《Wife After Death: An Eldritch Horror Romance》


 1. A hanging

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    They park by the scaffold and pull him from the trunk. His hands are bound. His scrabbling boots pound out a crinkling paradiddle on the tarpaulin they stretched out to catch the blood and the fibers.


    ¡°Get his legs, damn you.¡± This from the driver, and he recognizes the terrified voice. That¡¯s Sam, a bricklayer. Caspar fixed his toothache just this past winter.


    ¡°His head,¡± someone says. ¡°Careful.¡±


    ¡°What fuckin¡¯ difference does it make?¡±


    ¡°It makes a difference.¡± The oldest voice, familiar despite its stony encasement of command. ¡°Stand him up. Get the hood off him.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s chin jerks against the fabric as they shuck the bag from his head. Air fills his lungs. A string of lonely highway lights poke glowing holes into his concussion.


    Steady, gloved hands on his shoulders. The ringleader lifts his face by his bloodied chin. ¡°Caspar Cartwright. I name you warlock. I name you conjuror. And I sentence you to the mercy of the Father¡¯s judgment. By His grace, may you find forgiveness.¡± Edgar, that¡¯s this man¡¯s name. He taught Caspar his letters. ¡°Get him up.¡±


    ¡°Edgar. Please, Ed. I know you. You know¡ª¡± Caspar¡¯s reward for this is a backhand, bony and stinging.


    ¡°Shut up.¡± A tremulous note as his executioner stuffs the smiling schoolteacher further back into the cage of his mind. And Caspar knows now, knows from the hearing, that his life is finished. Edgar filled Caspar¡¯s brain with words and definitions and places and animals he¡¯ll never see. And tonight he¡¯s going to turn that brain into an unlit hunk of meat.


    Tomorrow these men will hold their children and greet their neighbors and be good¡ªbetter, even, to scrub the stain. Tonight they make themselves something besides men.


    Stupid animal instinct lags Caspar¡¯s steps, drags his toes uselessly in the dirt and makes an absurdist comedy out of his ascent to the scaffold as his legs fail and fight and his captors curse. A reverberant thud as a pistol butt lands on the back of his head, knocks the world into gray for a moment.


    A voice full of disgust and blunted fear. ¡°Let¡¯s make it quick. For your sake and ours. We¡¯re giving you a long drop. Have some fucking dignity.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re sorry, Cas. So sorry.¡± That¡¯s Aaron, at the scaffold¡¯s foot, tears dropping from his chin. ¡°It¡¯s for the Father. Please. It¡¯s not us. The inspectors are coming.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Aaron.¡± Edgar yanks Caspar up another step. ¡°If you want to help him, find a shovel.¡±


    They muscle him up to the gallows. He¡¯s disappointing himself. He wants to be brave, to face this fearlessly as a servant of the Father. But the feeling of the hemp rope around his neck triggers another helpless, heart-wrenching thrash.


    They¡¯ve been doing what they can to avoid his darting gaze. But Edgar puts his gray-templed face in front of Caspar now, ginger to avoid the trapdoor beneath his feet. ¡°You have any last things to say, to us or to the Father, now you say them.¡± He blinks the perspiration from his eyes. He lets a scrap of kindness out. ¡°Anyone back at Rogarth you want to send a message to, any goodbyes, we can pass those on.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s search for courage has run its course. Instead, he finds a rich vein of anger at these people he¡¯s given his life and light to. He¡¯s not the coward. They are. ¡°I saved your daughter¡¯s leg, Ed,¡± he says. ¡°I set it and cured it. It would have been a chair or a cane all her life.¡± He raises his voice. ¡°No messages. No repentance. You want to soothe your consciences, you do it yourselves. I¡¯ve fixed enough of your hurts.¡±


    Edgar spits onto the splintery boards; the thirsty wood absorbs the mark. ¡°Fine, then, warlock. Make your apologies to the Father. Go, Sam.¡±


    This to the guy at the lever, whose knuckles go white on the mechanism. ¡°Father, forgive,¡± he mumbles, and drops the latch.


    And that¡¯s that.


    Say this about Caspar¡¯s killers: none of these people have hanged someone before, but they¡¯ve studied hard the way to do it properly. I can tell by how they¡¯ve tied it, how they cinched it around his trembling neck. They don¡¯t want Caspar to suffer.


    His neck goes as he drops through the trap, clean and tidy, only a few dancing jigs of his boots before they are still. His eyes blink and go wide and round and then see nothing.


    And then they see a vaulted roof, its arches carved with repeated organic filigree that reminds him of the spine he just snapped. He died. He felt himself die. Now he feels himself drag along the ground. There¡¯s a tether at his neck, like a leash. Someone is tugging him, by the rope that hanged him, across polished stone.


    He hears the swish, swish of silk rubbing against itself; the click, click of heels on marble.


    He¡¯s plucked into the air by small but powerful arms, deposited on something soft. A bier, or a bed, or perhaps both, stacked with sweet-scented cushions and braided flowers. Champak, sandalwood. A creaking noise as someone joins him and sits lightly on his legs.


    He cranes his neck, feels a curious numb lightness where the noose broke it. But he¡¯s been re-knit. And now he beholds the one who did it.


    Which would be me. Hello, dear reader. I¡¯m assuming that you¡¯re as human as Cas here, unless you guys have taught dogs to read at this point. It¡¯s hard to keep track. You humans are so into teaching dogs how to do things. My sister Ganea once observed that human civilization has been mostly about inventing new weapons and teaching dogs increasingly complicated tricks.


    She meant it offensively, I¡¯m sorry to say. She takes a dim view of you. She styles herself as a war deity; I guess that comes with the turf. Me, personally, I think you guys are just fabulous.


    ¡°Hi, Caspar,¡± I say.


    ¡°Hi,¡± he manages, and he¡¯s curious as to his lack of fear. I know because I¡¯m in his head. I see what he sees: a wavering woman-shape, a silhouette of black, smoky tendrils, the faceless void of my head centerpieced by an intricate cyclopean eye of molten gold. I¡¯ve opted for something simple here, about halfway between human and my true form. Close enough to what he¡¯s used to that he¡¯ll see my personhood. Weird enough that he knows I¡¯m far from his species. Just for kicks, I¡¯ve approximated the cocktail dress and the measurements of the first image he ever felt desire for, a photo of Archbishop Tilliam¡¯s buxom young wife smiling radiantly from a rickety shelf of magazines.


    I¡¯ve made the dress purple, though. Of all the colors you humans can see, that¡¯s my pick every time. If it ain¡¯t purple, I ain¡¯t wearing it.


    By all rights, he ought to be losing his mind from fear and confusion, but he isn¡¯t. Good old Caspar. Or maybe it¡¯s the shock. I¡¯ll take it either way. ¡°Where am I?¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°You¡¯re in my room.¡± I reach behind him and adjust a violet pillow to cushion his raised head. ¡°Comfy?¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d need a few more mouths to pronounce who I am, Cas. Can I call you Cas?¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡± I¡¯d smile, but I haven¡¯t manifested the face for it. ¡°And you can call me Irene.¡±


    And you can, too, sweet reader, since my real name would liquefy your eyes. That¡¯s my little favor for you.


    His mouth hangs in a daze. I¡¯m counting on the shock of his return to cognizance in order to carry us through what might be a tricky conversation. ¡°Am I dead?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a less straightforward question than you may have been conditioned to think, Caspar Cartwright.¡± I¡¯m still perched on him, but I cross my legs coquettishly, leaving little photonegative trails in the air. Can you blame me? I don¡¯t get a lot of opportunities to have legs. ¡°The closest answer is yes.¡±


    His hand shoots to his neck. He feels the hemp still coiled around it.


    ¡°You can get all the way dead, if you¡¯d like,¡± I say. ¡°We could say goodbye here. You might want to do that if you¡¯re big into all the Father stuff, since I¡¯d like to get a little heretical with you. But the Father''s guys down there did just sever your cervical vertebrae. So I¡¯d like to offer an alternative. Maybe you¡¯ll take a little walk with me and give me a chance to explain.¡±


    I know he will. I know Caspar. I¡¯ve spent the last few years in his head. I like this guy. He¡¯s good, but he¡¯s not dumb. He sees the world for how it is and recognizes the ways he can change it and the ways he can¡¯t. I¡¯m interested in expanding those definitions a little.


    To be honest, I¡¯m also excited to introduce myself and get a good look at him through something other than a mirror. I¡¯ve ridden enough human minds to know what their desire feels like, what kindles it. Enough to know that those yokels wasted a perfectly good-looking guy when they lynched Cas. He¡¯s got the sort of face that makes you think: oh, this guy is probably stupid. Something about the worried cast of his brow, the strength of his jaw, the meaty amplitude of his trained shoulders. He looks nice but dim, like the boy scout hero of a Relic City drama-comic. I guess gormless is the word. Or maybe himbo.


    That¡¯s a compliment, to be clear. I¡¯m unpracticed in giving them.


    He¡¯s looking back at me. His gaze lingers on my hips, I¡¯m pleased to say, which I¡¯ve made somewhat wider than the real Mrs. Tilliam¡¯s, for my sake. What can I say? I¡¯ve been working on this body for a while, and I like having a bit of an ass.


    ¡°Shall we, Cas?¡± I hop off the bier and extend a hand. ¡°This is your dream, my man. Nothing here happens without your allowance.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m dreaming?¡± He looks around the yawning, gothic chamber I¡¯ve ensconced us in. We sit in a pool of light that obscures its far reaches. A girl must be allowed her little secrets.


    ¡°Sorta. It¡¯s the closest comparison.¡±


    He props himself onto his elbows, then unfolds his legs and carefully plants his big dusty shitkicker boots onto my pristine floor. He shakes more dust out of his patched chore coat.


    Not that I mind. I can clean myself. By which I mean my self. This is my room, in the same way your stomach is your stomach. Which, yes, if you want to be crude about it, means Caspar is inside me right now. All of this is me. The bier, the pillows, the hall, the little woman, the light, the dark, the form, the void. I am Irene. I am I.


    If he knew my true dimensions, if he could comprehend the nature of the being that now lightly takes his hand and leads him down her corridors, if I were to express the depths of my alien mind rather than this speck that I¡¯ve crammed into an understandable form for you and him, it would snap your human brains like twigs under an elephant¡¯s foot.


