looked up at the voice of his partner, a man he had met just before boarding the plane for this expedition. Kenneth Hill was slightly younger than him, with a thick, black beard that now had flecks of snow covering it.

“What is this?”

“We’re in a part of the world largely untouched by modern man. The things that exist out here, they’re far beyond even your expertise.” Kenneth patted Walter on the shoulder and moved ahead towards one of the sloping valleys.

Walter’s brow furrowed. “If the compass cannot tell us where we are, how can you be so sure you know where you’re going?”

Kenneth paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Because I’ve been here before. I know these mountains like the back of my hand.”

Walter sighed and placed the compass back in his pocket, walking with haste to catch up to his companion. “I appreciate that my superiors felt you were the most appropriate man to accompany me on this expedition, but I must say I still don’t quite understand this situation.”

“Situation’s pretty simple, Walt. You retrieved the Habsburg Spear but told your bosses that you don’t think it’s the real McCoy. If you really think the Nazis have it, then it’s likely they’d take it somewhere it can be safe from their enemies. That’s why we’re out here in this damn cold.”

“But what makes you believe that the Nazis would have come to the Himalayas?”

“Because on my last trip out here a few years back, I stumbled on Agharti, their hidden city. There I was against a few dozen Nazi bastards,” said Kenneth. “Barely got out alive.”

“How did you escape?”

Kenneth flashed a knowing smile. “Let’s just say I had some help. But that’s a story for another day. Right now, we gotta get to that city.”

He turned back to the valley, carefully moving down the slope. Walter wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man. His superiors in Washington said that if there was a missing artifact, no man was more qualified to retrieve it than Kenneth Hill. In addition to his impressive physical prowess, Kenneth was also a man of great knowledge with degrees in fields such as archaeology, anthropology, and mythology. And he had been to the Himalayas on more than one occasion, the most recent of which led to his presumed death before he suddenly turned up again six months later.

Walter followed down the slope and once he reached Kenneth’s side again, the two men moved together from then on. They hiked through the valleys for what felt like several hours. Every now and then they would stop to rest, a rest that was mostly characterized by its silence. Walter would check his compass periodically, but found it still useless.

As day turned to night, they came to a ridge and Kenneth signaled for Walter to stay low. When Walter appeared by his side, Kenneth looked at him and held a single finger to his lips. He then took that finger and pointed over the ridge. Walter was shocked at what he saw. Just past the ridge was the mouth of a cave. And flanking the cave were two men in heavy winter clothing, just as they were. But what drew Walter’s attention even more were the stylized double-S marks, almost like lightning bolts, and swastikas on their arms.

“What should we do?” asked Walter in a low voice. He glanced out the corner of his eyes to his right but saw nothing there. Walter quickly turned his head and saw that Kenneth was gone. He turned his attention back to the cave and saw a figure moving on the overhang above the entrance.

Kenneth dropped down behind one of the soldiers and covered his mouth with one hand. With the other hand, Kenneth held a curved dagger and drew it quickly across the Nazi’s throat, the blood spilling out on the snow and staining it crimson.

Walter rose to his feet in surprise and the second Nazi spotted him. He shouted something in German but before he could raise his gun to fire, Kenneth drove the knife into his back. The Nazi’s chest arched forward and then slumped over. Kenneth waved for Walter to approach.

Walter jumped from the ridge and hurried through the snow, looking at the bodies, one of which Kenneth was in the process of dragging away from the entrance and tossing over the edge of the mountain, but not before taking the submachine gun off him. He gestured to the other and Walter understood, doing the same with the remaining body.

The disposal complete, Walter walked up to Kenneth, who bent down to use a handful of snow in order to clean off his blade. Walter stared down at the strange knife. It was a curved dagger with a very sharp edge. Kenneth felt his partner’s eyes on him and met his gaze. He raised the dagger up so Walter could get a closer look at it.

“Kukri,” he said. “Picked up a pair of them on my last trip to Nepal. Pretty handy to have in a fight.”

Walter drew his Browning service revolver. “I prefer this.”

Kenneth shrugged and picked up the submachine gun, pulling the strap over his shoulder. “Whatever works for you, I guess.” He took the remaining submachine gun and tossed it to Walter. “C’mon.”

They moved into the mouth of the cave, which connected to a tunnel that led down. A few lights had been installed to illuminate the path and the two men stepped cautiously into the depths of the Himalayas. The further they got from the surface, the louder the sounds from within could be heard.

The tunnel ended in a massive cavern far larger than Walter could have imagined. The Germans had surrendered almost a year previously, but to look upon this sight, one would think they were still in full service. There were dozens of soldiers moving about the large cavern, performing duties on some sort of giant device in the rear. It was metal, with a giant dome on top and a brim. It almost looked like a giant safari hat.

“The hell?” whispered Kenneth.

Walter shook his head. In all his time during the war, even when he was still living in Germany, he had never seen anything like it. But what shocked him even more was the white circle painted on the side, a circle that contained something that resembled the swastika. But though the swastika was rotated, this symbol had straight lines forming a cross. And the legs weren’t straight lines but rather curved, each one reaching to the edge of the cross.

“The Thule Society? But the Nazis shut down all esoteric organizations,” said Walter, his voice still hushed.

Kenneth scoffed. “Seems there’s a lot you don’t know, pal. You see that guy up there?”

Walter saw what Kenneth meant. One of the men in uniform had a bald head and a dark mustache. The scholar recognized him immediately as Dietrich Eckart, once the leader of the Thule Society. Until his death over twenty years ago. Or supposed death, it seemed.

“The Thules never went away, just went underground. You’re lookin’ at the real power behind the Nazis,” said Kenneth.

Walter watched Eckart’s movements carefully. The man should be pushing eighty by now, but he looked to be in his fifties, the age at which he was said to have died. “How is this possible?”

“Magic.”

“I don’t believe in—”

“Well, believe in your own eyes, professor,” said Kenneth.

An SS officer brought Eckart a small, ornate box with the symbol of his organization carved on the top. The Thule patriarch took it from him and carried it over to a table. He raised the lid and grinned as his eyes fell upon the object inside. Eckart reached inside the box and drew out the head of a spear. The metal looked old and worn, with a gold plate wrapped around the center.

“That’s it,” said Walter. “The Spear of Destiny.”

Eckart placed the spear back in the box and closed the lid. He shouted something to the soldiers and they gathered up supplies, taking them over to the large metal object. A ramp lowered from it and they moved inside.

“What is that thing, some kinda vault?” asked Kenneth.

Walter’s voice was hushed. “I don’t believe so…”

The device lit up with strange lights all around the side. There was a rumble that sounded like an engine roaring to life. Walter realized that what they were looking at was a vehicle of some sort. And if they didn’t act now, they may lose their chance to obtain the Spear of Destiny.

“We can’t let them escape!” he said in a hushed exclamation.

“Way ahead of you.” Kenneth readied the submachine gun and rose from his hiding place, spraying the cavern with ammunition. Walter followed his lead, standing as well and firing round after round into the SS troops.

Several soldiers were eliminated immediately, but others took cover and returned fire with their own weapons. Eckart watched it all happen with a deathly calm gaze. He raised the lid once more and took the spear from its container, grasping it tightly in his hand.

Walter rushed at Eckart, turning his gun on him. The Thule continued his approach, never breaking stride even as the bullets from Walter’s gun slammed into his chest. Once within reach, Eckart grabbed the barrel of the gun. The barrel must have been scorching, but Eckart didn’t seem to notice. He tore the gun from Walter’s grip and threw it behind him. It struck the wall of the cavern and clattered to the ground.

Eckart wrapped his fingers around Walter’s throat, raising him into the air and slamming him against the cave wall. Walter tried to pull the old man’s fingers, but his grip was like steel. Breathing quickly grew difficult and Walter knew he didn’t have long to go. He stared into Eckart’s eyes and saw an emptiness there he’d never known before.

Kenneth had moved from several points of cover and retrieved discarded weapons whenever he ran out of bullets, quickly resuming the fight. He saw Eckart squeezing the life out of his partner and drew one of the kukri. Kenneth threw it with pinpoint accuracy, the kukri striking Eckart’s bald head, the blade embedded in his skull.

Eckart dropped Walter and reached for the kukri, gripping the hilt and in one swift motion, pulling it free. He dropped it to the ground and turned his attention to Kenneth Hill. Eckart strode towards his new foe, his grip tightening around the spear.

Kenneth tried to force him back with shots from the submachine gun, but they had no effect. Once the ammunition was spent, Kenneth took the second kukri and lunged at Eckart.

The German deflected the blade with his spear. He swung his arm, the back of his hand striking Kenneth across his face. With the spear in his grip, the blow hit harder than normal and Kenneth felt pain running all along the side of his head.

“Vermin,” spat Eckart. “You have no comprehension of what you have gotten yourselves into.”

Eckart raised his arm, holding the spear in a reverse-grip so the sharp tip pointed down at Kenneth’s head. But before he could strike, Walter tackled him from behind. Eckart stumbled forward with Walter on his back and when he hit the ground, the spear slipped from his grasp, clattering along the cave floor.

The two German men grappled on the ground, with Walter now on Eckart and driving his fists into the old man’s face. Eckart was far stronger than his age and appearance made him seem. He struck back, head-butting Walter with such force that the younger German stumbled, disoriented.

Eckart rose to his feet and grabbed Walter’s head. He squeezed it hard, placing his thumbs over Walter’s closed eyelids and pushing in. Walter screamed, feeling the pain as Eckart was about to crush his eyeballs.

But then Eckart’s grip became slack and Walter was able to pull away. He saw Eckart standing there, staring down at his chest in shock. And from the center of his chest was the point of a spear.

Kenneth pulled the spear from Eckart’s back and the Thule collapsed to the ground, his eyes fixed in an open position. He examined the spear’s bloodstained surface and watched as the strange artifact seemed to absorb the crimson liquid inside itself. Kenneth couldn’t describe the feeling of having his hands on this weapon.

There was a thundering noise and both Kenneth and Walter looked to the strange vehicle. Seeing their master slain before them had apparently been enough to convince the rest of the Thules to depart.

The vehicle rose off the ground, hovering for a moment before rising higher and striking the ceiling. The entire cavern rumbled with the blows and Kenneth and Walter exchanged nervous glances before they both ran for the tunnel that they entered through.

As the vehicle burrowed through the mountain, the rocks came down behind them, crushing Eckart and any remaining soldiers. The two heroes charged up the tunnel as fast as their legs could take them, rushing for the surface.

Just ahead they could feel the cold, night air and some flakes of snow blew in and landed on their face. They ran faster, pushing their legs harder, both too frightened to look behind them to see how much time they had left. But the sound of the cave-in told them they didn’t have long before they would be crushed, too.

Once they reached the entrance, the two men jumped and the cave completely collapsed behind them. They landed face-first in the snow, laying there for a moment before rolling over onto their backs. Slowly they sat up and viewed the remains of Agharti. Up in the sky, they saw the lights of the strange vehicle as it rose above the wreckage before flying off into the clouds.

Kenneth looked down at the Spear of Destiny, studying the inscription on the plate. “Nail of Our Lord,” he read aloud. And then he saw the nail fused with the spearhead. Kenneth passed it over to his partner. “Think this is what you came here for.”

“Indeed,” said Walter, examining the strange artifact. He saw that Eckart was nearly invulnerable while holding it. More than that, he could feel its power as he held it within his grasp. He didn’t quite understand what it was, but he knew that he had to ensure it never fell into the wrong hands again.

Elisa Hill opened her eyes and found herself staring out the window of the small plane, looking directly at the foliage-covered ground. They were suspended quite far off the ground, nose-first. She reached for the buckle on her seatbelt and used the seat to help her fight against gravity pulling her towards the plane’s console.

It wasn’t clear just how they were being suspended in the air, but if Elisa had to guess, she would say they’d crashed into a pretty strong tree. But the tree wasn’t likely to support the plane’s weight much longer and she had to step carefully so as to not trigger a fall.

She moved gingerly from her seat to the pilot next to her. He was slumped over and if not for his seatbelt, would be splayed out on the flight stick. Elisa approached him carefully, reaching a hand out to him.

“Smith? You okay?”

Smith didn’t answer. Elisa gripped the back of his seat and pulled herself close enough so she could lay two fingers on the side of his neck. She couldn’t feel a pulse and she sighed.