    Perhaps a certain comprehension flickers through him as I lead him through the corridors of Me, shining a light from my eye to guide his way. ¡°You¡¯re the Adversary, aren¡¯t you? You¡¯re the devil.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna push back on the devil thing. That¡¯s so comical. You don¡¯t see horns, do ya?¡± I allow my body a little more definition. Onyx lips, a pair of golden eyes folding open below the cyclopean orb on my forehead. ¡°I am part of the Adversary, though, yes. A piece. Maybe the best way you¡¯d grasp it is the Adversary is¡­ like a family. Me and my sisters.¡±


    He examines me. I blink. What a fun sensation that is. My eyes feel so blobby.


    ¡°You¡¯re not what I expected,¡± he says.


    My fancy new mouth (so much smaller than I¡¯m used to!) quirks into a smirk. ¡°You were thinking I¡¯d be taller, maybe?¡±


    He releases my hand. He¡¯s growing pale. ¡°I think I ought to pray.¡±


    Ah, there¡¯s the resistance I was expecting. ¡°To the Father? Cas, I¡¯m afraid He won¡¯t hear you. He hasn¡¯t heard you since you were very young.¡±


    ¡°Heresy. That¡¯s heresy.¡± Caspar¡¯s forehead has a sheen of sweat on it now as absolute reality crashes back into his skull.


    ¡°Yeah, dude.¡± I give an apologetic shrug. ¡°I warned you.¡±


    ¡°The Father¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Father¡¯s servants killed you. The Father¡¯s servants run your world. None of them hear His voice. Maybe some of them delude themselves into hearing something else, but it isn¡¯t Him. You don¡¯t want me to be right, but something¡¯s telling you I am. He isn¡¯t in front of you. Because He is gone.¡± Caspar is backing away from me now. I follow, swaying with every click of my heels. ¡°Do you want to know how I know, Caspar?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s back bumps into a wall that was not there before. His eyes squeeze shut. His hands clasp. ¡°Father, hear your child. Father, turn to me and cast your shadow from me.¡±


    ¡°I know, because my sisters and I ate Him,¡± I say. ¡°The war that¡¯s been preached to you, between Heaven and the Void, it was real. It happened. He lost. We won and then we ate Him.¡±


    And I don¡¯t tell Caspar this, since I don¡¯t want him to freak out completely, but just between you and me, that¡¯s not a metaphor. We ate Caspar¡¯s god. We flensed Him and skinned Him and cracked His bones with our many teeth and sucked the marrow. Nothing was left by the time we were done.


    His was the first flesh I¡¯ve ever eaten. The first physical substance I tasted. I¡¯ve been alive for millennia without knowing how hungry I¡¯d been. But now I do. I¡¯ve gotten good at suppressing it, but now I¡¯m hungry all the damn time.


    ¡°Father, lead me into your kingdom. Keep the gate and the wall.¡±


    ¡°You want to see His kingdom?¡± I place my palm on the tiled wall by his ear. I¡¯m patient, but I think what Cas needs right now is a shock to the system. ¡°I¡¯ll show you.¡±


    I close my fist and the wall behind Caspar crumbles. I catch his arm before he falls backward, and haul him onto the ledge which now protrudes from my gargantuan self.


    And I show him the ruin above which we float, its yellow-ivory horizon stretching in every direction until the cloak of poisonous miasma swallows it.


    I show him what¡¯s left of Heaven. Just for an instant. Just long enough.


    Then I snatch him back inside, before he can take in enough detail to break his brain. The slouching human shapes racked in pain, the fractals of bone and masonry intertwined and spiraling into ersatz pillars of decomposition. The indescribable forms of myself and my sisters, our impossible shadows creeping across the smashed sanctums and donjons. A tomb-world, a carrion world.


    I reform the wall as he collapses and curls up against it, shaking violently.


    I kneel before him, straightening my little purple dress at my knees. ¡°That is your afterlife, Caspar. That is where everyone you ever loved and lost now dwells. That is the fate that awaits His abandoned children. And it¡¯s not because of us. It¡¯s been like this for centuries now. You can thank Him for that. He gave up, a long time ago. Why do you think we won?¡±


    His eyes are red. Part of that is he¡¯s crying, part of it is because the sight burst a few blood vessels in them. His voice is coarse and raw. ¡°Why did you show me this?¡±


    ¡°Because they need your help,¡± I say. ¡°We need your help. I love you, Caspar. I love humanity. You don¡¯t deserve this. None of you deserve it, but you, especially, Cas. I want to rebuild your home. I want to live there with you. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve ever wanted.¡±


    He wants to believe me so badly. I feel the first flickering touch of his faith, like a sweet breath on my neck. Oh, yes. I want more. I need more.


    ¡°Do you remember what Edgar called you before he killed you?¡± I whisper.


    Caspar¡¯s dry lips part. ¡°Warlock.¡± It comes out as a stripped croak. His head buries between his knees.


    ¡°A lie,¡± I say. ¡°An evil, horrible lie born from fear and hatred. You are a healer, Cas. You¡¯re a good man. Dabbling in the eldritch didn¡¯t change that. I watched you. That¡¯s why I chose you. The spells you knew, that was just folk-magic. Old, old ways. As old as me, and I¡¯m old as fuck.¡±


    I put a thumb on his forehead and draw his face gently but inexorably up. Tears have cut lines in the pale dust of his cheek. One of the free-floating tendrils that makes up my hair drifts down the furrow.


    ¡°The divinity inherent in creation. You use it to make people better. Believe me, dude. I know what a warlock is. I¡¯ve employed them. I¡¯ve granted them different power. Real power.¡±


    I lay a hand on his dirt-encrusted hair.


    ¡°The same power I now offer you,¡± I say. ¡°I will give it to you and send you back. And you will find the key to Heaven, and open the gate, and let me in.¡±

 2. A sandwich

    I was a little too dramatic, I can tell. Poor Caspar is hyperventilating. But as the reason his lungs still work, I think I¡¯m owed at least one monologue. I pat his head. I believe fleshy beings like that sort of thing. He just sprawls out away from me.


    ¡°Okay.¡± I stand up. ¡°You need time to digest this. Are you hungry? I am.¡±


    I know he is. I feel it. He hasn¡¯t eaten since this morning, when they came for him. My hunger isn¡¯t something I can slake. Not yet. His I can do something about, once he comes off this existential dread.


    ¡°That¡¯s where you go when you die?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where you go when you die,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s really horrible, I know. You¡¯re a healer and Heaven is exceedingly sick. I¡¯ll help you fix it, but first, I need to upset you more. So maybe let¡¯s do that on a full stomach, hmm? What¡¯s your favorite food?¡±


    It¡¯s chicken parm, but I¡¯m trying to be delicate with him.


    ¡°Chicken parmesan sandwiches,¡± he says. ¡°Do you know what those are?¡±


    I scoff. ¡°Do I know what a chicken parm is. Honestly, Cartwright. I¡¯m not that monstrous.¡± I help him to his feet. ¡°Let me try making you one. You can tell me how I did.¡±


    That¡¯s one of the fabulous things about humans. From the dizzying heights of dread, you remember sandwiches exist, and suddenly your most prime thought is a hankering for one.


    I lead Caspar further through the twisting gothic architecture of my insides. His shuffle slowly turns back into that stride of his, the one I¡¯ve felt from the inside so often. Straight-legged, mechanical, head on a swivel. The walking-the-beat they taught him in basic. He¡¯s been out of the militia for years, but he¡¯s never shaken it; the cadence calms him.


    I find myself emulating him, breaking out of my minxy stiletto strut. I subtly replace my heels with a pair of combat boots, adding an inch to my height to compensate; he¡¯s not looking at my feet, anyway. He¡¯s paying attention to his stomach, and the familiar smell wafting his way from my kitchens.


    In the center of a hive of furnaces and ovens, a table waits under a checkerboard tartan, surrounded by swiveling stools. I took the tablecloth pattern from the pizzeria he clogged his arteries at as a child. A real greasy spoon kind of place. His sandwich is already waiting for us. The chewy bread, the crispy cutlets, the marinara piquant and on just the right side of too-hot.


    He sits grimly before the chicken parm. He rests his forehead in a grubby hand. I sit across from him and watch, remembering to blink occasionally.


    His finger stabs into the spongy roll. ¡°Is this real?¡±


    ¡°Its own special kind of real,¡± I say. ¡°It won¡¯t sate your body on Diamante. On the plus side, you don¡¯t have to worry about counting calories.¡±


    He takes one half of the center-cut sandwich. He slides the plastic basket across the table to me and I take the other half. He¡¯s looking to see if I eat, and what happens, whether the chicken is going to melt his esophagus or something. But there¡¯s a bit of gentlemanliness in there too, and that¡¯s what I choose to focus on as I extract my half and take a bite.


    There¡¯s nothing more satisfying than the first starving bite from the center of a stacked sandwich. Take it from me; I ate God. It didn¡¯t come close. For this sensation alone, I¡¯m choosing to work in your defense, humanity. He takes his own bite and sighs a gratified grunt. I wipe my mouth and grin at him.


    Look, don¡¯t think too hard about what exactly we¡¯re eating and where exactly the meat came from. It¡¯s a cute moment.


    ¡°So before you give me your answer,¡± I say, after bite #2, ¡°some things to know.¡±


    He focuses on his sandwich, like if he doesn¡¯t look at me, he¡¯ll be back on Diamante and today won¡¯t have happened.


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to kill people to get this job done,¡± I say. ¡°No way around it. Starting with the men who just killed you.¡±


    This gets his hazel eyes up and on me. ¡°I don¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m telling you.¡± I lick some stray marinara off my thumb. ¡°You¡¯ll come back right where you dropped out, and they¡¯ll see you¡¯re back. Word can¡¯t spread, so you¡¯re going to have to end them. This is the trial run. If you can¡¯t kill the guys who killed you, who can you kill, right?¡±


    I affect a light tone. He doesn¡¯t laugh.


    ¡°Look at it this way,¡± I try. ¡°You¡¯ve seen the afterlife. Guaranteed. Heaven is real, death is not the end.¡±


    ¡°Heaven is horrible.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. But the way to make it not horrible necessitates sending a few mortals its way first. If you and I do our jobs right, their suffering will be brief. You bust me in and I make Paradise a paradise again.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°Even so. I don¡¯t take lives. I¡¯ve only done it once, and it damn near shook me apart.¡±


    ¡°I know. I know. But the first one¡¯s the worst one. And I hate to bring this up, Caspar, but you¡¯re realizing I have a point. I can tell.¡±


    His face pales. ¡°Can you hear my thoughts?¡±


    ¡°Afraid so.¡± I reach slowly across the table; he draws back. I settle for placing my palm in the center of the counter. ¡°I¡¯m not asking you to enjoy it. You¡¯ll hate it, but I¡¯ll make you very good at it. And you¡¯ll derive a certain grim satisfaction, because that¡¯s what you feel when you do something difficult but just. As for the toll it takes on your soul, well. Your new Goddess is a very forgiving deity.¡±


    None of this is what Caspar wants to hear. He was born in a theocracy, the vessel of his spirit filled to its brim with love and fear of the Father. He¡¯d be shattered by the heresy I¡¯ve dripped into his ear, if he hadn¡¯t already been shattered by the whole hanging thing.


    But he¡¯s seen the suffering. He¡¯s seen the sickness of his reality. And that¡¯s his downfall. Caspar¡¯s got a heart. The deeds I require will hurt him, break him, maybe. We both know it. But it¡¯s his pesky heart that dooms him.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    He takes a pensive bite of his sandwich. He barely tastes it.


    ¡°Will I be bound to your will?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say.


    ¡°So if I give you a yes, I can¡¯t change my mind?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say.


    ¡°And if it¡¯s no¡­¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s no, I put you back where I found you,¡± I say, ¡°and you dangle. And then you go to Heaven. Such as it is. I would hate that, Caspar. If I could just deposit you safe in your bed, I would. But the only way you survive is with the power I grant you.¡±


    He remembers the city of ash and gristle and lamentation. He sees the grim injustice of the choice I¡¯ve given him.


    I reach out again. He doesn¡¯t pull away this time; he¡¯s too paralyzed. My hand is warm on his; this surprises him. ¡°It¡¯s terrible,¡± I murmur. ¡°This decision. But if you choose me, I¡¯ll make you strong enough to bear it. I can¡¯t exist in your reality¡ªnot directly. But you will be the conduit for my power. I¡¯ll teach you to use it. When you sleep, you¡¯ll return here. And I¡¯ll feed you, I¡¯ll comfort you, I¡¯ll train you. My influence in this reality is unlimited. Whatever you would have from me, I will grant it gladly.¡±


    ¡°How do I know you¡¯re telling the truth?¡± he asks. ¡°You¡¯re the Adversary. You deceive the minds and eyes of mortal men.¡±


    ¡°Well, Cas, it¡¯s my word against theirs.¡± I wad up a napkin and toss it into the basket. ¡°I, for one, would believe the one that didn¡¯t hang you by the neck until dead, but you¡¯re the guy with the human brain. You run the numbers.¡±


    He takes the last crusty bite of his sandwich half. I subtly push the rest of mine back across the table to him, but he¡¯s petrified that my saliva is going to mutate him or something.


    (Which isn¡¯t true, by the way, unless he wants it to be, in which case I¡¯d happily give him an extra eye or two. That might be quite fetching.)


    I watch the gears turn. And then he comes to a really annoying decision. Oh, Caspar. My pure heart. What are we going to do about you?


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says.


    ¡°Come on, Caspar. They tried to kill you.¡±


    ¡°What¡ªI haven¡¯t even asked yet.¡±


    I roll my eyes. ¡°Okay. Ask. But for the record, I think it¡¯s silly.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be doing that,¡± he says firmly. ¡°For humans, it¡¯s very important how we phrase things. I don¡¯t want you to reply to things I haven¡¯t said until I figure out how to say them.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re my first human friend. I¡¯m still working things out.¡±


    Friend catches him off-guard, which gives me impish satisfaction. ¡°I want you to keep them here,¡± he says. ¡°The people I kill for you. I don¡¯t want them stuck in that¡­ place. You did that for me. Can you do that for them?¡±


    I¡¯d love to lie to him, but I can¡¯t. Have I mentioned that? There can be no deception from a patron to its warlock. Nothing outright. Omission sometimes works, but he¡¯s just straight-up asked me. I bet you were sitting there like ohhh, Irene¡¯s an unreliable narrator. What, just because I have tentacles in places you don¡¯t have places?


    That¡¯s humanity for you. Can¡¯t live with them, can¡¯t live etc.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯d argue that a brief spiritual acid bath would do their blind-faith selves some good, but I¡¯ll protect those dickheads from the Heaven they think they want. If that will remove your hesitation.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ll fix them, like you fixed me?¡± His face brightens. And it takes the sting out of my gripe, the gratitude he feels. Mixed with more of that golden nectar, that intoxicating narcotic. Faith.


    I can¡¯t help but smile a little at this big golden retriever of a human I¡¯ve plucked from the gallows. See, now he has me doing it, the dog thing. ¡°I will,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s a frivolous use of my power, but I promised it was yours. The people you kill will be safe. As weird as that sounds.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he says, and then a sour flicker of distrust. ¡°Will you let me see them next time I¡¯m here?¡±


    ¡°Sheesh, Cas.¡± I flick a crumb at him. ¡°I¡¯m putting a lot of trust in you, y¡¯know, giving you all the toys I¡¯m about to give you. Let¡¯s make it a two-way street, maybe?¡±


    ¡°You must understand my reluctance. If you¡¯ve really been watching me like you say.¡±


    "I do," I say. "And I accept your terms, with gratitude that you''re giving me the chance to prove my word to you. We are going to do amazing things together, Caspar Cartwright. We''re going to save several worlds. Now take your shirt off."


    His brow furrows.


    ¡°I have to brand you, and I¡¯d prefer to do it in a spot that people won¡¯t see.¡± I channel heat into my palm. ¡°You can take your pants off if you prefer, but right over the heart has a fun connotation to it, no?¡±


    He shrugs off his raggedy chore coat. ¡°Will it hurt?¡±


    ¡°More than a vaccination, less than getting executed.¡±


    He exhales heavily through his nose and stands, lifting his shirt off and revealing the functional brawn and weather-kissed skin of a laborer beneath. No glamor muscles on Caspar Cartwright. That triangular torso is hard won from years of martial training and hauling lumber and stone.


    I place my hand on his pectoral, feel the sweat and the grime and the dusting of his chest hair. ¡°Swear yourself to me, Caspar. Swear to my service.¡±


    ¡°What do I say?¡±


    ¡°Anything. Just mean it.¡±


    He swallows. His heartbeat increases, a fleet and fearful bird in the cage of his chest. ¡°If your intention is true and if our mission is as just as you say, I will serve you.¡±


    ¡°I accept your service, my warlock.¡± My fingers brush his chin as I pull my hand away. ¡°I grant you my strength.¡± I offer him my finger. ¡°Bite down on this.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    I waggle it at him. ¡°This is gonna hurt. You don¡¯t want to crack a tooth.¡±


    He gives me a deer-in-the-headlights look. ¡°Your finger?¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t hurt me.¡± I brush it against his lips. I could manifest a leather strap for him or something, but I want him distracted. And I sort of want to know what it feels like in there. Hesitantly, he opens his mouth, and I place my pointer along the row of his molars. His mouth is so humid and hot. Sometimes I forget how meaty and wet you people are inside.


    I slam my other palm, the heated palm, into his chest, and he screams. His jaw locks around my finger. I feel the dull ache of his paltry pressure. Flesh fizzles. Don¡¯t judge me when I tell you this, but he smells delicious.


    He crumples as I remove my hand. ¡°Father above,¡± he groans.


    ¡°Ah-ah.¡± I crouch to his level. ¡°Irene above, my little warlock.¡±


    His olive flesh shivers. Sweat carries the dirt down his forehead. ¡°It¡¯s done?¡±


    I cradle his cheek, running my thumb along the conch of his ear. ¡°It¡¯s begun. You can put your stuff back on. It won¡¯t sting.¡±


    He brushes the place I branded him. The skin is already cool. Right above his heart, straying from pectoral to sternum, a black brand in the shape of my third eye. The conduit opens. I let my power flow through the firmament into my new servant, and relish the wonder on his face as he feels me.


    ¡°Good, right?¡± I help him to his feet. ¡°It¡¯s going to wear you out at first, every time you call upon it, so try not to overexert yourself. You¡¯ll feel your limits. But the pathways will broaden with use.¡±


    His grim task reestablishes itself in his mind. The men he must send to me. I catch his gaze, snare it to mine. The thin tracery of my pupils in their pools of gold, the smoldering darkness of my face. He¡¯s examining me, trying to find the humanity within. There¡¯s none, not in the way he¡¯d define it, but I like how close we are. I smell the blood in him; I feel its heat. His soul a little flickering firefly in the darkness of this dimension, cupped in the palm of my hand. An impulse rises in me to close my fingers around it, to keep his light locked away within me. To keep him safe from the bruise spreading across existence.


    But he has his task.


    ¡°Time works differently in my dimension,¡± I say. ¡°You can stay awhile, if you¡¯d like. If it would help.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯ll go. Best get it done quick.¡±


    I can still feel his apprehension. His dread. I¡¯m about to argue with him, offer him a rest, maybe manifest a hot tub for the poor guy or something.


    And then I feel the air churn as the psychic echo of a city-sized entity breaks the horizon, a slowly widening roar. I witness the shrinking of his pupils as his face breaks into confusion. A trickle of blood drips from his right ear.


    ¡°Yes okay get outta here good luck Cas.¡± I hastily lay my kiss on his forehead and banish him from my realm. His gasp fractalizes and fades as he folds like origami into nothingness, his essence rocketing from me like a hocked loogie.


    Just in time, too. If he¡¯d stayed another instant, his sanity would have liquefied. My sister has arrived.

 3. A cage

    My youngest and cutest sister comes slicing joyously into my airspace. She greets me by her nickname for me, which is brief enough that you¡¯d probably survive hearing its first syllable¡ªa noise like one thousand bull elephants choking to death¡ªbefore it permanently deafened you.


    I admonish her. We are working with humans now, and that it¡¯s high time we got used to forms and utterances that don¡¯t squash them like ants or obliterate their sanities.


    A moment later, a sheepish manifestation of my sister scuttles into my antechamber. Today she looks like a nightmare a wolf is having about turning into a moth.