The plane started to move and she heard the sound of wood cracking. Her fears were confirmed, the tree wouldn’t hold her much longer. Elisa braced herself against the seats to move from the cockpit and into the small cabin. Her backpack sat on one of the passenger seats and she picked it up. Slowly, she pulled the straps over her shoulders and fastened the belt around her waist. Elisa went to the door and the plane dipped. She grabbed onto the open door frame, the plane now almost completely perpendicular to the ground. Elisa used both hands to pull herself out of the plane and onto the surface.

The cracking and snapping of wood was like an alarm bell for her. There was another branch that seemed to be within jumping distance. The massive branches that held the plane finally gave and the vehicle fell from its position.

Elisa jumped, reaching her hands out for the closest branch. Her right hand missed, but she caught on with her left. She dangled from there, hundreds of feet in the air and watched as the plane crashed beneath her.

With her right hand, she reached behind her back. Elisa gripped the gold-lined handle and drew the kukri dagger from its sheath. Pulling up with her left hand, she jammed the curved Nepalese dagger into the wood.

Once Elisa reached the branch, she gave herself just a minute to rest as she stared at the twisted wreckage of the plane. It was her way into this place and now she had to find some other way to get home. That was her first priority.

Elisa pulled the dagger from the tree and sheathed it while surveying the area. There was a cliff ledge not far from her and a line of trees she could follow to reach it. Elisa moved from one branch to the next, never staying on one for more than a few seconds before jumping to a new perch. She swung from a vine and released, falling until she landed in the soft grass on the cliff’s ledge.

Now on solid ground, Elisa removed the backpack and set it on the ground, bending down over it. She dug through the supplies and until she found the satellite phone. Elisa quickly attempted to call, but all she got in response was static.

“Goddammit…” She looked at the phone and tried another number. Still nothing. One final attempt. She tried to call her mentor, Max Finch back in the States, but that also was met with nothing but static.

There was some sort of interference in the area. That could be what caused the plane’s instruments to start going out of control and led to the crash. There was indeed something strange about this island and if Elisa was going to have any hope at getting out of here alive, her first course of action was to figure out just what this place was.

She turned off the phone and returned it to her pack, then geared up and began the hike down the cliff. As she walked, she thought back to how she’d gotten roped into this mission in the first place.

It all happened so fast. One minute, Armand Estopa stood aboard the fishing boat he worked on, staring at clear skies. And the next, the skies had darkened with a speed he’d never seen in his twenty-five years. The sun’s illumination was blocked, replaced by flashes of lightning in the black clouds.

The rain poured down in buckets, drenching Armand and the rest of his crew within moments. The winds picked up next, tossing their tiny trawler to and fro. The captain tried to keep a firm grip on the wheel, but it did no good. The men braced themselves for the worst, scrambling for life vests and quickly distributing them.

But one sound emerged from the chorus of screams, the only sound capable of overriding them. It was the sound of thunder. Armand had never heard thunder of this nature before. It was deafening, violent. For some reason, the image of a wounded lion appeared in Armand’s mind.

Lighting struck down on the deck of the ship, the bolt going right through the chest of Emilio. He and Armand had been friends since they were children and now, Armand had to watch as Emilio’s entire body stiffened, his face contorting in agony as the electricity coursed through his body before he collapsed on the deck.

Another wave lifted the ship and then dropped from beneath them. They hung in the air for a moment before crashing right back down onto the ocean’s surface. The impact threw the boat again, nearly capsizing.

Armand held tight to a rope, but he was helpless to prevent Emilio’s body from rolling across the deck. With the next wave, the boat was thrown and Emilio was gone, hurled over the edge.

There was another clap of thunder, this one louder than all the others. So powerful that it drew Armand’s eyes to the heavens. The clouds parted and something fell through them. Bolts of lightning streaked from the clouds, all of them converging on the mysterious object.

Armand screamed, but in the throes of the storm, no one could hear him. And the strange object struck the deck, burrowing right through it. The boat broke in half and the winds whipped around them, pulling the remains of the ship and its crew into a vortex.

For the briefest of moments, Armand could see into the center of the vortex. The water had parted and there, on the bottom of the ocean floor, was the strange object that had struck them. Despite having the force of a comet, Armand was shocked by how small it really was.

But more than that, he was amazed at the appearance of the thing. The lightning ceased striking it and for just a moment, he was able to clearly see the object. It seemed to be constructed of some kind of metal, engraved with strange, glowing runes along its surface. Armand wasn’t quite sure what it was he saw, because before he could put any more together, the water closed in on him.

Armand was swept beneath the waves, choking on the seawater that surrounded him. Even in what he believed would be his final moments, all he could think of was the strange object.

Maxwell Finch looked out the window as the waters of the Atlantic Ocean whipped past them below. He sat back in his chair and took off his glasses, cleaning the lenses with a small cloth obtained from the inside pocket of his blazer.

“We should be arriving shortly, Professor,” said the pilot.

Max gave him a nod and a polite smile. When he put his glasses back on, he could see the ship off in the distance, the Ignatius. The home of this deep-sea Atlantic excavation grew larger as the helicopter approached.

The pilot maneuvered the helicopter over the ship’s helipad and slowly descended. The landing skids touched down on the surface and as the spinning blades slowed, crew members rushed up to the helipad to secure it to the boat.

Max’s door was opened for him and he climbed out of the helicopter. The crewman who did offered his hand and a smile.

“Professor Finch, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m Peter Webber, the ship’s captain.”

“Pleased to meet you, Captain.” Max was grateful as helicopter engine stopped so that now he didn’t have to raise his voice.

“Dr. McCartney is waiting for you below deck.” Captain Webber turned, leading Max from the helipad.

“Do you know what this is at all about, Captain?” asked Max as he followed, holding the strap slung diagonally across his body, attached to a leather bag.

“Oh yeah, but I’m under strict orders not to reveal anything. Dr. McCartney said he wants you to see it for yourself.”

“Can you tell me anything about it? I’ve come all this way…”

“Yeah, there’s one thing I can tell you.” Webber paused and turned, smiling at the professor. “It’s gonna blow your mind.”

Max raised his eyebrows in interest, then followed the captain in silence. They entered a stairwell and climbed down a few decks before exiting into a narrow corridor. Captain Webber continued to lead Max to a closed door and he banged on the heavy metal a few times.

The door opened and a young man with a thick beard and dark eyes stood on the other side. Once he laid eyes on Max, he offered a broad smile and stepped out. Max returned the smile and the two men hugged.

“Good to see you again, Russ,” said Max.

“You too,” replied Russell McCartney. “Come in, come in.”

Russ stepped deeper into the room and made a path for Max to follow. Webber stuck his head into the doorway but didn’t cross the threshold. “I’ll leave you two. Gotta keep an eye on this rotten crew of mine.”

“Thanks, Pete.” Russ gave him a departing wave. Webber closed the door behind him and his footsteps receded down the corridor.

“So, while it’s great to see a former student, please tell me you have a good reason for making me fly all the way out here.”

Russ gave a chuckle. “So you were in London?”

“Lecture tour, also looking into some things for another former student.”

“Well, I think you’ll find this worth the trip.” Russ led Max to another door and opened it. “We’ve been combing the ocean floor, sending out divers to see what they could find. And we picked up the motherload.”

He held the door open and gestured inside. Max took a few steps, but they slowed considerably when he saw what was on the other side. His jaw fell open and he removed his glasses. Max inched closer and closer. He looked over his shoulder.

“Is this…what am I looking at?”

“You tell me.”

Max stepped closer. The find was kept behind glass and he slowly placed a hand on the surface. It was fused into the rock but it was clear what they were looking at was a skeleton—definitely a human. Except it had a very unique characteristic. The bones of what looked like wings protruding from its back.

“Are you telling me this is an angel?” asked Max.

“I have no idea what it is, that’s why I called you here,” said Russ.

“We have to keep this quiet. If the public gets wind of this, do you imagine what sort of chaos it will cause?”

“Religious groups will go nuts, I agree. But what do you think it really is?”

Max shook his head, eyes still wide as he examined the fossil. “Russ, I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life. I know there’s a lot more to the world than most people are aware of. But I’ve never in all my years seen anything to suggest that angels are real.”

“Then either you’ve just been proven wrong, or this is something else.”

Max’s eyes continued to travel up and down the specimen. “And you said you found this on the ocean floor?”

“Yeah. But judging from the condition, it seems like it must’ve been buried deeper. We were checking out some ruins and we found this.”

Max turned away from the fossil and put his glasses back on. “What ruins would those be?”

“Rumored resting places of Atlantis.”

Max looked at the skeleton again. He bit his bottom lip as he thought about how coincidental this seemed. Elisa asked him to investigate any potential leads on the Thule Society, whose goal was to resurrect Atlantis. The Society’s leadership was gone, but there were still factions out there. And it was Elisa’s hope that they could use any information on the Society to help them discover what their old enemies, the Order, were up to.

* * *

Black, unmarked helicopters armed with mini-guns approached the Ignatius. The man who sat in the co-pilot’s seat looked behind him at the commandos who were ready to go. They all wore masks and were armed with automatic rifles, their uniforms as black and unmarked as the attack choppers.

This man, however, was dressed in a white suit with a black shirt and a mandarin collar. He had long, silver hair and a sheathed katana sword was lain across his lap.

“Target in range,” said the pilot.

The silver-haired man smiled and said one word: “Fire.”

Not only the chopper he rode in but the others that accompanied them unleashed salvos of rounds on the Ignatius’ deck. The first thing they targeted was the helicopter Max had arrived in, rendering it useless.

The crew scattered across the deck, struggling to find some way to defend themselves or simply abandoning the ship. The choppers continued their approach, opening fire whenever they had an opportunity.

“Get ready,” the silver-haired man said to the commandos. “Remember, everyone but the target is expendable.”

The helicopters positioned themselves over the deck and one by one, the commandos dropped down from ropes. They brought their guns to the ready and started moving about, shooting anyone who got in their way.

* * *

The sounds of gunfire reached down to the lower decks where Max and Russ were standing. Max gave Russ a questioning look, but Russ’ expression showed his confusion. The older professor moved into the main room, but remained by the door.

“Do you have any weapons?”

“What?” asked Russ. “The Ignatius’ a research vessel, Max.”

“I guess that’s a no.” Max sighed. He’d been retired from the myth hunter profession for some time now, but he cursed himself for not coming prepared. He needed a weapon if they were going to have any hope of getting out of here.

Something else occurred to him. Max walked back to the artifact, taking his cell phone out of his blazer pocket.

“What are you doing?” asked Russ.

“First thing’s first.” Max held up the phone, activating the camera feature. He snapped a picture of the find and sent it in an email, along with the Ignatius’ coordinates. “In case we don’t make it out of this.”

“Make it—what?”

“Quiet.” Max returned to the door and waited. He heard footsteps moving rapidly. Then a burst of gunfire and a thump. An unlucky crew member trying to escape, it seemed.

Russ looked like he wanted to make a break for it. But Max held out his hand to steady him. They heard the door handle turning. Max prepared himself. When the door opened inward, a commando stepped inside.

Max delivered a punch to the commando’s face with his right hand, while grabbing the gun with his left. He wrestled it away from the commando and turned it on him, opening fire. The commando slumped to the ground and Max stepped out into the corridor.

“Stay here,” he told Russ.

With slow, deliberate steps, he moved down the hall. He kept his footfalls as quiet as possible, getting to the stairwell. Max climbed up the decks until he reached the top. Upon opening the door, he saw the body of Captain Webber and muttered a curse under his breath.

Something struck him from behind and Max went tumbling across the deck. He regained his footing and spun around. But when he saw the man standing in front of him—all dressed in white, silver hair caught in the wind, emerald eyes fixed upon him—Max lowered the gun in surprise.

“It can’t be,” he said. “You died. In Lemuria.”

“Yes, I did,” said Seth. He moved like a silver blur, crossing the distance between them before Max could recover from his shock enough to raise the weapon. Seth’s blade was drawn and struck the gun, the force knocking it from Max’s hands.

A kick to his legs brought Max falling hard on his back. Seth pointed the tip of his blade at the professor’s throat.

“You should have stayed retired, old man. But fortunately for you, my employer has need of your services.”