    ¡°Sorry, girlie,¡± she says. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had company over. Did I kill him?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re okay, Bean.¡± I pat her scabrous head. ¡°I zipped him back to Diamante. He¡¯s getting into a fight right about now, if you want to watch with me.¡±


    My sister¡¯s chosen Bina as her human-ish name, which I think is lovely. But as her elder sister by a few thousand years, it¡¯s my duty to razz her by calling her Bean instead.


    ¡°Ooh, yes yes. One sec.¡± She gets shakily up onto her hind legs and molds herself into a more humanoid shape to mimic me, though her head is still a compound-eyed, toothy maw. ¡°Am I looking cute?¡±


    ¡°Always.¡± And she is, sort of. You¡¯ll have to take my word for it.


    ¡°Irene, this is such a weird configuration. The two legs thing.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± I manifest a couch of tendon and bone and adipose, then clad it in wood and velvet for appearance¡¯s sake. ¡°Try it in heels next time if you really want to fuck your day up.¡±


    A section of the marble floor peels open, a glistening maw that hardens again into a brickwork well. I open a vein in the ceiling and drip my ichor into the basin, centrifuging it in a graceful spiral as it falls until it lands in the well as crystal-clear water.


    ¡°Can we put it on the wall, please?¡± Bina cranes her aberrant head. ¡°I¡¯m having trouble doing necks.¡±


    I slide the portal up between two torch-lit alcoves. The limpid pool within defies physics. A picture resolves itself within the whirling water of the world called Diamante, blurring back into focus.


    ¡°Is he nice?¡± Bina asks. ¡°Is he strong?¡±


    I shush her. ¡°Let me focus, Beany. He¡¯s going to call on me. And I gotta catch these mortals.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s spirit shunts back into his body. He gasps awake, with a reforged neck and a branded heart. His eyes open, and then immediately flicker shut again against a shovelful of black dirt, which cascades into his throat and sets him to hacking and coughing. There goes the element of surprise.


    Caspar¡¯s hands palpate across the layer of turned earth coating his chest. A hissing whisper from above. ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°Father¡¯s fucking grace. He¡¯s still alive!¡±


    Move, Caspar, I think, and he moves, scrambling to his feet, his head nudging up from the grave they¡¯ve tossed him into. A tactical error, I would think. The man with the handgun is pointing it at his forehead.


    I try not to send my evocations to a warlock who hasn¡¯t commanded them, but Cas is new at this, and I can¡¯t have his brains get splattered on his first day. So I breathe corrosion into the world and fuse the gun and the hand into a single lump of rust and bone.


    A scalded howl from the man who wields it. Caspar sees my handiwork and a wave of empathetic nausea pulls through him. He remembers his mission; he remembers my promise to ameliorate the suffering we inflict. He rises from his grave.


    Sam the bricklayer catches him around the middle in a flying tackle, tries to force him back into the tomb. One hand goes to his scabbard, reaches for his hunting knife. But Caspar¡¯s a big guy, and even before I strengthened his sinews and filled him with darkling vigor, he was stronger than Sam ever was. He wrenches them both to one side, cascading more earth into the hole beside them. Sam¡¯s hand is pinioned to the filthy ground. Caspar tugs the knife from the other man¡¯s belt.


    Rough arms tug him up and off Sam and hold him fast, as weeping Aaron swings the shovel downward two-handed, trying to crack his skull like a robin¡¯s egg. I act once more.


    Black bile flows from every orifice on Caspar¡¯s face and hardens in a heartbeat into a segmented carapace. The shovel cracks against it, rings in his ears like a bell, but he barely feels the impact.


    ¡°Warlock!¡± comes the shriek from the man on Caspar¡¯s right. ¡°He¡¯s¡ª¡±


    And we don¡¯t find out what he¡¯s, because Caspar¡¯s armored head crunches into Righty¡¯s unprotected skull and he goes down like a ton of bricks. Caspar follows and brings the knife down in a gravitational plunge. Right into the neck, through the Adam¡¯s apple. The tip bites vertebra.


    That¡¯s number one.


    I swipe a desultory hand skyward. A ribcage of gleaming bone erupts from my floor and hardens into wrought black iron. A mortal man, covered in dirt and his broken nose¡¯s spume, tumbles into it. My first favor to Caspar.


    ¡°Bean, fix him for me, please,¡± I say, eyes still on the portal.


    ¡°Kay.¡± Bina wobbles off my chaise toward the man in the cage. He sees her hybrid visage and tries to scream; the ruined meat of his throat just bubbles and flaps instead.


    Thunder splits the world open. A lance of white pain into Caspar¡¯s side; Edgar has emptied his revolver, missing every shot but one which clips a rib. I curse this passion project¡¯s divide on my attention. The damage is fixable, but even after two little evocations, I can feel Caspar¡¯s system strain. We have got to get him some practice.


    Stolen story; please report.


    Caspar lunges for his old schoolteacher, ducks low into a single-leg takedown and brings them both slamming into the dust. The techniques he was schooled in as a kid are ground-and-grapple; he learned how to disable one target, lock them and choke them, an art of deescalation and nonviolence. And he¡¯s unarmed. One arm wraps around Edgar¡¯s throat. The other throws laterally out, and Caspar¡ªwho still has no clue how his new magic works¡ªissues a frantic mental request for some kind of killing implement.


    I oblige.


    A gasp of surprise from my warlock as his forearm bones punch painlessly out through his skin, blackening, sharpening, extending into a vicious, two-pronged claw. Edgar¡¯s eyes bug and pale spittle issues from his mouth. Caspar prays to the Father that I am true to my word (he really ought to be praying to me, but we can get that right eventually). Then, with a silky tear, he unseams his schoolteacher, neck to navel.


    Edgar goes quickly, with less a scream than a plaintive sigh. Caspar rolls the dead man off him and rises, spattered in gore. He moves now with terrible purpose. He is steeped in the blood he swore he¡¯d never spill again; but he is not one to leave a job half-finished. A twist in the depths of my unfathomable gut. Sorry, Cas.


    The man whose hand I ruined is thrashing in the dust. Your name is Florin, Caspar remembers. Your sister is pregnant. He kneels and severs Florin¡¯s jugular.


    The cage is filling up. I spare a moment to slide its surface area wider. Bina¡¯s finished repairing the mortal with the sliced-out neck. Almost instantly, the ragged scream solidifies and fills the air.


    ¡°Oh, shit.¡± Bina looks back to me.


    I tut my annoyance, and with a swipe of a finger I take the screamer¡¯s mouth from him. He claws at his own face, goes mmmm mmm. ¡°Keep it down.¡± I point at him. ¡°You can have that back when everyone¡¯s behaving. Can you keep going, Beany? They¡¯re bleeding on my tile.¡±


    ¡°I wanna watch,¡± Bina protests. ¡°I came over to hang out, y¡¯know.¡±


    ¡°I know. Sorry. After this I¡¯ll let you take me to that crevasse you¡¯re always talking about, okay?¡±


    ¡°Oh, fuck yes. The spooky library thing?¡±


    ¡°The spooky library thing, sure. Please put those intestines back in.¡±


    Bina gets busy re-spooling the newly arrived Edgar¡¯s entrails. She misses Sam¡¯s death, a foolhardy cross jab met by Caspar¡¯s easy weave and razor quietus.


    The ignition of an engine. The car¡¯s headlights snap on and Caspar¡¯s head snaps to them. Aaron¡¯s tugging at the parking brake, hands quaking with desperate fear. The adrenaline is wavering. Caspar second-guesses himself, thinks of sparing this one. He and Aaron were the only two basses in their temple choir all of seventh year, the only ones whose voices dropped low enough to get at those brassy hails on the hosannas. They¡¯d whisper about card games between their songs.


    The car door wrenches open. Caspar drags the wailing man from the driver¡¯s seat as his voice hits a higher register than he¡¯d ever managed in Temple.


    ¡°Please, no,¡± Aaron blubbers. ¡°O, Father. Caspar. Please.¡±


    Caspar kneels before him. ¡°I¡¯ll see you soon, okay?¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ll explain everything, Aaron.¡±


    Aaron blinks the tears from his eyes. ¡°What¡ª¡±


    Caspar snaps his neck.


    When he slides into the holding cage he¡¯s making these piping ah ah noises like a broken bagpipe. ¡°Hi,¡± Bina says, while the wisps of power I allow her in my demesne untwist his head back around.


    ¡°Demon,¡± he shrieks, as soon as his shrieking plumbing realigns. ¡°Father, close your hands around me! Father, take these visions from me!¡±


    Bina blinks her massive prehensile eyes. ¡°These guys don¡¯t know how to act, Irene.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m just going to¡­ hold on.¡± I take one last glance at Caspar, confirm it¡¯s all quiet with him. He stands in the washed-out pool of headlight, his shadow thrown long and monstrous across the broken bodies of his neighbors.


    Edgar the school teacher gazes dismally through the bars at the red ruin of his corpse on display. ¡°This is Hell, isn¡¯t it? We took a life and went to Hell.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as Hell, mister mortal,¡± Bina says. ¡°This is Heaven.¡± He stares at her in cold disbelief. ¡°I¡¯m Bina,¡± she adds. ¡°You may have heard my sister call me Bean. Please don¡¯t take any cues from her misconduct.¡±


    I hang a transparent film across the impromptu bars of my holding cell, and Edgar¡¯s embittered response¡ªprobably something about the fucking Father again, knowing Diamantans¡ªmuffles to incoherence. ¡°There we go.¡± I stretch out on the couch. ¡°They¡¯ll keep in there until Caspar shows up and tells me what to do with them.¡±


    ¡°Caspar said to do this?¡± Bina peers at the panicky humans through my silencing shroud.


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± I watch my warlock root through Aaron¡¯s pockets for the dead man¡¯s billfold. Caspar locks his vision onto Aaron¡¯s sightless eyes and I feel his anger and apprehension. If only the link went two ways, so that I could show him his flighty birdbrain pals are here, having existential crises all over my lounge.


    ¡°And you said yes?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± I say.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°They scream all the time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll find a better place to keep them, all right?¡±


    Caspar climbs into the sedan, pulls the door shut only to realize that he¡¯s broken the latch. It yawns lamely out again like a broken wing. He carefully opens the glove compartment, finds a screwdriver inside, and shrinks back at the ease with which he bends it into a tensile question mark. What the red Hell did that woman do to me?


    He called me a woman. I smile.


    Caspar tears the cleanest of the dead men''s garments into strips and does what he can to disinfect them with a half-full bottle of gin from the glove compartment. He binds his stinging wound, and I hiss out a breath with him at the pain of it. He¡¯s field-dressed before, and knows this one will keep, at least until he can get someone to look at it. It looks worse than it is.


    He widens the grave they dug, and piles them inside. He lays the dirt over them. He sits before the turned earth. ¡°Father,¡± he begins. ¡°Keep your¡ª¡±


    He pauses. He takes a deep inhale and flinches at the stab in his side.


    ¡°Irene,¡± he begins again. ¡°Keep these men safe in your¡­wherever you are. Keep your word, and I¡¯ll keep mine.¡± He stands up and wipes his hands on his pants.


    Then he sits at the dash of his stolen sedan and tries to think, battling the cloud of fatigue settling around his shoulders. This must be the wear-out that Irene mentioned, he realizes. The spells did this. My clever little warlock.


    There¡¯s no going home. That¡¯s for sure. He has a few hundred ducats he lifted off his victims (killers, doofus, I think. They¡¯re your killers). He has Edgar¡¯s revolver and eighteen bullets. He has a ride, now, though it¡¯s busted, and he only has a third of a tank. He needs food and a place to sleep. And then he needs to find the key to Heaven.


    Well, everyone knows who has the key to Heaven. That would be the Suzerain. The lord of Pastornism. The smiling, ageless benefactor who Caspar and all his classmates and later his coworkers bowed twice to each morning. The most powerful person on Diamante. All Caspar has to do is reach him, get an audience with him, convince him that the Father is dead, and ask nicely for the key so that he can hand heaven over to the devil.


    I snort. ¡°Good luck with that, man.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Bina has given up on bipedalism and is curled up at the foot of the couch. ¡°Is he thinking? Can I hear?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯d appreciate if I let you into his head without at least an intro.¡± I rub behind her antenna-ear things. ¡°Sorry, Bean. Maybe you can ask him later. He¡¯s thinking about trying to convince the Suzerain to hand the key over. With, like, diplomacy.¡±


    ¡°Ohh.¡± Bina¡¯s prehensile tongue licks her chops. ¡°He¡¯s not stupid, is he?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not stupid. He just has to reprogram himself. It¡¯s very difficult.¡±


    Bina settles into my scritch. ¡°Poor Caspar.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± I feel the vibration of the engine as my warlock brings the sedan to life, and cuts into the night. ¡°Poor Caspar.¡±

 4. An evening in autumn

    Caspar floors it down the darkened roadway. The trees are caught in the lambent glow of his headlights, like spars of some monstrous undercarriage, as he fights to hold his rickety consciousness together. One of his arms, the one covered in the drying gore of his neighbors, is laced through the driver-side window to keep his broken door from flapping. I¡¯ve retracted his killing claw, but the ragged rents it tore in his sleeve remain. The amber streetlights oscillate across the shining blood as he passes, like the ripples of a stone cast into water.


    He¡¯s fast, but the nausea of what he¡¯s done catches up with him anyway, and he grapples with the dash as he slows down and pulls over. He throws the handbrake on the shoulder and stumbles out of the sedan, the busted door see-sawing in his wake. He makes it onto the grass and remembers he¡¯s got this fucked-up helmet on. He fumbles with its seal; I evaporate it for him, peeling the chitin back into wispy black vapor.


    So removed from his enclosure, Caspar is free to puke his guts out, which he does. He drops to one knee as if in prayer and lets the horror of his evening empty him out.


    This morning, Caspar was sipping a rooibos tea in his clinic and chatting on the phone with his cousin in Marteshe. Now he¡¯s murdered five men. And not in service to his god and his kingdom, not like the first one. These he killed for the Adversary.


    Oops, turns out he wasn¡¯t as empty as all that. He doubles over again.


    ¡°Oh, ew,¡± gasps Bina, in scandalized delight. ¡°I didn¡¯t know they could just do that.¡± Of all my sisters, Bina pays the least attention to humanity. The rest of us devote at least part of our attention to keeping abreast on terrestrial matters. Bina spends her time charting the ruined Heaven, excitedly telling us about the latest obelisk she¡¯s discovered or relict she met and/or ate.


    ¡°It¡¯s the trauma,¡± I say. ¡°Fella¡¯s going through it.¡±


    ¡°Is he coming back here soon, d¡¯you think?¡±


    ¡°As soon as he sleeps, and he¡¯ll need sleep soon.¡± I stagger with Caspar back to the car. He finds the supplies brought by his murderers. Trail mix, canteens, workwear. A couple copies of the Father¡¯s Precepts. I feel a stab of annoyance as he takes one. But old habits die hard, I guess. Maybe I should write a book.


    ¡°Can I meet him?¡±


    I glance at the twisted frame of my sister. What the hell, he¡¯ll have to meet the family at some point. Bina¡¯s hardly the worst place to start. ¡°Sure. But be nice.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m always nice.¡±


    Caspar takes a deep glug of metallic water, washes his mouth out and spits dismally into the grass. He soothes his parched throat with the rest of one canteen and then tears open the plastic seal on the trail mix. He considers opening another canteen and spending some water on his hands, which are caked with grave dirt and dried blood. No; best to conserve. It¡¯ll take much more than water to clean these hands, anyway, he reflects.


    (This strikes me as a thought with poetical potential, but Cas is a matter-of-fact man. He¡¯s thinking about hand soap.)


    He tilts his head back and tips the salted seeds and chocolate nibs into his mouth. Halfway through the bag, he realizes just how hungry he is, as his parm-sated mind catches up to his deprived body. He has quite the sweet tooth, my warlock. He used to tease his fianc¨¦e by plucking the chocolates out of mixes, back when he had a fianc¨¦e.


    The fatigue is really pressing his brain smooth now. He climbs back into the car and steers further off the shoulder, maneuvering as carefully as he can into the brush and treeline. A few scrapes, a few dings. Ah, well. This is a loaner, after all.


    He slumps in the driver¡¯s seat and looks at himself in the rearview mirror. The dirt, the blood, the dried ichor. The pale scar of the rope around his neck. The sting of his grazed wound like a spear in his side. He will never sleep in his own bed again. The pound cake his last client brought him, after he cured her son¡¯s fever, will harden and decompose in his icebox. The hydrangeas in his window will dry and wilt. His god is dead. His heaven is hell. His world has ended.


    He lays his cheek against the steering wheel and weeps uncontrollably.


    Then he goes to sleep.


    He awakens on his bier, in the depths of his new deity.


    ¡°Welcome back, warlock mine.¡±


    He tilts his head to one side, sees Bina and I lounging on the couch before the vertical well. I¡¯ve relocated his little friends. They were ruining the ambience.


    He sits up and looks down at himself. He¡¯s clean and dressed in his favorite outfit, the tweed suit his father mended and passed down. He wore this every Friday for services. Consternation crosses his brow when he realizes it¡¯s purple now. I am what I am.


    He stands and approaches my sister and I. For his sake, perhaps, I¡¯ve added a few planters of hydrangeas around the lounge. Such charming little blossoms.


    He kneels uncertainly.


    I tsk. ¡°That¡¯s very kind, Cas, but unnecessary. This is Bina, my sister.¡± I gesture to the monstrosity at the foot of the couch. ¡°Bean, Cas.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Caspar!¡± Bina sits up, segmented tail unwrapping from her too-many legs. ¡°A friend of Irene''s is a friend of mine.¡±


    Caspar hasn¡¯t decided what he is to me. But the horror-women who now own his soul keep insisting he¡¯s a friend, and he doesn¡¯t correct us. He briefly considers extending a hand to shake, but can¡¯t figure out what piece of her anatomy would be best to grasp.


    ¡°Charmed,¡± he says.


    ¡°Please do not call me Bean, by the way,¡± Bean says.


    Caspar blinks at her unearthly form, her drooling teeth and her furry thorax. ¡°Understood, Miss Bina.¡±


    I step daintily to my feet. ¡°Bina and I are exploring a cavern that used to be a library. I¡¯ve never been, but she loves the place. Do you want to look?¡±


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He remembers the lance of existential agony from last time. ¡°Are you sure I¡¯m able?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s pretty subterranean so far,¡± I say. ¡°If I refract it for you just slightly into shapes your hardware can take, I think you can handle it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s uh.¡± His hands find his pockets. The reassuring scratch of the material. ¡°That¡¯s very kind.¡±


    The chasm Bina takes me to is framed by a many-limbed statue, snapped in half at the waist and folded into a yawning triangle. So titanic is the canyoned interior that my sister and I can drift through it side-by side. She reaches out and entwines one skyscraper pseudopod with mine. Her spiracles flower with excitement; she¡¯s been trying to drag me out here forever. Clouds of our minuscule scout-forms flap through the tributaries and recesses, intermingling in bleached skulls and splintering shelves.


    The view from our primary perspectives is of a library tunneled like an ant farm into a pair of cliffs. Scores of wings, hundreds of chambers, millions of books. Billions, perhaps, if this winding way continues as long as it seems to. Along the canyon floor is an ocean of torn pages and broken spines, nestled like autumn leaves atop a disarray of furniture¡ªdesks, reading nooks, moldering couches.


    In places, the physical laws of the dimension have unraveled severely enough that the air has solidified into glistening ribbons, catching frozen geysers of books like flies in amber and blooming them across the canyon. They bump along our flanks as we float through, nudging them from the rents they¡¯re caught in and cascading them to the distant floor.


    Those wounds in gravity look like Milinoe¡¯s handiwork. She¡¯s always been one for smacking physics upside the head. I remember she told me about a fight she had with one of the Father¡¯s warships in a canyon. Maybe that was here.


    I open a little window for Caspar in my bulkhead. No foaming at the mouth, no seizing. I expand the porthole into a wide picture window. Constellated pillar candles, nestled in the sunken alcoves and collapsed byways, shine cherry lights across our faces.


    Bina sighs. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Caspar licks his dry lips as we gaze through the window. ¡°It¡¯s ruined.¡±


    ¡°I know. It¡¯s still beautiful. More beautiful, maybe, than it was.¡± Bina¡¯s tail swishes across the mosaic floor. ¡°The works of divine and human hands, in a dance with entropy and chance. The sum of order and chaos. A collaboration.¡±


    He looks out and cocks his head. ¡°I never thought of it that way. Suppose entropy is something to be fought for my kind.¡±


    ¡°Mhmm.¡± I stand next to him, watching his breath fog the glass. ¡°Fought, but never defeated. Create, construct, consume, corrode. The way of the mortal.¡±


    ¡°But fought anyway,¡± he says, and meets my gaze.