Jack Travis had a round frame and a face grizzled with dark whiskers, his horrible breath a result of his diet, consisting mostly of foods overloaded with onion and garlic. He wore his gray suit jacket unbuttoned, but his belt buckle was obscured by the hang-over of his gut, covered by an off-white shirt. Open collar with no tie in sight. Travis didn't have much use for dressing himself in fine clothes. To him, a cheap suit was just as good as an expensive one, better because of the price tag. This preference wasn't due to a lack of funds on his part—Jack Travis had quite a bit of money. But he preferred to spend it on things he felt were more worth his time.

He walked in on short legs, barely putting his height above five-foot-five. The two men who flanked him dressed far nicer than he did and they towered over him. He gestured for them to stop and they waited for him by the entrance while Travis walked down the narrow hallway and entered one of the many doors that lined the corridor.

The door led to a small booth with a reclining chair in the center, a box of tissues on the small ledge, and a glass window covered from the other side. Travis took out some bills from his wallet and slid them into the slot. The gold ring on his finger, with the Chinese character for fire engraved in the red gemstone, caught his eye and he chuckled. He sank into the chair, shifting to accommodate his frame. He raised his gut enough to unbuckle his belt and open his pants, reaching inside his shorts.

The covering over the window opened and Travis expected to see Charlotte, his usual girl. This was just a warm-up for his usual visits with Charlotte—he liked the teasing and after the show was over, she would go home with him.

But Charlotte with her dark hair and green eyes wasn't there. Instead a different woman sat in her place, very attractive, possibly late twenties or early thirties. Her long blond hair hung down, framing her thin face and she stared at Travis with an icy gaze. She wore a white shirt under a black leather jacket and a pair of blue denim jeans. Her hands were clasped behind her back.

“Tell me how you want it,” she said with a slight grin.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“A friend of Dante.” Her left hand swung around, a Desert Eagle clasped in her gloved grip. Two quick squeezes of the trigger were followed by two holes in the glass, now stained red. Jack Travis lay motionless in the recliner, blood seeping from the holes in his body—one in his forehead, the other in his neck.

The mysterious woman stood from the stool, walking past the unconscious Charlotte. The chloroform would keep her out for a while and solved the problem of any witnesses. Angela Lockhart would have preferred to poison Travis, make it look like an accident. But Dante wanted to send a message—snitches never prosper.

Before she had the opportunity to leave the booth, the door on the other end opened and Travis' two bodyguards entered, presumably drawn by the sound of the gunfire.

“Soundproof, my ass...” muttered Angela.

The guards each drew their weapons and opened fire. Angela dropped to the ground as the bullets cut through the space she once occupied. She wished she had a second gun. Her hand reached beneath her jacket, finding one of the spare clips she kept in the special pockets sewn into the lining. She gripped the spare clip in her right hand, hefting the Eagle in her left and getting ready, keeping careful count of the shots she head. They stopped at eleven. Seven shots unaccounted for. So either they didn't have full clips or they got smart and were now approaching the window. Angela wished it were the former but knew the latter was always far more likely. If she didn't take a chance now, it would be harder to get out.

She sprung from her crouch. The shots shattered the glass, leaving an open gap between the booths. Angela leapt headfirst through it, over the chair that housed Travis's body and between the guards who stood on either side. She landed in a roll and came upright in the corridor, swinging the gun from side to side, squeezing off four more shots through the doorway. One missed completely, one struck the guard on her left in his knee, the other two hit the right guard in his torso, felling him. She stood, ready to finish off the one left behind, but a new sound jerked her head to the right.

“You bitch!”

At the end of the corridor stood the owner, a shotgun in his hands, rage in his eyes. She rolled her own eyes and jumped into the booth just as the owner fired a load of buckshot, landing at the wall almost diagonal from the surviving guard.

“Just when you think a job is finished, you have to contend with some fat bastard holding a shotgun.”

The remaining guard sat on the ground, clasping his knee to stop the bleeding, moaning in pain. Once he saw Angela, he risked moving one of his blood-stained hands, trying to grab his gun. Angela acted on instinct, firing one shot into his hand and then quieting his screams of pain by putting a bullet in his head.

She repeated her employer's instructions in a whisper, “'we have to send a message.'” Two rounds left in the Eagle, so she ejected the clip and slapped in the fresh one, loading the first bullet into the chamber. “Fuck you, Dante.”

Edging carefully to the door, she took one of the spare guns and tossed it into the hall. The owner fired again, startled by the sudden movement.

“Amateurs,” said Angela. The distraction meant recoil time, a window of no more than a moment. But it was a window she decided to dive through. The booth across the corridor was open. She leaped across the hallway, firing two shots as she fell into the opposite booth. The owner followed up with some more shots.

Pushed up against the wall, she was just inches from the door. She could hear his footsteps and his heavy breathing. By this point, all the gunfire would attract attention. She hoped the other patrons were either too busy with their pipe cleaning or too scared by the gunfire to leave the booths and investigate. After she put down this asshole with the shotgun, she could get out of here, confident in the knowledge that no one who saw her face survived.

Her gun vanished inside her jacket. It wouldn't do her much good, not for what she planned. She waited and as soon as she saw the tip of the shotgun poke into the room, she grabbed it. Wrenching it from the surprised man's grip, she slammed the butt against his nose, hard enough to hear a crack and blood started to flow from his nostrils. She swung it like a bat, striking the side of his head and he rocked to the side. Flipping the gun around, Angela pointed it at his chest and fired. The force of impact sent him flying back, landing in the doorway of the booth where her other victims lay.

After dropping the shotgun, she went to Travis’ body. She raised his hand, examining the ring on it and carefully removed it. Knowing what Travis’ purpose in this place was, she was glad she had gloves. They'd end up in the fire later tonight. But the ring was important. Dante specified that he wanted it back.

She left calmly through the back entrance, the door used by the dancers. In the alley, a customized Harley Davidson sat waiting, helmet resting on top. Zipping up her jacket and donning the helmet, she started the bike and rode out slowly from the alley, merging into traffic and driving off.

He paused on the stage as he listened for the drummer to begin the introduction to the piece. As he waited, he placed his lips around the mouthpiece, moistening the reed just enough to prepare it for the performance. He waited for the timing, listening to the drummer’s rhythm and then blew inside the saxophone.

The dim lights of the bar reflected off the instrument’s silver finish as the saxophonist began his piece. His fingers danced along the keys, a tune both sorrowful and upbeat at the same time echoing throughout the small tavern. The music reflected the pain the musician felt in his soul, but at the same time communicated his enjoyment and his peace at simply playing his instrument.

Musicians sometimes joke that the saxophone is a “P.H.D.” instrument—“press here, dumbass.” It doesn’t require the same amount of mouth control as the brass or even some woodwinds, you just press a key, blow and instant music.

Carl Flint knew differently.

He knew that for any instrument, regardless of complexity, the one thing necessary to produce true music was simple.

Passion.

Passion for life, passion for memory, passion for anything. The instrument was simply a tool to communicate that passion. Whereas the writer would rely on the pen, the musician relied on his instrument. But passion was always the key ingredient.

Without passion, music didn’t exist. Carl Flint understood this. Especially because for him, music was the only passion he had left.

He finished his set and no applause came. No surprise, given that there were only four people in the bar besides him and the drummer. Two of them were regulars so engrossed in their particular brand of poison that they were practically passed out. The third was the man tending bar and the fourth sat in the rear, smoking a cigarette, his face obscured by the darkness.

Flint took off the neck strap and set the saxophone down on its stand. He climbed off the stage and went over to the bar, taking a seat before the server.

“The usual, boss?”

Flint nodded. “My cancer sticks, too.” The bartender set down a pack of cigarillos with a small box of wood matches. Flint tore open his prize and placed it between his lips, igniting the tip of the cigar with one of the matches. A moment later, the bartender set down a glass filled with golden liquid, the ice clinking against the side.

As Flint alternated between puffs on the cigarillo and sips of the double Jack on the rocks, the stranger came over towards him and occupied the empty stool without an invitation.

“Good set.”

“Thanks,” said Flint.

“Been a long time, Flint.”

Flint used his peripheral vision to get his first look at the stranger and instantly wished he hadn’t. “Jackal.”

“Glad you remember me,” said the stranger. “But I’ve told you before, it’s Jaquel.”

“I prefer my version.”

“I bet you do.”

“What do you want?”

“What, a guy can’t come down to visit an old friend?”

“We were never friends. Wouldn’t even call us acquaintances.”

“Be that as it may, I’ve got something that might interest you,” said Jackal.

“I’m retired,” said Flint.

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Flint offered no response.

“C’mon man, you’re sitting here, running some blues bar—”

“I make a good living running this place.”

Jackal glanced around the room as he smoked his cigarette and chuckled a little. “Oh yeah, I can see that. This place is really jumping.”

“It’s a weeknight, what do you expect?”

“Do you at least wanna hear what I have to offer?”

“Do I look like I’m interested?”

“Most people would say no, but I know differently.” Jackal flicked the ash from his cigarette in the tray. “I know you’re looking for a way out, a way to retire peacefully somewhere nice and quiet, preferably tropical. Instead, you’re stuck here in this dive, playing music that no one listens to.”

“Did he send you?” asked Flint.

Jackal smiled. “See? Tough guy routine aside, you are interested.”

Flint felt his blood pressure rise. “Cut the crap and just answer the damn question. I’m in no mood for your shit.”

Jackal took another drag on his cigarette and nodded. “It’s him.”

“Christ...” muttered Flint. “Dante.”

“The one and only. There’s a mark here in the city, he thought you’d be willing to come out of retirement for this one.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re one of the best marksmen he’s ever seen, that’s why.”

“Oh go to hell, Jackal, we both know he never did that ranking crap. So I ask you again—why me? He’s got any number of go-to guys, so why doesn’t he go to one of them for this?”

“Okay, so it’s obvious placating your ego isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

“Exactly, so why don’t you just tell me the real story? What makes me so goddamned special that he wants me for this job?”

“One word—convenience,” said Jackal. “It’s an urgent job, he needs it done immediately. And he figures contracting you for it would be faster—and cheaper—than flying someone else in and risk missing his window.”

“I haven’t fired a gun in five years,” said Flint. He looked at his right hand, stretching out the fingers. “Digits aren’t what they used to be.”

“You still have your equipment though, right?”

Flint hesitated. Used that hesitation to take a large gulp of his whiskey and a few puffs on the cigar. “Yeah, I still got it.”

“Of course you do, bet you still clean them every day.”

“Week.”

Jackal shrugged. “Close enough. Besides, seeing you up there with that sax, seems like your fingers still move pretty well.”

“Maybe so, but reflexes aren’t the same,” said Flint. “Cleaning is a game for young guns. I’m pushing fifty. I drink, I smoke, and I don’t exercise for shit. What makes you think I can handle a job like this?”

“Your eyesight still good?”

“As good as ever.”

“Then you could be in a wheelchair for all the big man cares. It’s a distance hit, we just need him sniped.”

“You said this was an urgent job.”

“That I did.”

“How urgent is urgent?”

“Dante figured you might have some trepidation given how your last assignment went. So he’s giving you some time to think it over,” said Jackal.

“How very generous.” muttered Flint. “How much time?”

Jackal threw a few bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’ll be back tomorrow night expecting your final answer.”

“Don’t bother. The answer’s no.”

“The job pays fifty.”

“Thousand?”

Jackal nodded.

“Pretty decent chunk of change,” said Flint. “Still not interested.”

“C’mon Flint, the hell’s the matter with you? You could do this job with your eyes closed and it pays a lot.”

“The last job.”

Jackal nodded. “Okay, fair enough. Things got messed up, but you walked away from a lot of cash that time. Cash that could’ve helped that girl. Think what you could do with that money now.”

Flint hesitated before he responded with, “who’s the target?”

“That information is on a strictly need-to-know basis. And until you accept, you don’t need to know.”

“If I’m walkin’ into a shitstorm, I need to know which way the wind’s blowing.”

“Relax, you grizzled old bastard,” said Jackal. “You know how the big man operates. This is nothing you can’t handle and no one you’ll shed any tears for, I can promise you that much.”

“Tomorrow night, then?” asked Flint.

Jackal grabbed his cigarettes and lighter before standing. “You got it, cowboy. I’ll see you then.”

Once Jackal left, the bartender returned to collect the money. He counted it with a grunt before depositing it in the register. “Cheap bastard didn’t leave a tip.”

“Not surprised,” said Flint.

“Friend of yours?”

“Don’t got any friends and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t count the Jackal among them.”

“Don’t mind me saying boss, but he seemed to have you a bit rattled.”

Flint locked eyes with the bartender. “I do mind you saying.”

“Sorry sir,” said the bartender, now staring intently at his own shoes. Without looking up, he added, “so what did he want to talk to you about?”

“Mickey, I pay you to pour drinks, not to ask questions.”

Mickey nodded. “Sorry for being curious. I’m a bartender, it’s in my nature.”

“And it’s in my nature to keep my business my own.”

“Right, sorry boss.”

Flint glanced over his shoulder at the two regulars who remained. “Get them up.”

“Want me to call them a cab?” asked Mickey.

“For all I care, you can leave them on the sidewalk. Just don’t want them in my place after hours.”

“Got it.”

“Good,” said Flint. He downed the rest of the whiskey and set the empty glass on the counter. “Lock up on your way out, I’m going upstairs to get some shut-eye.”

“Have a good night, boss.”

Flint set his hands on the counter and pushed up to get off the stool. As he moved towards a door at the back of the tavern, he muttered under his breath.

“The hell’s so good about it, huh?”

He ascended the staircase to the single room apartment above the bar. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt. Flint caught sight of his naked chest in the mirror, running his calloused fingertips along the lines of his torso. Tracing the scars that stood there from battles long over. Each one had a story to tell and each story Flint wished he could forget. He looked into the eyes of the man who stared back at him in the mirror. His skin was creased from age and his formerly jet-black hair was thinning at the top and lightening at the temples. Even the stubble on his face had gone from black to gray and his dark brown eyes looked tired.

He sighed and opened the door to the closet. Flint reached for the shelf above the hanging clothes and pulled out a large, black case.

Inside sat an old shotgun and two long-barrel revolvers. Custom-made but with a look that resembled the old Colt Peacemaker. Flint removed one of them and opened the chamber, staring at each empty hole.

“We may be too old for this life, girl. But something tells me we’re going in for one last ride. And I’m bettin’ it’ll be the one that finally does us in.”

San Francisco. Right in the heart of Silicon Valley.

Dalton Moore, a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a black tuxedo walked through the lobby of Loerke Technologies. The lobby was packed with guests, all dressed to the nines and mingling about, gorging themselves on the free food and open bar. Most were at the party to celebrate Loerke’s sky-rocketing emergence into the technology market, with ideas and plans that promised to make a lot of waves—and that worried some very powerful people.

Dalton moved through the crowd, speaking to some of the guests and joining in with idle chit-chat as he sipped champagne. His steel eyes looked through the lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses, and a voice crackled in his ear.

“Okay, looks like we’ve got visual.” The voice belonged to Baxter, a top-of-the-line hacker and Dalton’s partner and technical support.

Dalton gave no response, just continued talking with a group of young professionals. He smiled and laughed at their jokes, but really paid very little attention to what they said. Instead, his eyes were focused on another group on the other side of the room.

“Right there. See that bald guy with the beard? That’s Malcolm Loerke,” said Baxter. “Now see the woman by his side?”

Dalton did. Early forties, wearing glasses and had burgundy hair that fell over her shoulders.

“Excuse me,” said Dalton to his conversation partners. He turned away from them. “What about her?”

“That’s Gabrielle Russell, Loerke’s executive assistant,” said Baxter. “You need access to Loerke’s office and she seems like the easiest way to get it.”

“Sure about that?” Dalton emptied his glass and set it on one of the many small, standing tables set up around the room. He watched as Loerke and another guest excused themselves, leaving Gabrielle Russell alone.

“Well, you could always try seducing Loerke himself…”

“Not my type.” Dalton stepped from the table, walking over to a passing waiter who carried a tray of freshly-filled champagne glasses. Dalton smiled at the waiter.

“Pardon me.” He took two glasses and began his approach. His target didn’t even look at him, just watched the crowd. Dalton sidled up beside her. “You look like you could use a refill.”

She jumped at the sudden appearance, then relaxed and grinned. “I’m sorry, you startled me.”

“My apologies.” Dalton held out one of the glasses. “Join me?”

She glanced down at the drink, apparently considering it for a moment before she accepted the offer. “Thank you.”

“Kenneth Pyne,” said Dalton, now extending his hand.

“Gabrielle Russell.” They shook. “So, Mr. Pyne—”

“Please, call me Ken,” said Dalton.

She placed a hand on her chest. “Gaby.” Her gaze lingered on his eyes and finally she said, “That’s a wonderful accent. England?”

Dalton nodded. “London, as a matter of fact. And you?”

“Philadelphia. We’re not known for our sophisticated accents.”

“But you more than make up for it with your cream cheese and steak sandwiches.”

Gaby snickered. “I suppose we do.” She held up her glass. “Cheers.”

“Indeed.” Dalton clinked the side of his glass against hers and they both drank.

“What brings you all the way from London?” asked Gaby.

“I’m an investor, actually.”

“Oh?” Gaby raised her eyebrows. “I hope you’re impressed by what you’ve seen so far.”

Dalton sipped his drink, keeping his eyes locked on Gaby. When he lowered his glass, he had a small smile playing on his lips. “Quite.”

* * *

The second Gaby led Dalton into the darkened conference room, she shut the door immediately and pinned him against it, their lips entangled and hands running freely over each other’s bodies. She broke the kiss just long enough to say, “I’ve never done anything like this!”

“Me neither,” said Dalton before resuming the kiss.

Gaby pulled open his jacket and her hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, while Dalton tugged at the zipper on the back of her long, red dress. He pushed her from the door, laying her down on the conference table. Gaby left her handbag on the table and her hands went inside his shirt, rubbing the hair on his bare chest and wrapping her legs around his waist. Dalton’s hands moved over her torso and her breasts, kissing and biting at her neck. Gaby shut her eyes and soft moans escaped her lips.

A piercing ring interrupted their tryst. Gaby froze and cast him a questioning glance. Dalton sighed and reached inside his jacket, taking out a smartphone. Gaby could see the name on the backlit display read MELISSA.

“Who’s that?” she asked, unlocking her legs from his waist.

“Hold that thought.” Dalton answered the phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Bax, just listen. We’ve got to get moving on this, okay? Our window might be closing.”

“I understand,” said Dalton, trying to avoid Gaby’s inquisitive stare.

“Good, now I want you to say you’ll be home soon,” said Baxter.

“I’ll be home soon,” said Dalton.

“Nice. Now say you love me, too.”

“I…” Dalton rubbed his eyes and mumbled, “I love you, too.”

Baxter’s laughing prompted Dalton to end the call. Gaby slid onto her feet and straightened her dress, her eyes closed tightly as she did.

“Wife or girlfriend?” she asked.

“Gaby, I—”

“Don’t.” She turned and faced him, hurt evident on her face. “Just…don’t.”

Dalton sighed. Gaby zipped up her dress, picked up her handbag from the table and opened the door. “I should probably get back to Mr. Loerke. Enjoy the party, Mr. Pyne.”

Dalton said nothing, just stood in the room. The door closed, leaving him in the darkness once again. He buttoned his shirt back up and straightened his tie when he heard laughter in his ear.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“Ohhh…you have no idea,” said Baxter.

“Kindly tell me the reason behind that little stunt.”

“Hey, you’re still on the clock, Romeo, and you needed a reason to get outta there.”

“And what if I hadn’t made the pull?”

“Then you’re getting slow in your old age.” Baxter paused and then added, “You did get it, didn’t you?”

Dalton reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a keycard with Gaby’s picture on it, the same card he’d taken from her handbag while he was kissing her. “What do you think?”

“That’s my guy. So let’s get on with this, huh?”

Dalton palmed the keycard and left the conference room. Down the left end of the corridor would take him back to the party, but right would lead to the elevators. He smoothed down his hair and turned right, pressing the call button on the wall. An elevator arrived instantly and he hit the button for the top floor.

Once he reached his stop, Dalton walked through the hall, reading the nameplates on the office doors. He stopped when he came to a corner office with the name M. LOERKE on the plate. Dalton held the keycard up to the door’s sensor and the light flashed green. With his handkerchief, Dalton turned the handle and entered the room. A desk sat in the outer office as well as a couch. On the desk was a nameplate reading GABRIELLE RUSSELL. Behind Gaby’s desk were a pair of doors without a lock. Dalton entered Loerke’s office and moved behind the desk, turning on the computer. A login screen appeared.

“Are you ready?”

“Yup, plug an’ play, baby,” said Baxter.

Dalton took a small black plastic case from his jacket’s outer pocket. Inside were two small USB drives. Dalton took one and plugged it into an open port. A small blue light began flashing.

“Let me work my magic,” said Baxter.

Dalton could hear keys clacking over the earpiece. After a few seconds, the login and password fields filled in on their own and the screen changed to reveal Loerke’s desktop. A window flashed on the screen, reading HARD DRIVE UPLOAD IN PROGRESS with an empty bar and 0% under it.

“Hurry it up, Bax.”

“Don’t rush me, man. There’s a lot of stuff on here. Just think about how much money we’re making off this job.”

The progress bar slowly filled. As Dalton waited, he sat in Loerke’s chair, leaning back.

* * *

Malcolm Loerke had been speaking with a group of people when he was approached by a tall, dark-skinned man in a suit. He towered over Loerke by a good foot or so and bent down to whisper in his ear. Loerke tried to hide the change in his expression by offering a smile to the people who had been hanging on his every word.

“Could you all excuse me for a minute?” he said before turning away and following the taller man to an area where they could speak just out of earshot. Still, they kept their voices low.

“Sir, we’ve received an alert.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Loerke.

“There seems to be a breach of protocol. An unauthorized transfer off-site.”

Loerke looked up at his chief of security, raising an eyebrow. “From where?”

The chief hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat before saying, “Your office, sir.”

“Take a security team up through the stairwell. Don’t alert anyone that there’s something going on,” said Loerke.

“Yes, sir.” The chief of security turned away, raising his wrist to his mouth, speaking commands in a whisper.

* * *

Once the upload finished, the computer’s speakers emitted a quick alert sound. Dalton looked at the screen and saw UPLOAD COMPLETE. He unplugged the USB drive and put it back in the case. Then he took the second drive, but hesitated, holding the connector hovering over the port.

“Are we sure about this?” he asked.

“Part of the job, buddy.”

Dalton nodded and plugged the drive in. Another window appeared on the screen, this one reading INITIATE UPLOAD? Dalton hit the OK button and watched as another progress bar appeared.

The door opened without warning and Dalton looked up from the monitor. He saw two men in suits raise their silenced guns. Dalton immediately dropped to the floor and slid under the desk as they opened fire.

“Got a bit of a situation here, Bax!” said Dalton.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“Seems Loerke’s security found me in something of a compromising situation.” A string of expletives exploded through Dalton’s earpiece. He waited for Baxter to quiet down and then added, “Are you quite through?”

“Get the hell outta there now, Dalton!”

The two guards stopped firing, but kept their guns ready as they slowly approached the desk. One of them moved a step or two ahead of the other, holding out his gun as he circled around the desk.

Dalton grabbed the man’s forearms and the gun went off, firing a shot into the hardwood floor. Dalton swung his leg out, dropping his enemy to the floor and twisting the gun away from him, tossing it aside.

“Hey!” The second guard came around the other side of the desk and Dalton rolled across the floor to avoid the bullets. He sprung to his feet and lunged at the chair, delivering a swift kick. The chair’s wheels took it across the floor and into the guard.

Dalton charged towards the chair, slamming the guard between it and the wall. The thief grabbed the guard’s neck and delivered a few swift punches until he fell unconscious. Dalton picked up the discarded weapon by the barrel and approached the first guard, who started to rise. With a quick motion, Dalton slammed the butt against the man’s head, knocking him down. He looked at the gun and tossed it into Loerke’s wastebasket. Dalton went to the computer and, once he saw UPLOAD COMPLETE on the screen, removed the USB drive.

He knew the likelihood of more guards being outside was high. Dalton pressed his back to the wall, holding the door in front of him. He slowly pushed it forward, staying behind it and peering around the edge. Another guard was in Gaby’s office and as soon as he caught sight of the target, he squeezed off a few shots. Dalton ducked behind the door and the bullets slammed futilely into its surface.

Dalton reached inside his suit coat for the shoulder-holster hidden beneath. He drew a gun quite a bit different from the ones wielded by security. Dalton swung around the door and pulled the trigger, firing a small dart that struck the guard’s neck. The guard seized up then dropped to his knees before falling unconscious.

Dalton took that man’s gun as well and exited into the corridor. Coming down from one corridor were several additional guards and they started shooting. Dalton ducked and ran down the opposite corridor.