    ¡°You¡¯re the chiefest servant of an Old One now, y¡¯know,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s about time you found a taste for decomposition. Zoom out a little.¡±


    ¡°An Old One.¡± Caspar glances between us. ¡°That¡¯s what you call yourselves?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what I am. Me and Bina. So called on account of we¡¯re old as shit, though Bean¡¯s only around a thousand.¡±


    Bina hisses. ¡°Irene, don¡¯t tell him that!¡±


    ¡°Bina, it¡¯s fine. He¡¯s like thirty.¡±


    ¡°Thirty whats?¡±


    ¡°Thirty years old.¡±


    ¡°Oh, my goodness.¡±


    ¡°The Father was an Old One, too,¡± I say. ¡°Perhaps the Oldest. I imagine that¡¯s heresy to mention.¡±


    A furrow in his brow as he tries to understand. ¡°So you¡¯re gods. You¡¯re a goddess.¡±


    ¡°My my, Caspar.¡± I push out a hip. ¡°You really can flatter a girl. That¡¯s not exactly how I see myself, but if it¡¯ll help you orient, knock yourself out. Just don¡¯t mistake me for your old God. My benediction is much more personalized.¡±


    He coughs. ¡°Begging your pardon, ma¡¯am, but I don¡¯t imagine I could ever mistake you for anything.¡±


    ¡°My funny little human. Was that something approaching a joke?¡± I smile as I look past Caspar¡¯s shoulder at my sister. ¡°Do you mind if I leave you alone for a while, Bina?¡±


    She blinks. ¡°I¡¯m inside you.¡± I give her a meaningful look. It dawns on her I¡¯m sparing my warlock some serious questions about this reality. ¡°Oh! Okay. Sure. Good to meet you, Caspar! I¡¯ll see you around!¡±


    He gives an awkward wave. ¡°See you soon, Bina.¡±


    I hook my arm through Caspar¡¯s promenade-style. At the height I¡¯ve made myself, the top of my head barely clears his shoulder. It¡¯s funny to me, being so much smaller than him. ¡°Come on.¡±


    As we depart from the lounge, a hexagon of glass breaks off from the picture window and slides with us, lighting our way. Caspar watches it warily. ¡°It¡¯s all Heaven out there?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. It¡¯s without end, as far as we can tell. When you die, and your capacity for the eldritch expands, I¡¯m going to have such fun sights to show you.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were locked out,¡± he says. ¡°That¡¯s why you need the key, ain¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°We are. Just not spatially. Not in the third dimension. But to a being like me, that¡¯s basically the foyer.¡± I twist my wrist and another hydrangea appears in my hand. I scoot it into his jacket lapel. ¡°I can¡¯t do that, for example, beyond my demesne. If we¡¯re going to fix heaven on anything like the scale required, we need root access. The Father locked that away behind the Gate, created the Key, and gave it to the first Suzerain.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯d He do that for?¡±


    ¡°To steal it all from you,¡± I say. ¡°Heaven is supposed to be yours. To shape how you wish. He floated on in from the void and took over. I intend to get that Key, open the Gate, and leave it open. For you.¡± And for me, I don¡¯t say.


    ¡°I see.¡± He reconsiders. ¡°Well, I get the concept, anyway.¡± He straightens his lapel and gives the hydrangea a brief sniff. Judging by his reaction, I assume I got the scent right. ¡°When I get it, what do I do with it?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s focus on getting it first.¡± I don¡¯t want him to think too hard about how he¡¯ll need to kill his monarch.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°You wanted to say hi to those friends you whacked, right? And I want to prove my word is good. Let¡¯s go meet the meatheads.¡±


    I open a door to an autumn evening. He stumbles as I pull him across the threshold. We stand now in a field fretted by the lengthening shadows of a nearby forest, its leaves changing to gold and scarlet and umber.


    A clutch of tents is erected in their shade, with camper lanterns glowing within. Five in total. The men who occupy them are all outside in a circle around one of their fellows, having some sort of fraught conversation. Well, most of them are.


    Shoot. I got so wrapped up in things I forgot to return that screamy one¡¯s mouth.


    Before Caspar can realize my mistake, I¡¯ve flicked it back across his face. A strangled cry of alarm and relief. Casper¡¯s ears perk up.


    ¡°There they are, my guy.¡± I sweep an arm toward them. ¡°They won¡¯t see us until you wish it. Do you wish it?¡±


    He paces over to them, watches the steam rise from their cowboy coffee and listens to them debate what¡¯s to be done.


    ¡°When we see her next, we rush her,¡± Edgar says. ¡°That¡¯s all we can do.¡±


    ¡°You want to die again, you dumbshit?¡± Sam shakes his head. ¡°You were in charge the first time. Look what happened.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s a devil. You want to negotiate with the devil?¡±


    ¡°What do you think, Caspar?¡± I come up beside him. ¡°Wanna say hi?¡±


    He looks at Aaron, who¡¯s sitting before his tent and plucking the membrane away from a fallen leaf until its skeletonized veins remain. ¡°Not yet,¡± he says. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know what to say yet. Does that make me a coward?¡±


    ¡°It makes you careful. That¡¯s different.¡± I offer my hand. ¡°What do you say we get something to drink, and you and I can work on a plan for what¡¯s next?¡±


    He haltingly lets me take his hand again. And I feel the glow expanding. His faith in me. And oh, the warmth of it. The fireplace-in-winter warmth. It melts the annoyance of housing these gnats. I¡¯d have saved a hundred of them to feel this. No wonder that old windbag the Father was so addicted to it.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he says, and it¡¯s the gentleness in his voice that does it. I do something I¡¯ve been considering for some time now. Something that might be unwise. Honestly, scratch the ¡°might.¡± But I want to understand these little humans, what drives them, and how it feels.


    So I take the little fragment of me that is Irene, and I loosen my grip on it, like twisting off a piece of clay. I limit her ever so slightly from the rest of myself. She is still my demesne, still in command of my power and an extension of my self, but I unshackle her from my core processes.


    It¡¯s not so easy to describe this to you if you¡¯ve never done it. I guess the most straightforward explanation is that I make her just a bit more human. And trust me, I know. I know it¡¯s a silly idea. If it ends up too much of a burden, I can always recycle her back into myself. It¡¯s fine.


    (Though it would be a shame. I did spend a lot of time on this ass.)


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Caspar Cartwright,¡± I say, and I lead him through the door, back into the dark maze of me.

 5. A hostage

    We sit at a wiry cafe table, my warlock and I, overlooking a deconstructed historical fiction section. I¡¯ve made tea. Rooibos is, as always, his choice.


    ¡°A Temple Inspector is coming to Rogarth.¡± He carefully raises the chipped saucer and takes an exploratory sip. ¡°That¡¯s why my neighbors did what they did. You harbor a sorcerer, the punishment is collective.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°I should never have strayed. I wanted to help so badly I ended up doing the opposite.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not the one I¡¯d point the finger at, Cas,¡± I say. ¡°They literally dug their own graves.¡±


    ¡°Putting the pointing aside, ma¡¯am,¡± Caspar says, ¡°That inspector might be our opportunity.¡±


    I swirl my matcha. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°If they arrive at Rogarth, it won¡¯t take them long to get the story from everyone¡¯s neighbors and friends, find the gallows, and discover what¡¯s happened,¡± Caspar says. ¡°But if I intercept them, I can force them to turn around and take me to Chamchek. That¡¯s the closest Seat Temple. From there, it¡¯s an airship to Pastornos, and I find the Suzerain.¡±


    ¡°Very nice, Caspar.¡± I give him an appreciative pat on the head. He doesn¡¯t shy away, but he doesn¡¯t seem pleased. How odd. ¡°That¡¯s a good start. With certain modifications.¡±


    ¡°What are you thinking?¡± He blows across the surface of his cup. I surreptitiously ratchet its temperature down a few degrees.


    ¡°No need to drag an inspector with you to Pastornos,¡± I say. ¡°Just kill him and take his place.¡±


    Caspar frowns. ¡°I don¡¯t have to do that. There¡¯s plenty of reasons for an inspector to be transporting a civilian.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a complication to leave them alive, dude. Just take their papers and their temple cruiser. There¡¯s a spell I can teach you to change your face. It won¡¯t last long or stand up to close scrutiny, but with my magic and some guile, it¡¯ll get you at least as far as Chamchek, and it beats having to keep a hostage the whole way.¡±


    ¡°You assume so quick it¡¯ll be a man?¡±


    ¡°Cas, you¡¯re talking about an agent for a religion called Pastornism, who¡¯s going to take you to the holy city of the Proud Father to speak with the Lord Suzerain. The what, the 400th Lord Suzerain?¡±


    ¡°431st.¡±


    ¡°Has there ever been a Lady Suzerain?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s lady inspectors,¡± Caspar says, defensively. ¡°There¡¯s a few.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Well, in the circumstance we get one of those, just kill her regardless and we¡¯ll figure out a plan B. The cruiser and the papers will keep us unbothered on the roadways, at least.¡±


    ¡°I ask you to allow me to try it my way first,¡± he says. ¡°And I¡¯ll kill if I must.¡±


    I sigh and pace to the window. To my subtle satisfaction, Caspar¡¯s attention trails down the curve of my exposed shoulder, to where the dress cinches at my waist, then waterfalls over the small of my back. I can feel his curiosity at what¡¯s below the violet silk. He doesn¡¯t know just how burrowed into his brain I am, Or perhaps he guesses and can¡¯t resist, anyway. Well, Cas, enjoy it either way. I made it for you, after all.


    ¡°All right.¡± I turn and make a show of smoothing the fabric at my sides, and he gets a glance¡ªjust a glance¡ªat the curves I¡¯ve honed beneath them. His Good Temple Boy programming kicks in and his attention snaps back to my face. ¡°It¡¯s your plan. You take the lead on it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t let you down,¡± he says.