“Bax, I need extraction fast!” he shouted into the comm. Dalton charged into the stairwell, but heard the sound of footsteps racing up the steps. “Dammit! Get Colin up there now!”

There was one flight of stairs leading to the roof and Dalton bounded up them. The only door had ROOF ACCESS stamped on its surface and he ran through it.

Dalton ran out onto the roof, the lights of the San Francisco skyline blinking against the darkness of the night. He reached the edge when he heard the door slam open and then the words, “Don’t move!”

He hesitated but slowly raised his arms.

“Turn around!”

Dalton followed the order and slowly turned, facing the chief of security and about a dozen other guards in suits. The chief walked towards him, keeping his gun raised. Dalton just smiled at him.

“I don’t suppose we could talk this out like gentlemen, eh?”

“Should’ve thought of that before you broke into our system,” said the chief. “What’s your purpose here?”

“What, and spoil the surprise? Where’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Pity.”

Both Dalton and the chief could hear a sound in the night. A thwp-thwp-thwp that seemed to cause the chief to pause, while Dalton’s grin widened. “Dreadfully sorry, mate, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take a raincheck on our little chat.”

The chief was stunned into silence when a small helicopter rose up above the roof, hovering there. Dalton swung out a fist and struck the chief, not enough force to knock him down, but definitely enough to distract him just long enough. Dalton turned and planted a foot on the ledge, springing up just high enough to grab hold of the helicopter’s landing skids.

The guards fired at Dalton and the departing helicopter, but they struck nothing as it flew off into the distance.

The bass pounded in the Moscow nightclub. The entire establishment was bathed in darkness, with neon lights flashing over the young crowd as they gyrated to the DJ’s sounds. The club’s second floor wrapped around the edges, allowing those above to watch the people on the dance floor below. A few cages hung suspended from the ceiling with scantily clad dancers inside. One woman pushed through the crowd, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and a leather jacket.

She went to the bar and leaned over the counter, brushing the blond hair behind her ear. The bartender leaned forward, turning his head so he could hear her over the music. She ordered a drink and whispered something to him. Discretely, she slid several rubles across the counter and he claimed them with the same discretion as he placed her drink in front of her.

The woman turned her back to the bartender and sipped the gin and tonic as her eyes scanned across the club. She looked up, focusing on the balcony and the VIP seating area. Her blue eyes noted the man who sat in the balcony, looking over the edge at the dancers below. He was too old to be in a place like this, easily in his fifties with a thick, dark mustache. But the women who were more than half his age, wearing next to nothing and draping themselves over his body didn’t seem to mind.

She took the drink and walked up the steps. There were three men in suits who stood between her and the roped-off VIP booth and they blocked her path as she approached, shaking their heads. They were big and from the tattoos she could see on their wrists, part of the Russian mob. Just like her target.

“What do you want?” one of the guards asked in Russian.

“I’m here to speak to Mr. Brezhnev,” she said. Though her Russian was good, there was no mistaking that the accent was American.

“Mr. Brezhnev is busy.” He looked her over from top to bottom, a lecherous smile forming on his lips. “Pretty girl. Maybe if you show a little more skin, he’ll be interested.”

“I’m sure he would.” She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. Then she added in English, “Tell him it’s about Carter Brennen.”

From the look on the face of the guards, they were more surprised by the name she dropped than the sudden switch to English. One of them stepped past the rope and the woman watched as he whispered something to Brezhnev. Something that clearly caught the mobster’s attention, because he sat upright and placed his cigar in the ashtray, waving off his arm candy.

The guards led the two young women away, who protested and shot the new arrival dirty looks. The blond just ignored them and walked past the rope when the guard removed it for her. She sat in a chair across from Brezhnev and kept her eyes locked on him.

Brezhnev reached for a whiskey on the table and drank it slowly as he in turn watched his new companion. “American, yes?” He spoke English almost perfectly.

She gave a nod. “Once upon a time, anyway.”

“You said this is about Carter Brennen,” said Brezhnev. “Why would a pretty thing like you be interested in a man like that?”

“Because Brennen killed my husband.”

Brezhnev chuckled. “I’m sure he’s killed many husbands. Wives, too.” He leaned back and draped one arm along the back of the small couch. “Why come to me?”

She crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap. “Brennen is an arms dealer. And I’ve been told no one moves any merchandise in Moscow without Nikolai Brezhnev’s knowledge.”

Brezhnev’s smile grew wider. “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear.”

“All I want is a location. I know he’s in Russia and I know you’re the man to help me.”

He scratched under his chin and shrugged. “Maybe I know where he is. Maybe I don’t.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Nikolai.”

“Shall we examine the facts?” Brezhnev reached for his cigar and took a few puffs on the end. “Let’s say I did know where you could find Brennen. You were quite correct when you said nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. So if Brennen were conducting business in Moscow, that means not only would I be aware of it, but that I allowed it. And as I’m sure you’re well aware, Brennen does very well for himself.”

Brezhnev reached for the cigar case and offered it to his unnamed guest. She held up her hand in a refusal.

“What’s your point?” she asked.

“My point is I know Carter. He may be a…how you say…little shit. But he’s a profitable little shit. And you? I don’t know why it serves my interests to help you. I don’t know who you’re working for. I don’t even know your name.”

“You’re right. Then let me tell you.” She cleared her throat. “I work for myself, no one else. Like I told you, Brennen killed my husband. So I’m going to kill him. This is completely personal. And if you help me…” She looked out the corner of her eye at the guards who were now looking over their shoulders at her. “…I’ll let you and your men walk out of this club with your vital organs still intact.”

Brezhnev laughed at this and reached for his drink. He held up the glass to her in a toast. “I like you, my American friend. You have spunk. And what is your name?”

“Angela Lockhart.”

Brezhnev sipped his drink and shook his head. “Impossible. Angela Lockhart is dead.”

“No.” She smiled. “Not yet.”

Angela reached for her crossed leg, pulling the small gun free from her ankle holster. She aimed the gun at Brezhnev and opened fire, hitting him in the shoulder. The guards reached beneath their jackets and drew handguns, pouring bullets into the VIP booth.

Angela jumped behind her chair, using it for protection. As soon as she found an opening, she jumped from the balcony and caught onto one of the cages. The dancer inside screamed and cowered as Angela’s momentum sent them swinging.

Once she came close enough to the other cage, Angela jumped and caught onto those bars. She turned to look back where she had come from and Brezhnev’s guards were reloading their weapons, trying to aim at her.

Angela swung against the cage, the new dancer also screaming. When she got close enough, she jumped and flew across the gap, soaring into another VIP booth. She landed hard on the glass table and it shattered under her weight, covering her in alcohol and cigarette ash.

Shocked expressions and curses in Russian filled the booth. Angela ignored them and stood. Once they saw her gun, their curses turned to screams and they ran. Angela stepped over the rope and stuck her back to the wall, moving carefully along it and trying to see her pursuers.

A small opening led to the men’s and women’s bathrooms. Angela ducked inside and walked into the women’s bathroom, holding her gun under her jacket as she passed the girls who stood in front of the sinks, examining themselves in the mirror. She got into one of the stalls and climbed onto the toilet seat, crouching and holding the gun aimed at the door.

There were shocked gasps and then she heard male voices ordering the women out. Angela took a deep breath. This could have gone better. She looked down at the ground and saw one of the guard’s feet approach the stall door. He stood in front and gripped the door from the top, pulling on it. It wouldn’t budge.

Angela aimed at his fingers and pulled the trigger. His digits were reduced to stains and he screamed, pulling what was left of his hand from the door. She fired two more times through the door and saw him slump down through the gap at the bottom.

“Karl!” she heard his partner scream. Before he could fire at the stall, Angela kicked the door open and used it as a shield. She tossed her gun out onto the ground and then grabbed Karl’s handgun now that he wouldn’t need it.

The spray of bullets took down Karl’s partner and Angela took his gun. She went to the exit and stood against the wall. The door opened and Angela raised the weapons.

A scream was her response.

Angela sighed, looking into the face of a young brunette whose cry was loud enough to break glass.

“Out of order!” barked the former assassin.

The girl nodded quickly and ran. Angela stepped back out into the club and looked around. It was still Brezhnev and one more man, assuming Brezhnev hadn’t managed to escape yet.

The club was still jumping. The bass was loud enough to drown out the sound of the gunfire and not even Angela’s stunt jumping from the cages was enough to cause a stir. She stuffed the guns beneath her jacket as she tried to move through the crowd, when she noticed the group of people whose VIP booth she’d disturbed. They were talking to the club’s security, two large men in suits who walked towards her.

Angela didn’t want to hurt innocent bystanders. They had nothing to do with Brezhnev, they were just trying to keep the peace. But she also couldn’t risk being taken away.

“I have to ask you to leave, miss,” said the bouncer in Russian once he approached her.

Angela gave a nod and then swung her arm in an arc. She held the gun by the barrel and hit the bouncer across the face with the butt. The unexpected blow threw him to the side and he almost stumbled. She kicked him in the chest and he stumbled back into the second bouncer. Angela aimed both guns at them and they held up their arms.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” she said in Russian. “Go downstairs. Now.”

The men did as they were told, moving to the staircase and quickly descending. Angela turned away, ignoring the stares from the clubbers who watched her in shock. She walked around the length of the balcony area, making her way back to Brezhnev’s booth.

But when she got there, she saw he was gone. The cigar still sat in the tray. Angela looked closer at it and saw that it was smoldering. He couldn’t have been gone long. With the other two chasing her, the third must have tried to sneak him away.

The second floor had a large bay window that looked out over Moscow. Angela ran over to it and looked outside. It was positioned right over the front entrance of the club and she saw the taxis slowly moving away to make room for a limousine that pulled up to the front.

Two men ran from the front entrance, one of them holding the other low and a gun in his hand. It was the final guard, leading Brezhnev to his escape route.

Angela stepped back and ran at the window. She shot the glass and jumped, crossing her arms in front of her head as she plunged through the window, going into free-fall and landing right on the roof of the limousine.

The car sped off and Angela slipped, falling onto the trunk. She released one of the guns so she could grab onto the antenna on the trunk and hold on tight. Her legs fell over the edge and the soles of her boots scraped against the pavement, but she quickly pulled herself up and climbed onto the trunk.

Angela aimed her only remaining gun at the rear window and pulled the trigger. The glass was bulletproof, but it did spook the driver and he swerved, nearly throwing her off.

She held on tight and the driver swerved again, intentionally this time. She managed to keep her grip and then she saw the moonroof open. The guard stuck his head out and pulled something with him, aiming a pump-action shotgun right at Angela.

Just as he fired, Angela moved to the other side of the trunk, her feet resting perilously on the bumper. He pulled the handgrip to chamber a fresh round and in that short time it took, Angela was able to fire off a shot from her gun that forced him to duck to avoid getting hit.

Angela scrambled up the trunk and fired again, this time hitting him in the head. He fell back into the limousine and she heard Brezhnev curse in Russian. She dropped in through the moonroof and landed in the seat beside Brezhnev, her gun pointed at him.

Brezhnev pressed his body against the door. He made a move for the dropped shotgun, but Angela fired at it and he quickly pulled his hand back to avoid taking a bullet in it. Angela stuck her leg out and slid the shotgun over to her side of the limousine, keeping her handgun fixed on Brezhnev.

“Tell your driver to stop the car,” she said. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”

I unscrew the cap from the bottle of Jack Daniels and take a nice, hearty gulp. It burns goin’ down, but I don't mind much. Never do, really. I learned a long time ago that the old sayin’ “no pain no gain” really does hold water. Especially with the way my life's been.

I turn around on the stool my ass rests on and glance about the remains of this once “fine establishment.” Although “shithole” would probably be a more accurate term to describe it. It was quiet as a mouse, and not a creature was stirrin’—or breathin’ for that matter.

Settin’ down the bottle on the counter, I pull out a cigar from my tattered leather jacket. Bastards shot me up real good, filled it with holes. That's not why I killed ‘em, but it sure as shit didn't score any points in my favor. I take out a cigar cutter, and used it to cut off the end of the stogie. I pull out a wood match and spark it off my chin, holding the flame over the end of the cigar. I puff several times to get it goin’.

Bodies are scattered around the bar. About a dozen or so. The walls painted red with blood. I’m covered with it myself, but I don't care. You'd be surprised how easily it washes off your hands when you've been doin’ this for as long as I have.