    ¡°I know. But.¡± I snap my fingers and the wall shoots outward behind me as a cream-colored practice mat unrolls from its molding like a loosening tongue muscle. ¡°Before you wake, we¡¯ll have a look at that magic of yours.¡± The dress melts and reconfigures into a tank top and drop-crotch joggers. The waving tendrils that make up my hair lash themselves into a tight ponytail. A chip of bone drops into my hand in the shape of a whistle. ¡°Finish your tea, warlock. It¡¯s time to show what you can do.¡±


    Caspar puffs a laughing exhale. ¡°You really put on a show, huh?¡±


    ¡°Age has its perks.¡± I click my tongue. ¡°Hop up.¡±


    He obeys.


    ¡°You are the gateway of my magic into the world,¡± I say. ¡°That means the spells you cast use your body as a focal point. Last time, I had the reins. In the future, I¡¯m going to rely on you to cue me. The faster you can do that, the better. Now.¡± I stomp and a chunk of the ceiling collapses. On the slab¡¯s inverse squats a stone gargoyle. I point at it. ¡°Melt that.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Breathe acid on it. Same way you fucked that guy¡¯s hand up.¡±


    Caspar stands and pads onto the practice mat. ¡°How do I breathe acid?¡±


    ¡°How do you breathe air? Just do that. With acid.¡±


    He inhales. I feel his cue like a spark of static electricity and let it twitch the reservoirs of corrosion deep within my bulk. He blows a cloud of corruption which liquefies the gargoyle¡¯s leer, fusing it into a gnarled fist of stone.


    ¡°Son of a bitch.¡± He coughs and spits a fizzing wad of saliva to the floor. ¡°That tastes foul.¡±


    I punch the air. ¡°First try! We¡¯ll make an eldritch abomination out of you yet. I love acid breath. A real standby. You¡¯ve seen a few others. That claw, huh? You like?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, honestly. ¡°I can¡¯t say as I do. But it was useful.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯ll like this one.¡± I mime a gun and the wound on his side opens up again. He clutches it and grimaces. ¡°Anything that doesn¡¯t kill you, you can fix. Go on.¡±


    His teeth grit against the pain and the bizarre sensation as his flesh wriggles and seals. ¡°By the Fath¡ª¡± He catches himself. ¡°These spells of yours. Such weird sensations.¡±


    ¡°Literally skincrawling, eh?¡± I knew he¡¯d be good at this part. At his clinic, he employed minor works of hedge magic to draw away pain or disinfect or staunch bleeding. The training-wheels version of my magic. One reason I chose him. ¡°What you¡¯ll really have to train is your endurance. We only got three spells off yesterday. A fourth would have put you out like a light. Make time for practice when you can. Think of it as resistance training. Your body will adapt.¡±


    He looks around the training area, notes that the hole in the ceiling has patched itself and shines slightly, like scar tissue. ¡°Do we keep going, then?¡±


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    ¡°No reason to. It¡¯s your body back on Diamante that we have to condition.¡±


    ¡°Then why the mat?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to get some practice in with that claw of yours.¡±


    ¡°What¡ª¡±


    I blow the whistle. A glistening, shrieking humanoid bubbles glutinously up from the practice mat, a blobby clay nightmare, faceless and frantic. It tackles him squawking to the ground. He rolls over into a mount and pins its arms in place.


    ¡°Claw, Cas!¡± I call. ¡°Summon my shit!¡±


    He lashes his arm out and the hardened bone slats into place. He impales my homunculus through the jaw. I click a silver clicker as Caspar staggers to his feet. ¡°Warn me next¡ª¡±


    Two more trills from the whistle. Two more howling assailants. He tears one of them open; the other bears him once more onto the mat. ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake,¡± he snarls as they roll and thrash.


    ¡°Onward, warlock!¡± I tweet an additional beast into being. ¡°Twelve more of these little bastards and we¡¯re done with our first set!¡±


    The tuning cicadas, the plaintive croon of a mourning dove. The dappled light reflecting in the glassy eye of a deer as it noses against the rear door. The caroming crash of its flight into the forest when Caspar jolts awake. His hand is clasped to his ribs, where the bullet tore past him. He gingerly removes his palm and it sticks to the dressing where he bled through.


    He traps his tongue between his teeth and there¡¯s that squirming wrongness again as his flesh sterilizes and seals itself. The strain meets his woozy morning brain and brews itself into a dizzy spell; he sits back in the fake leather seat of the sedan and waits for it to pass.


    Then he removes the bent screwdriver from the glove compartment and presses its tip diagonally to the broken driver''s door. He wants to try something. He gives it a sharp tap with his palm and it drives itself halfway into the metal. Another blow and it¡¯s speared itself through the frame, pinning the door shut. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be,¡± he murmurs.


    I¡¯ll be what, exactly? He glances at his forearm. It¡¯s no thicker or stranger than before. Is he still human? Does this still count as human?


    He shakes the redness out of his palm and turns the key in the ignition. He has his task.


    His first stop is Altarwood River. He proposed to Vesta here, the morning he received his departure orders. Remembering it now, he feels thrice over a fool. The Father was gone by then. An empty throne. His duty should have been to her, not to Him.


    He strips down. There¡¯s a pale pucker on his side where the bullet took him. Another landmark on the map of his shitty decisions. He plunges into the water, swimming against the current until his arms burn and the filth of his rebirth is as scrubbed away as it¡¯ll get without soap.


    He climbs onto the bank and lets the sun dry him while he pops the trunk and examines the dead men''s workwear. Nothing in his size, really. Caspar has always been self-conscious of his heft. He was an overweight kid¡ªChunky Caspar, they called him¡ªand while bootcamp transformed that fluff into muscle, he¡¯s never truly felt comfortable in his body. And that was before it spat acid.


    He makes do with charcoal dress pants and a crisp service button-up, sleeves rolled up and front partially open so it doesn¡¯t pinch so much in the shoulders. He catches his reflection in the side mirror. Looking like an overgrown toddler, Cartwright, he thinks.


    (It¡¯s my opinion that he¡¯s looking very fetching, but he can¡¯t hear me.)


    He leaves his ruined burial clothes on the riverbank. He digs into his chore coat pocket and pulls his charm braid out from it, runs his thumb across the wooden saint icons strung together. Bianca of the Builders, Drusus of the Sword, Deborah of the Field. The faces of his childhood, of his worship. He wound his hands with this every night as he prayed.


    The Father is dead. He reminds himself. The Father is dead and he¡¯s working for His killer. He takes the thing with him anyway. One final tether to his old life he isn¡¯t yet willing to sever.


    He returns to the sedan, remembers he¡¯s spiked the driver side shut, and scoots across its divider to reach the steering wheel. Let¡¯s see, now. The inspector is coming from Chamchek, so the likeliest route is off Exit 12-Votive. Caspar drove this journey many times when his unit was stationed there.


    There¡¯s a rest stop within sight of the exit. Gas station, chapel, teashop, SnappyMart. He parks his sedan so the dings and the gleaming screwdriver tip are facing away from the roadside. He considers crossing the street and picking up some supplies, but his fear of missing the inspector glues him to his seat.


    After a half hour, he can¡¯t ignore his stomach. He picks up jerky, fruit leather, and a road map from the SnappyMart. He considers first aid supplies and then remembers the tricks I¡¯ve taught him; he spends the crowns on a lighter and a grubby cup of black tea instead. Should he be concerned about witnesses? The bored teenage pilgrim working at the teahouse barely looks up from her chapbook.


    Caspar eats fretfully in his stolen car. He does not think he¡¯s cut out for this existence. He is not a good fugitive. Irene has made a mistake, he thinks. He wonders about my real name, my real form, my real motivation. He wonders whether those men I showed him are really the same ones he killed, or more of my creations to deceive him. He wonders why I¡¯m acting like his friend. He wonders if I watch him bathe (I do) or pee (only once. I was curious, okay?).


    He wonders, after an idle hour of waiting, about my dress. I don¡¯t look how Bina looks. Is it an attempt at controlling him?


    (That is one reason, yes.)


    So involved he is in his fathoming of the unfathomable that when the temple cruiser pulls into the gas station, it scares the jerky out of his hand.


    It¡¯s an unmistakable vehicle. Gold and pearl with the seal of the Suzerain on the hood. Every kid with even a spot of grease behind their ear dreams of growing up and driving one. Muscular and vintage on the outside, sleek and modern on the inside. The door swings out and Caspar beholds the charm braid hanging from the rearview, the carved images of a line of smiling suzerains. A stitched leather riding boot taps onto the tarmacadam and the driver swings out with cocky ease.


    It¡¯s a good thing Caspar isn¡¯t one to rub things in because he absolutely called it. This inspector¡¯s a woman. Tall and strapping in sleek pinstripe black, with a curtain of box braids and a pair of brass-fitted sunglasses. She adjusts one star-shaped cufflink and strides toward the SnappyMart. The proprietor is quick out the screen door, kneeling and scraping. ¡°Madame Inspector. What an honor. Please, please. Anything we can do.¡±


    ¡°All right, fella. None of that.¡± She pulls him to his feet and dusts his shoulder off. ¡°I¡¯m just here for fuel and carbohydrates. Is the padre in?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s on lunch. I could call him¡ª¡±


    ¡°No need, brother mine.¡± She rests a hand on his back and steers him back into the SnappyMart. ¡°I can shrift myself. Perks of the gig.¡±


    Caspar breathes in for four and out for eight. Then he opens the glove compartment and removes Edgar¡¯s revolver from it.


    He slots it full of slugs and stuffs it into a utility belt, tucking it halfway into a snap pouch. It¡¯s no holster and he¡¯s no gunslinger. But Father willing, this¡¯ll be quick and simple.


    The inspector emerges from the mart with her hand in a bag of potato chips. Her .45 bumps against her hip as she drops a quick curtsey to the SnappyMart guy. She sees Caspar crossing the street, gives him a nod. ¡°Brother.¡±


    He bobs his head. ¡°Madame Inspector.¡±


    She saunters to the chapel. It¡¯s a boxy little one-room job, its saints and icons injection molded and chipped.


    She shoulders the double door in. Caspar waits for a ten-count and then follows.