This ain't the kinda thing I'm supposed to be doin’ these days. Usually, what prevents me from killin’ is a pacifist creed that I don't fully subscribe to. I do my best, I try, really, I do. But sometimes, there are some folks you run across who just have it comin'. My old instructors never really grasped that, and I admire that kinda idealism. It's just not in my nature, though. Or at least it ain't no more.

I hold the cigar between two fingers while I tip back the bottle. The rest of the bourbon flowed down my throat. A whole fifth of Jack and I didn't even have a buzz goin'.

Typical.

I set the bottle back down on the counter and contemplate grabbing another. I'm sure the bartender had another one somewhere. If not, there’s a selection of other brands I could choose from. I spied a fifth of Jim Beam-not as smooth as the Jack, but what do I care?

With the cigar gripped between my teeth, I hop over the counter and take the Beam. It'd be nice to have somethin' for the road. Now I don't condone drunk drivin', but then again, I'm not one t' get drunk all that easily. Two fifths of whiskey and I mightmightbe at the legal limit. I hold the bottle in my hands. Stepping over the bartender's lifeless body. Once I get to the door, I take another look around the bar.

Guess this is how it always ends.

Your name is Brenda McKenzie. You work double-shifts at Winkie's Diner, and you have been doing this for quite some time. Your entire life took a turn for the worse when you became pregnant at the age of sixteen. Now, you are thirty-two years old and working hard trying to support yourself as well as your sixteen-year-old daughter.

The bell rings, indicating that someone has just entered. You look over and see him take a seat towards the back corner of the diner. He might be just shy of six feet tall. He’s wearing a pair of weathered jeans, a beat-up leather jacket and a button-down shirt in need of some bleach. His face is rough with a permanent five o’clock shadow and his dark hair is a bit straggly, hanging in his face. You walk over to his table as you would normally approach any customer.

“Good morning,” you say with that bit of cheerful gusto you've perfected over the years of waitressing.

“Coffee. Black.”

His voice is gruff, like brick scraping against brick. He doesn't even look up at you, his eyes obscured by those unkempt strands of hair. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cigar. Striking a wooden match against the table, he lights it and begins to puff.

“Anything else?”

He pulls the cigar from his mouth and glances up at you. His dark brown eyes catch your green ones and you feel a mixture of fear and excitement race through your body.

“Just coffee.”

“Sure, comin’ right up.”

You slide the order pad and pen into the pocket on your apron and make your way behind the counter. As you pour the coffee, you can’t help but feel your eyes drawn back to him. There's a... calm about him, but it doesn't seem natural. It seems forced, as if he's holding back. He pays you no mind, but you sense he can feel your eyes on him. Instead, he just puffs on his cigar and looks out the window of the diner. You bring the coffee to him and set it down in front of him.

“You sure you don't want anything else?”

“Keep it comin’,” is the reply.

“No breakfast?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s the most important meal of the da—“

His sideways glance up at you kills your sentence before the final word leaves your mouth. You take the hint and leave him to his thoughts. You move through the restaurant and collect the bill from the customer who just left. After putting the money in the register, you take your tip and slide it into your apron.

While waiting for either the strange man to finish his coffee or someone else to walk in, your thoughts begin to drift. You think of your daughter and the fights the two of you have been having as of late. Her grades have been falling and she has been spending too much time with her new boyfriend. She's making mistakes, some of the same ones you made when you were her age, and you want to spare her from that kind of life. You want her to go to college, to make something of herself.

The clang of the doorbell brings you out of your thoughts and through the glass, you see the man leaving. You walk over to the table. The remains of the cigar smolder in the ashtray, the cup is drained and a five-dollar bill rests on the table. The coffee was only a buck fifty.

“How's that for a nice way to start the day?”

* * *

You take a deep breath as you press down on the plunger. Slowly, the liquid flows through the needle into your body. You feel your whole body relax as the blood of the gods flows through your veins. Your heart rate slows and your pupils constrict as a river flows through you. You find yourself overcome by a wave of euphoria.

With a sigh, you fall limp into his arms. It is here that you feel safe. It is here that you wish you could never leave from. You glance up at him and see his head tilted back, resting against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. You curl up into a little ball beside him on the bed.

Ryan.

He's what pop songs call your everything. You lay your head on his bare chest and his hand begins to absently stroke your jet-black hair. You think to yourself, this is what Heaven must be like. Heaven is an eternity of laying beside the man you love in a perfect, drug-induced high.

The sound of a door opening suddenly jolts you out of your stupor. You feel Ryan move and you look up at him to see him putting out the cigarette in the ashtray beside your bed.

"Alyssa, I'm home."

No... not so soon... not now...

Ryan is already acting on this and takes the needle from you. He quickly moves off the bed and begins digging through the clothes on the floor. Each footstep upon the hardwood floors is a harbinger of the eventual confrontation you know is coming. You want to avoid it if possible, but you know there is no getting away from it.

The footsteps stop and the door opens. The light from the hallway frames the body of your mother, Brenda McKenzie. She sees the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray, she sees Ryan pulling his pants on and she sees her sixteen-year-old daughter laying naked beneath the sheets.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"...I was just leaving," says Ryan. He buttons his jeans and grabs his shirt from the floor. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor as he moves past Brenda and out of the room. A gap of a few moments and then you hear the door open and close. Brenda hits the light switch, and you cover your eyes to shield them from the sudden intrusion of brightness.

"You're home early..." you mutter. Brenda walks over to the nightstand and picks up the smoldering cigarette.

"You're smoking now?"

"No, it was Ryan’s."

"And that makes it okay?"

"I was jus' answerin' you..."

"And I see you guys are sleeping together now."

"I love him..."

"You've only been seeing him for a month!"

"So?"

She doesn't understand, you think. How could she understand? She doesn't know what it's like to be young and in love. She doesn't understand that love can strike at any time, at any age. It doesn't matter if you're only sixteen and Ryan’s nineteen. It doesn't matter that you've only been seeing him for a month.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'..."

"Look at me."

"I'm fine."

Brenda looks down and you know she's staring at the marks on your arm. You know she sees the tourniquet. It's all too much for you, you just want Ryan back. You just want to lie beside him again.

"You're not fine. You think I don't see what's going on?"

"So?"

"Don't you have anything more to say for yourself?"

"I'm jus' tryin' t' have a good time, that's all."

"A good time equals shooting up?"

"You don't unnerstand..."

"I understand more than you think," she says. You can hear her sigh, but you're not even looking at her anymore. You just lay your head down on the bed and close your eyes, hoping for her to leave soon. "I work around the clock to support you and this is the thanks I get?"

"Jus' leave me be."

"Fine," she says. "I can’t talk to you when you're like this anyway. We're going to discuss this in the morning. And tomorrow, we're going to do something about that boyfriend of your’s. I don't want you dating no junkies."

"He's not a junkie!"

"Goodnight, Alyssa."

The light mercifully goes off and the door slams. You roll over in bed, tossing and turning. Then it comes.

tap

tap

tap

Very light, you have to strain to hear it. But it's there. Tap, tap, tap. You sit up in bed and clutch the sheet close to your chest. You move towards the window and through the glass, you can see him standing outside on the lawn. He motions for you to come down.

You move over to your door and peek outside it. The light in your mother's room has just turned off. You move back to the window and signal for him to wait one minute. You drop the sheet and pull on a pair of pants and a t-shirt. You slowly step outside your room, checking again to see that the light is off. Carefully, you sneak towards the front door. Each movement you make is slow and methodical, yet it still sounds as if you are making enough noise to wake the dead.

Once the door to the apartment you share with your mother is closed, you run down the stairs and out the lobby entrance. Ryan is waiting there for you and you jump into his arms. His mouth finds yours and the kiss you two share fills you with a renewed sense of energy and hope.

"She wants me to stop seeing you."

"I won't let that happen," he says. "I want you to come away with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your body against his. It's like something out of a fairy tale-your prince charming has come to take you away from your old life.

So romantic.

* * *

One month.

That's how long it's been since your daughter went missing. The morning after the two of you had your fight, you saw she was gone and you called the police and filed a missing persons report. You told them about her boyfriend, Ryan. They said they would look into it.

You've been calling the police station every day over the past month, but still no response from them. The detective assigned to the case has stopped returning your calls. If only you had the money to afford a private investigator, but that's not an option.

You cry yourself to sleep every night. Whenever the phone rings, you pray to hear Alyssa's voice on the other end. Whenever you hear a creak in the apartment, you run to see if she's come home. But she never calls, she never comes home. No letters, either.

You've lost her and you feel responsible for driving her off.

Every morning, your eyes are red from the crying. Your boss has sympathized so far with your situation, but you fear that he's going to follow you. You've been making mistakes you don't usually make.

The bell rings.

He walks in and sits in his usual booth. Ever since the first time you saw him, he's been in here at least once or twice a week. He just sits there, smokes his cigar and drinks his coffee. Always pays with a five-dollar bill. Occasionally, he'll order a slice of pie or a plate of bacon or sausage.

You walk over to him with your notepad.

"Let me guess, black coffee, right?"

"That's right," he replies in that gruff voice.

"Sure, comin' right up."

Twenty minutes later and you've refilled his cup twice. He's still sitting there, puffing on that big, fat stogie. He stares out the window of the diner, seemingly oblivious to everything in the world around him. You walk back over to him and set the check down on the table.

"Just pay whenever you're ready," you tell him. "Holler if you want a refill."

You turn to walk away, but suddenly he grabs your wrist.

"Wait."

Your body is paralyzed with fear. You don't know what to do next. His hands are even rougher than his voice. Chapped, calloused skin. He looks up at you with those intense, dark eyes. You breathe deep, unsure of what to do. Slowly, you look down at him and clear your throat.

"D-did you want to order somethin' else?"

He releases your hand and leans back in the booth. The tip of his cigar glows and he pulls it free from his lips. The smoke slowly curls out in a seemingly endless stream from his mouth. With the cigar in hand, he motions to the other side of the booth.

"Sit."

"I... I can’t, I've got work t-"

"Why've you been cryin'?"

"What?"

"After the first time I came in here, every time I see you, it looks like you've been cryin'."

"Oh no, it's nothing, I just..."

"Just answer the question."

His bluntness borders on insulting, and you're not quite sure how to react to it at first. Part of you says to tell him that it's nothing that concerns him, that he should just mind his own business. But despite that, you find yourself telling him the entire story of Alyssa and her boyfriend. You tell him about the last time you saw her, you tell him about how she went missing. You tell him about the police and how they haven't helped at all. You tell this scary-looking stranger your entire life story and you don't even know why.

"What's this boy's name?"

"Ryan," you say. "Ryan... Cunningham I think?"

He nods and puts out his cigar in the ashtray. He stands from the table and sets a ten-dollar bill down this time. You look at it in confusion and then back at him. He can see the confusion on your face and it makes him smile.

“Wh-what are you gonna do?” you ask.

"I'm gonna find your daughter."

The confusion turns to shock and for a moment, you feel like you're living in a dream state. You wonder if this is real or if you're just imagining it all. You open your mouth, but no sound comes forth. Even if it did, do you even know what you were going to say? He walks away from the table, and once he opens the door, you suddenly find your voice again.

"Wait, what's your name?"

He looks back at you and replies with, “It’s Riker. Riker Stone.”

World War III broke out in the year 2012.

No one knows exactly who or what launched the war. Records from this period are sketchy at best, without any sort of true indictment. Historians are torn on what the true cause of the war was. Some suspect it began in the early twenty-first century with the involvement of the United States of America in the Middle East. Others suspect the Chinese, who had been consolidating their power through the use of globalization over the years preceding the war, caused it. Still others hold the conflict between Israel and Palestine was the root, or India and Pakistan. Suspicions of ties in terrorism have also run rampant, with Saudi Arabia taking some of the blame as well. And a small percentage holds the European Union as the central aggressor.

What is known about the war is that nuclear weapons were used. Oil reserves were opened up to support the war effort, and some of them were even torched in an effort of further sabotage and defeat. The war lasted twenty years.

The Dark Ages known from history reclaimed the next century or so. Without any alternative energy sources, the world was forced to regress back to the era of steam-powered technology.

Now, one hundred years later, the true threat to humanity will make its presence known in this brave new world. A threat that has remained dormant for eons, but has secretly waged its own war throughout the ages.

The airship Persephone departed from the city of Mercury early that morning, commencing the twelve-hour flight to Serenity. Air travel was the quickest means of transport across the globe, but also a privilege reserved for the wealthy. Dignitaries, captains of industry, and high-ranking military officers were usually the only ones who could afford to travel in such luxury and extravagance.

Jameson Pierce was one such dignitary, a man fortunate enough to be born into a family of exceptional wealth. The young, blond man stood on the ship’s deck with a drink in hand. The ice clinked in his glass as he leaned over the railing, watching as land and sea rapidly passed beneath the ship in a blur of green and blue. While one hand cradled the drink, the fingers of the other wrapped about the globe-like handle of his cane.

“There you are!” The voice belonged to Katherine, a woman of nineteen, and like Jameson, born into privilege. She was also shallow as a puddle and continually tried his patience. “My dear Jameson, one might think you were trying to avoid me.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth, my dear,” said Jameson. “I just thought a bit of fresh air would be nice.”

Katherine came close to him and turned, pushing her back against his chest. She took hold of the arm which held the cane and wrapped it around her waist. “Why would you want fresh air when there is such a magnificent party occurring inside?” She pouted. “You’re becoming a dreadful bore in your old age, Lord Pierce.”

“Perhaps you’d be better suited with a younger man.”

“I’d prefer one who can keep up with me,” said Katherine. The tips of her fingers lightly danced up the frilled collar of his shirt. “Do you think you could?”

“I think...”

Jameson found the words die in his throat. He gently pushed Katherine away and went to the rail. His eyes spotted something in the distance, something closing in rapidly. Katherine, however, failed to notice.

Katherine was not pleased to find that her paramour’s attentions were no longer on her. “Jameson Pierce, how dare you—!”

“Quiet!” His jaw slackened as the object in the distance grew closer. Not to mention larger. “It’s a ship.”

The solar sails curved in the wind as the small ship came closer and closer to the deck of the Persephone. As it drew nearer, Jameson saw two figures standing on its deck: one man wearing a dark green cloak, and the other a woman in a tight shirt, loose pants, and a small-rimmed hat atop her head. The man rested his foot on the rail of his ship and when it came within a close enough range, he pushed off on that bent leg.

The cloaked man flipped in the air and landed soundlessly on the deck of the Persephone. He rose from a crouch and as he did, drew the sword sheathed at his side, pointing the tip of it in the direction of Jameson and Katherine. Katherine opened up her lips to scream, and that was when the woman from the other ship landed behind her and clasped a hand over her mouth.

“Ah-ah, don’t want to announce our presence too soon,” said the woman.

“Let her go,” said Jameson.

The woman smiled at him. Her hand went to her belt holster and drew out a boomerang. “It looks like we’ve got a strapping hero, Zarim.”

“Zarim,” said Jameson, taking in the young man. “Famed sky-pirate. You’re quite a legend.”

“Thanks,” said Zarim, still holding his sword up.

“Although to be honest, I thought you’d be taller.”

“He gets that a lot,” said the woman.

“Ekala, do you mind?” asked Zarim.

Ekala shrugged. “It’s true.”

Zarim turned his gaze back to Jameson. “And who exactly are you?”

Katherine jerked her head to one side. “He’s Jameson Pierce, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stand down now!”

Ekala clamped her hand over Katharine’s mouth again with a sigh. “Can we throw her over?”

“She can’t give us her money if she’s at the bottom of the ocean,” said Zarim.

“That’s why we take the money first,” said Ekala.

“If you harm the girl, you’ll have me to contend with,” said Jameson.

“Really?” asked Zarim.

Jameson flinched. Something in the pirate’s eyes. A green flash. But it couldn’t have been real. Just a trick of the light, had to be. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Everything you’ve got,” said Zarim. “And since you’re ‘Jameson Pierce’,” he mocked Katherine’s tone as he said the name, “I imagine you’ve got quite a lot on you.”

“I don’t have much,” said Jameson as he reached inside his coat. He drew out his pocketbook and dropped it on the deck. “Just that.”

Zarim bent down, never breaking eye contact with Jameson as he picked up the wallet. He slipped it beneath the folds of his cloak and it seemed to vanish in there. “Good, then how about we go below deck? See what the other passengers have on them?”

“You’ll find it difficult, there’s a party going on in the ballroom.”

Ekala smiled. “We do love a good party.” She pushed Katherine against Jameson. “Lead the way, rich boy.”

“As you wish,” said Jameson. He and Katherine went into the stairwell first, descending the circular stairs. Once they reached the platform, he led them into the main ballroom. A small band was present and the passengers were dancing and drinking to their heart’s content. Zarim kept his sword ready and, with his free hand, drew the pistol holstered at his side. Ekala held a boomerang in each of her hands. She leaned towards Zarim.

“You sure this is a good idea?” she asked in a low voice.

“You wanted some action, this is action,” said Zarim. He raised his gun and fired a shot. The music came to a stop and the guests were startled, turning to face the source of the loud noise. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! I apologize for interrupting your festivities, but I’m afraid I have to ask you for a donation to my favorite charity. Namely...me.

“My name is Zarim. I’m sure some of you have heard my name before. And this is my lovely associate, Ekala. The two of us are here to relieve you of the great burden which you call wealth. If you cooperate and give us what we want, we’ll be out of your hair very shortly. But if you cause us any problems...well...let’s just say our reputations speak for themselves.”

Jameson watched with rapt attention as Zarim and Ekala collected the wallets of the passengers. Something especially caught his eye—a symbol on Zarim’s belt buckle. It bore a rose with a drop of blood at the end. A strange thing for a pirate to wear and he committed the image to his memory.

“We won’t put up with this nonsense from a bloody pirate, “ came a voice from among the crowd of revelers in the ballroom.

Zarim’s ears perked up at the challenger. Jameson himself was curious, craning his neck to spot the fool. He saw an older man, dressed in a tuxedo and with a golden sash indicating his lordship. His right eye was magnified by a monocle and he stood straight, chin up in defiance. The crowd parted for Zarim, who calmly strode over and pressed the tip of his blade against the old man’s wrinkled neck.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, old timer. Did you just say you wanted to be made an example of?”

“Ruffians, that’s all you are,” spat the lord. “Deserve nothing less than the gallows.”

“Maybe you’d like to try the gallows firsthand, see how much you like them after?” asked Zarim.

“Zee, we don’t have time for this.” A buzzing came from a device hanging from Ekala’s side. She plucked it from her belt and raised it to her ear, listening through it.

Zarim slid his blade beneath the man’s sash and sliced it neatly, letting it fall to the ground. He stuck it with his sword and lifted it up, holding it up to its owner’s gaze. “I’ll enjoy using this as a grease rag.”

“Kill me if you must. At least I’ll have died with dignity.”

“That’s what you think, gramps. There’s no dignity in being thrown from an airship.”

“Zee! Just got radioed, looks like we’ve got company,” said Ekala, holding the transmitter to her ear.

Zarim looked out the bay window and saw another ship in the distance, closing in fast. It was smaller than the Persephone, but far more dangerous—at least in terms of who was aboard. Zarim cursed under his breath.

“That’s a Dreadnought scout ship. You have no hope of escape,” exclaimed the lord.

“Babe, you got the loot?” asked Zarim.

Ekala shook the sack she held in her hands. “Looks like a pretty decent score.”

“Good, then it’s time we take our leave.”

Ekala was first up the steps with Zarim following close behind. But before he ascended, he offered one last look and a grin to his former captives. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your generosity. Now I hope you’ll be sure to mention this little encounter to your friends and loved ones.” He bowed and then sprang up the steps.

Jameson ran up the steps as well, moving out to the upper deck. Zarim looked at him and smiled before jumping from the railing and flying through the air. At first glance, it seemed like he wouldn’t make it to his own ship, but then Jameson noticed the rope hanging from it. Zarim grabbed it effortlessly. He turned towards Jameson, one hand gripping the rope, and offered a smug salute.

The entire act couldn’t help but make Jameson grin. The pirates definitely had style, there was no denying that. He went below deck once more and already heard people discussing the events. Jameson rolled his eyes as he walked through the crowd.

“I’ve heard stories, but I never thought I would be a victim!”

“This is absolutely uncalled for! I’ll have words with my representative about this!”

“I thought the Dreadnoughts were cracking down on those awful pirates!”

“Did you hear what he called himself? That was the Zarim, captain of the Excalibur! Legend has it he’s some sort of a demon!”

Preposterous, thought Jameson. A demon, he had never heard something so ridiculous. Zarim and his companion were thieves, nothing more. Extremely skilled, brazen thieves, yes, but thieves no less. As he moved towards the bar, he heard sobs and he found Katherine huddled behind. When she caught sight of Jameson, she practically tackled him, wrapping her arms around his body.

“Oh Jameson, it was horrible! I’ve never feared for my life like that before!”

“They weren’t going to hurt you, Katherine. They just wanted the money,” said Jameson.

“Yes, but you’ve heard stories of this Zarim, haven’t you? How he sails to the forbidden lands! And he even employs hobgoblins and cavorts with the unholy ones!”

“You place too much stock in legends and folklore, my dear.”

* * *

“What the hell are y’ thinkin’, kid?” asked Swul as Zarim and Ekala entered the bridge of the Excalibur.

The stout faerie barely stood above three feet. He wore a dark green cap with a short brim, casting a shadow over his unnaturally blue eyes, which seemed to sparkle. A cigar sat clamped between his teeth, and his entire appearance seemed somewhat at odds with the gossamer wings that protruded from the slits in his gray shirt and embroidered vest, the color of which matched his cap and his pants.

Zarim cast the faerie a dazzling smile as he passed a raised platform which housed an ornate chair with a red cushion. A few feet in front of that, on a slightly lower level, was a large steering wheel and an instrument console.

“We need to make some waves.” Zarim took the wheel, turning the Excalibur a hundred and eighty degrees. He reached for the large throttle, a rod extending from a point near his feet and accelerated.

“Think we can outrun ‘em?” asked Ekala.

Zarim smiled as he patted the wheel with affection. “Not a ship on the planet that can outrun my baby.”

His eyes widened as the proximity alarm flashed on the console. “Don’t tell me that...”

“What?” asked Swul.

“That Dreadnought ship is closing in on us—and fast!” Zarim turned to Swul and Ekala. “You two, go man the cannons! Reduce that damn ship to scrap!”

“You an’ me are gonna have words later, Zarim,” said Swul.

“Not now, little man!” Ekala grabbed Swul by the back collar of his shirt and yanked him behind her. Swul nearly dropped his cigar, but caught it and broke from her grasp, his wings flapping and raising him above the ground. He flew after her, quickly overtaking her as they descended the steps past the middle deck and down to the lower one. At the ship’s aft were cannons and an intercom system. As the pair moved into the seats mounted to the two rear cannons, the Excalibur was struck by a shell from the Dreadnought ship, causing the two of them to rock as the ship quaked.

The intercom crackled to life with Zarim’s voice scratching through. “You two better hurry up before pieces start falling off my ship!”

“Don’t get yer panties in a bunch,” said Swul. The cannon was too high for his diminutive frame, so he had to stand on the seat to see over the edge. “You know I hate these damn things!”

The cannons had wide barrels with a rack attached to it that fed shells into the weapon. Swul maneuvered the cannon, lining up the sight with the Dreadnought attack ship, and fired. There was a momentary lapse as the cannon reloaded and he heard Ekala fire her cannon as well. Both their shells struck the Dreadnought, but failed to deter it and it increased its speed, firing two shells of its own.

The Excalibur slewed to the left and the sudden shift in momentum caused Swul to lose his balance. He hung onto the cannon’s handles as it swung to the side, but used his wings to redirect him back.

“The hell’d you learn how to fly?” shouted the stout faerie.

Zarim’s responding voice crackled through the intercom. “Would you rather fly with a hole in the hull?”

“Rassum frassum...” muttered Swul. He climbed back into his seat and repositioned his cannon, and directed a sidelong glance to the beautiful piratess manning the gun to his left. “How you doin’, sweetheart?”

“I’d say better than you, but that’s because I can actually use the restraint harness on this thing,” said Ekala. She brought her cannon to the ready as a fresh shell slid into the barrel. She focused the sight, catching it dead on the Dreadnought. A pull of the trigger and the shell tore through the air. It cut the distance between them and the enemy and blew right into the bridge.

“Jackpot,” she said with a grin.

For a moment, the Dreadnought kept on them, but then thought better of it and veered off. Swul watched with a smile on his face. “Can’t believe it, you scared off a Dreadnought ship, babe!”

“I’m good that way,” said Ekala as she unfastened the harness. She walked back towards the bridge with Swul flittering behind her. Once they reached the bridge, Zarim offered a broad smile of his own and embraced Ekala.

“That was nothing short of amazing!” he said.

“Go on,” said Ekala.

“Let’s save the celebrations, kid.” Swul struck a match off Zarim’s armrest and lit a fresh cigar. “What the hell were you thinkin’ attracting Dreadnought attention like that?”

“Calm down,” said Zarim.

“Nah, I won’t calm down!” said Swul. “What’s the point? The bounty from a job like that ain’t worth the risk! All you did was lift some socialites’ wallets. Big freakin’ deal! We don’t need Dreadnoughts on our tail!”

“The point, my faerie friend, is that it sends a message. It spreads the word and our legend grows,” said Zarim.

Swul enunciated his points with his cigar clasped between two fingers. “First off, I’m no damn faerie. They cast me out, remember? Second, I was almost killed by one of those Dreadnought squads. I ain’t looking to go up against ‘em again.”

“You don’t have to remind me, pal. Who’s the one who saved your ass?” asked Zarim.

“Savin’ me from the fryin’ pan don’t give you no right to toss me in the goddamn fire!”

“Listen up, short round,” said Zarim. “Last time I checked, I was the captain of this ship, not you! So if you got a problem with the way I do things, why don’t you flitter off somewhere else?”

“Why you self-righteous, rat-bastard—”

“You forgot ‘roguishly handsome’.”

“—roguishly han—hey!”

Ekala moved towards the helm as Zarim and Swul continued the argument. She leaned against the wall, shaking her head with an amused disapproval. “You’re like damn kids when they get this way.” She knew the faerie had a point, though. Their take? Probably not worth risking Dreadnought attention. But on the other hand, their reputation made things run a bit more smoothly. And she did love going after the rich.

She finally decided they’d been arguing long enough. “So what’s our travel plan look like?”

Zarim looked away from Swul, and at console which had a map of the world showing their current position. “I’ve got a course plotted for Delfor. We can refuel and resupply there.”

Ekala huffed.

Zarim glanced over at her. “I know Delfor’s not your favorite place, but—”

“I just don’t trust Gax,” she said. “He’s a first-class creep.”

“Yeah, but if not for him, we wouldn’t have the Excalibur. And he gives us quite a bit of work,” said Zarim.

“I suppose,” said Ekala. “Still, he makes my skin crawl.”

* * *

The city of Xanadar sat nestled in the mountainous regions of the Shanla continent. It had been virtually untouched by the expansion of the Imperials based in Serenity, the location providing natural defenses from invading hordes.

Here was a place of spiritual enlightenment. A long and rough path led to Xanadar, but those who made the trek considered it a test of their fortitude. Many longed to learn from the guru known as Master Quand.

Quand was in the midst of a meditation seminar with several of his latest students, teaching them proper breathing techniques, when his eyelids snapped open. His head began to throb as an incredible force surged through his body.

Quand collapsed, his body going into a seizure as the concerned students milled around him. None of them had been here very long and they had no idea if this were part of the class or if Quand was truly in some form of danger.

A monk standing near the door pushed through the crowd, falling to his knees alongside of Quand. He tried to hold the man down until the seizure subsided. When it finally had, Quand looked up at the students surrounding him, studying their quizzical expressions.

“Master Quand?” asked the monk. “Are you okay?”

“No, Fei,” said Quand.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s the Soulstones,” said Quand. “One of them has awoken.”

Erika Kuroki grunted as her back hit the padded wall. She fell on the ground and looked up through strands of black hair at the man who threw her. He wore a black training gi, same as hers. He was in his mid-thirties, just a little bit older than she was, and he sported a thin beard.

“Get up,” he said.

Erika got to her feet and moved into a fighting stance. She felt a charge go through her body as the implants adjusted. The cybernetic implants fed her diagnostic information about her target, advising her on the best course of action. Erika ignored it, choosing to rely on her own instincts instead.

Hiro grinned at her and she came at him. She sprung, extending her leg out in a kick as she flew through the air. Hiro was ready for her and grabbed the leg, twisting and slamming her back onto the padded floor. He kept her pinned there and Erika struggled to move.

“Cybernetic enhancements don’t mean a whole lot when your opponent has them, too,” said Hiro, one arm braced against her chest, the other hand still holding her leg.

Erika swung her free leg up and jammed her knee against the side of Hiro’s head. She stunned him and managed to pull herself from his grip. She got to her feet and delivered another blow to his chest, knocking him on his back.

“Good thing I learned to fight long before I got these enhancements,” said Erika. “Now are you ready to surrender?”

He stood and scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. I could keep this up all day.”

She came at him again, but every punch she tried to land, he was able to counter. Every kick, he blocked. As more of her attacks failed, her frustration only grew. And that frustration only drove her to push herself harder, letting anger start to cloud her judgment.

Hiro’s greatest skill wasn’t his fighting ability, nor how adept he was with his enhancements. He had a keen insight into people and knew just how to push their buttons. It was a talent that gave him the upper edge in combat, which was why even in his short career he’d gained a reputation as one of the Tokkei’s top agents.

His hands moved like a blur, mostly content with playing defense. Erika kept trying to strike faster and harder, but no matter how fast or how hard she hit, Hiro was there with a deflection. And then, just when she thought she could keep it up no longer, he dropped to the floor and swept her legs with his own. She was knocked off her feet and once again he was on top of her. This time, though, he pinned her down with his entire body, immobilizing her. She tried to struggle for a few moments, but once she realized it was useless, she relaxed her body and went limp.

Hiro climbed off her and offered his hand. Erika gripped it with her own and he pulled her up. She sighed and walked over to the corner of the room where a water bottle and towel waited. Erika wiped the sweat from her face and squired the water into her mouth, then sighed.

“Nice work,” he said.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m serious,” said Hiro. “You’ve taken to the implants remarkably well. That’s not something easily achieved.”

“I’m still not used to them. The eye thing especially feels weird.”

That “eye thing” she referred to was the augmented-reality heads-up display or AR-HUD. Her implants could display a variety of information over her retina, anything from GPS directions to text messages. Anyone with AR-HUD-enabled implants was essentially a walking smartphone.

He chuckled and wiped his face with his own towel. “It takes some getting used to, I’ll grant you that. But at the rate you’re going, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got sent on your first mission soon.”

Erika blinked. “Already? It’s only been about a month.”

“If you weren’t Tokkei quality, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. The training is about helping you familiarize yourself with your implants. But once that’s done, it’s off to the races.”

“And are most ready that quickly?”

Hiro smirked. “I see what you’re trying to do. And it’s not going to work.”

He turned and walked for the exit. Erika jogged a bit to catch up to his side. She moved into step next to him, but he didn’t glance to acknowledge her, just drank more water and continued moving down the corridor.

“What’s not going to work?” she asked.

He scoffed. “You want me to tell you, ‘Oh Kuroki, you’re amazing. No one has ever advanced as fast as you. Truly you’re a gift to the whole nation.’”

“Just because you won’t say it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

He chuckled, then stopped and turned to face her. “Listen, I know you were hot shit in the Jietai. But this is a whole different game you’re playing now. You can’t afford to get cocky.”

“It’s not cocky if it’s the truth.”

He shook his head. “I guess hafu don’t understand the concept of modesty.”

Erika bristled at the sound of that word. She had risen through the Jietai and earned enough commodations in the war to earn an officer rank. She even took her mother’s surname. After everything, she’d hoped she’d earned the right to be judged by her actions and not her ancestry.

“I understand it just fine,” she said, her tone now flat. “I have to clean up and then return home. Send me a message once the next session is scheduled.”

She turned and continued down the corridor, leaving Hiro behind her. Part of her felt ashamed as she continued on her path to the women’s bathing facilities. Since she was promoted to the Tokkei, Hiro had been very kind to her. In fact, this was the first time he even said anything about her heritage. He’d known from the start, of course.

All children were given a DNA scan at birth. It was a mark that stayed with them for the rest of their lives. Even though Erika was born here and had never known any home besides Japan, in the eyes of the government, birthright citizenship was only granted to full-blooded Japanese. Hafu, or those of mixed-race Japanese descent, could obtain citizenship, but only through government service, usually military.

Erika pushed those thoughts from her mind. A bath would help her clear her head and focus on what was more important.

Or so she had hoped. But after showering off, she climbed into the hot communal bath and sat against the edge of the large tub, the water level up to her neck. She raised her arm above the water’s surface and turned it, examining it in the low light. Erika touched her fingers to her forearm, running them down the surface.

Her cybernetic implants were beneath the surface, completely invisible to the naked eye. Tokkei agents had to be able to move about freely and without notice—having visible cybernetic parts attached would obviously make that more difficult. She still found it strange. On the outside, she was the same person she was in the Jietai. But on the inside, she was different. Better.

A few other women had entered the bathing area. They were Tokkei as well—this level of the building was reserved for agents and personnel. And though they looked at Erika, they made no attempts to engage her in conversation.

The more things change… she thought to herself.

Erika got out of the bath and returned to the changing area. She dried herself off and dressed in clean clothes. There was nothing more to do here and she just wanted to get home and relax. It was clear she still had a long way to go to prove herself.

The Ministry of Defense was located in Shinjuku, one of Tokyo’s largest neighborhoods. Erika exited from the front entrance and walked down the steps of the tall building. It used to be a much smaller building in the days before the government revised the pacifist constitution. Now the Ministry of Defense was one of Japan’s top budget priorities. And it showed as the reconstructed headquarters was a massive campus with one of the tallest buildings in Tokyo—if not the nation.

She walked down the steps leading from the main building. The main gate consisted of an energy barrier and included a genetic scanner. When someone attempted to pass through, their biometrics were instantly checked, down to their DNA. If one had clearance, the barrier may as well be invisible. But if not, the infiltrator would be instantly incapacitated and then arrested. Guards were present as well. They wore armor styled after the samurai of the Edo period, though it was much more advanced. The Tokkei had armor of their own they wore on certain missions. Similar to what these guards had, but more distinctive and more powerful.

Erika passed through the barrier without issue. The guards didn’t even look at her, though she doubted she could tell if they did. Their helmet faceplates were styled much like the masks of old, in the form of demonic visages.

The train station was ten minutes away on foot. Erika was looking forward to getting home. She still couldn’t help the feeling of unease. Becoming an officer in the Jietai and then earning an invitation to the Tokkei? It was more than she could have possibly wished for when she first enlisted. So why then, after all that hard work, did she still feel that something was missing? After all, in the eyes of the government, she’d finally earned her citizenship. That was something many born like her had wished for, but could never claim.

It was almost six in the evening, so the station was crowded with commuters trying to make it home. A sea of people dressed in suits and school uniforms moved almost as one down the steps and into the station below. Erika was about to join them, but her eye was caught by a man sitting near the entrance. He was shabbily dressed and from the look and smell, hadn’t showered in days. There was a sign propped up against his leg, with the word “help” scrawled on it in English. His blue eyes made contact with hers and she just stared at the derelict for a few moments.

The moment ended once he was pulled to his feet by uniformed police officers. They started shouting at him in Japanese. Erika was too far away to make out everything they said, but the general gist of it seemed to be that he’d been a nuisance in this area for some time. The cops seemed to be out of warnings and dragged him off, with him protesting in a mix of English and broken Japanese.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Erika was surprised she didn’t notice the person next to her. She looked over and saw a woman about the same age as her, wearing the blouse, vest, and skirt of a government employee.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

The woman looked at Erika, then back to where the man was. “I said disgusting. That bum was hanging around here every single day for the past week. I tried to tell the police, but all they did was give him warnings at first. They finally got rid of him.” Her face bore a visage of revulsion. “Those people. We invited them in and now they’ve become a drain on society. Maybe we shouldn’t have even bothered. Just send them all back where they came from.”

“No, maybe not…” muttered Erika.

She wondered what would become of that man. Would he be taken to a shelter or did he have family? She decided she didn’t really want to know and instead, joined the crowd moving down into the station. Maybe the woman was right, maybe things would be better if all of them were rounded up and sent back to their own countries.

Erika became lost within the crowd of commuters, just another face almost indistinguishable from the rest. She waited patiently for the train with the others, and when it did finally arrive, she would ride it in silence to her apartment.