    ¡°Turn your eye to me, Father.¡± The inspector¡¯s knees rest on an orison pillow. Her hands are clasped around her removed sunglasses. ¡°Close your hands around my heart that I might remember my duty and cleave not from you. Clarify my wrath and let it be made justice in your sight. Watch over Miria and Klaus. And this is low on the list, but if you got any benediction left for me, let the Chamchek Cardinals smash the Pitbulls tonight.¡±


    She moves to stand. Caspar clicks the hammer back on his revolver and places it between her shoulder blades. ¡°Hands on your head, please, Madame Inspector.¡±


    She freezes. Then she slowly raises her manicured hands and does what he says.


    Caspar takes a few steps back. ¡°Unbuckle your gun and put it on the floor.¡±


    ¡°Is this something we can discuss, brother?¡± She places her gun on the ground. ¡°Do we know each other?¡±


    ¡°Stand up and slide it back with your foot.¡±


    She obeys. Her pistol is black and compact.


    ¡°Walk out of the chapel and back to your car. Slow and casual.¡±


    She turns. Her eyes are slivery blue as she surveys him. ¡°Are you from around here, brother?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, inspector.¡± He fights to keep the revolver steady. ¡°Ain¡¯t going to work like that. Move, please.¡±


    She stalks outside and he follows her to the cruiser. She fishes her keys out with exaggerated care and unlocks her car. ¡°This needs gas.¡±


    ¡°Not from here. Take a seat and open the back.¡±


    She ensconces herself at the wood-paneled dash and sweeps the rear door open. Caspar slides inside. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Her eyes meet his in the decorated rearview. The charm braid flutters. ¡°You buckled up?¡±


    ¡°Go.¡±


    The inspector¡¯s wheels purr into action. The temple cruiser rolls out of the gas station. I lean forward on my chaise and watch my warlock¡¯s white knuckles against his stolen pistol. ¡°All right, Cas,¡± I murmur. ¡°Let¡¯s find out if I told you so.¡±

 6. A disagreement

    Inspector Jordan Darius has known this was due ever since she let the sorceress live. A little slip of a laundress who¡¯d had a cleansing enchantment passed down from her grandparents along with the shopfront.


    A bungled case. Jordan looked at the neatly piled beach towels and the pale faces of the villagers and found herself unable to mete out the temple-prescribed decimation.


    Jordan took her weeping from her village, the sorceress praying desperate hosannas to the Father the entire way. A sob of confusion from her when Jordan let her out at a crossroads, telling her to hitchhike to Fallgate and never return to her village.


    Suffer not the falsifier and spare not the sorcerer. This sort of shit comes back around. And now there¡¯s a big yokel ox with a gun on her.


    She¡¯s been on the wrong side of a gun before. She¡¯ll figure it out. Guy looks frightened, looks like he¡¯s got more brawn than brains. He said please and called her Madame Inspector. There are levers here.


    I¡¯ve heard enough. Miss Darius is far too calm; this is not a cowed, easily controlled hostage. She¡¯ll have to go.


    I flit back into Caspar''s skull.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name, brother?¡± the inspector asks.


    Caspar stays quiet.


    ¡°I¡¯m Jordan. Jordan Darius.¡±


    ¡°Quiet.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± She peers at him through the mirror. ¡°I¡¯m going to guess¡­ Orion.¡±


    ¡°I said quiet.¡±


    She chuckles. ¡°Bro, you¡¯re not gonna shoot me for trying to guess your name. You look too nice. What¡¯s a nice name¡­ Gregory. Abelard. John. You tell me and I¡¯ll stop.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Abraham,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Well, Abraham,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what your bug is with me, but it hasn¡¯t gone so far that we can¡¯t work it out and part as friends. You ain¡¯t hurt anyone yet. Acheron 5:81, right? Blood let shall not cleanse blood spilt.¡±


    ¡°Nor further conceal the covenant between my children,¡± Caspar finishes.


    Oh, yes. This lady¡¯s gotta die.


    Her eyes crinkle. ¡°That¡¯s right. Now can I guess this is about temple business? Maybe the Rogarth inspection?¡±


    Silence from the warlock. He glances out at the blur of the highway divider.


    ¡°I gotta tell you, Abe, they¡¯re going to send someone else if I don¡¯t make it there.¡± Jordan drums her ringed fingers against the ivory gear stick as she upshifts. ¡°I think what¡¯s best is you and me turn around and go to Rogarth together. And we can talk on the way. The village ways aren¡¯t the city ways. Not every inspector gets that, but I do. I won¡¯t be bringing my tight-ass basilica city rubric in. No quota-filling or sadism. You have my word on that.¡±


    Caspar shakes his head. ¡°You¡¯re taking me to Chamchek,¡± he says. ¡°Anyone asks, I¡¯m an acolyte on transfer.¡±


    ¡°Well, we won¡¯t reach Chamchek without a refill on the gas.¡± Jordan¡¯s voice is even. ¡°I think we¡¯re comfortable to go until exit 3-votive, then I gotta take us off and fill us up. Okay?¡±


    Caspar glances at the fuel gauge. She¡¯s not lying. ¡°Okay.¡±


    They coast into the rest stop, which is even more rinky-dink than the last. Not even a teahouse here, just a convenience stop and the chapel. ¡°Will you let me pray here?¡± Jordan asks.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to pray for you.¡±


    ¡°Prayer doesn¡¯t have the audience you think it does, Madame Inspector.¡± Caspar pops the passenger door and climbs out. ¡°Step out and fill the tank.¡±


    Then they¡¯re back on the road, eating the miles between them and Chamchek. The stone saints-of-the-road gaze beatifically down from their stanchions. A garlanded bus laden with pennants and pilgrims, some riding the roof, cruises past them, evoking supportive honks from their fellow travelers. Jordan flicks the cruiser¡¯s siren on and the pilgrims cheer from their seats. Caspar remembers what it felt like to have that comradeship in faith. He belongs now to a religion of one. It hurts his heart.


    I realize belatedly it hurts mine a little, too. The Irene experiment is yielding interesting data.


    Jordan is following the speed limit exactly; other cars peel around her and accelerate past. She¡¯s slow-rolling the journey. She¡¯s going to ask to stop for the night.


    ¡°Going to need a hotel soon, Abe.¡± Did I call it or what? ¡°We can¡¯t keep driving through the night.¡±


    ¡°We can.¡±


    Jordan shakes her head. ¡°I was already running on four hours. I will not be okay to drive. Now, we can keep going if you wanna take over, but that raises questions if we¡¯re pulled over and I imagine you¡¯d prefer to keep the gun on me.¡±


    Caspar sighs heavily. He wishes he could hear me. ¡°Fine,¡± he says. ¡°Three exits from now.¡±


    The motel they wind up at is a chintzy wayfarer trap, its facade done up in gaudy colors and overlays to look like a basilica. The squire at the peeling intake desk insists on a deep genuflection despite Jordan¡¯s good-natured protests.


    ¡°You won¡¯t believe how annoying it gets, all the bowing.¡± Jordan unlocks the door to their suite. ¡°I don¡¯t know why the inspectorate doesn¡¯t spread leaflets or something. It hasn¡¯t been a rule since the inquisitions.¡±


    Caspar gestures to one of the twin beds with the hand not on his pistol. ¡°Take that bedspread to the bathroom.¡±


    Her brows gather. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Go.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m buying you a thesaurus so you can find additional ways to tell me ¡®go.¡¯¡± She pulls the pillows and comforter off the twin. ¡°Proceed, maybe. Progress.¡±


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    ¡°Progress to the bathroom,¡± Caspar says. The inspector progresses. ¡°Now proceed to put that stuff in the tub.¡±


    She spares the shower a dismal glance. There¡¯s a grubby ring around the enamel. ¡°The tub?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re sleeping.¡±


    She tuts. ¡°Abe, come on.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Madame Inspector. Nowhere out there to secure you.¡± He indicates the safety rail along the bathroom wall. ¡°Cuff yourself to that.¡±


    ¡°I have to pee first, Abe.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± He steps back.


    She coughs. ¡°A modicum of privacy, please?¡±


    Caspar purses his lips. Oh, get over it, man. You can¡¯t leave this one alone. He steps out of the bathroom. Argh.


    Fortunately for us, Jordan Darius doesn¡¯t try anything yet. Just does her business and lets him back in. Then she clambers into the tub and fishes her cuffs out of her belt, threading them through the rail and sticking herself to the wall. ¡°Key¡¯s on that little pouch on my left hip,¡± she says.


    Caspar retrieves it, then hesitates. She might have another copy. ¡°I need to pat you down,¡± he says.


    ¡°Where¡¯s the trust. Honestly.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°Do what you have to.¡±


    Caspar searches Jordan, fighting his abashment at laying hands on her. This is the smart move, but it annoys me. Not sure why.


    ¡°Normally I ask a fella to buy me dinner first,¡± she remarks as he frisks her jacket.


    ¡°Can you please not.¡±


    She chuckles. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    She isn¡¯t concealing a key, but Caspar finds and confiscates a gravity knife tucked into her boot. ¡°I¡¯d love if I could get that back when we¡¯re through,¡± she says. ¡°Gift from an ex.¡±


    He pockets the knife. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    He shuts the bathroom light and heads back into the suite. ¡°Night, Abraham,¡± she calls.


    He has an inkling of what she¡¯s trying to do with this chumminess, but he gives her a ¡°Good night,¡± anyway.


    He does his own business outside in the copse of forest near the hotel, then returns to the suite and lies atop the other twin bed, gazing up at the tawdry popcorn ceiling and preparing to meet his goddess.


    ???????????


    ¡°You¡¯ve gotta kill her, Caspar.¡± I pour his steaming red bush tea to the brim.


    Caspar shakes his head as I cross to my seat. We¡¯re making the tea thing something of a tradition, it seems. ¡°She¡¯s cooperating.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll be fine, Cas. I¡¯ll keep her comfortable with the others.¡± I rest my chin on my palm. ¡°I thought we¡¯d gotten over this compunction.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not about that,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m very grateful, what you¡¯re doing.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re very welcome,¡± I say.


    ¡°It¡¯s the pain and the fear beforehand. And the people they leave behind.¡± He sips. ¡°And me. It hurts me. If I can be selfish.¡±


    ¡°You killed for the Father.¡±


    ¡°You showed me I didn¡¯t,¡± he says. ¡°I killed for nothing, and I hid behind the Father. He ain¡¯t even here any longer. I¡¯ll do what I have to, but I don¡¯t want to kill because it¡¯s easier. That doesn¡¯t sit right.¡±


    I put my tea down. It seems clear to me we need a reset in our understanding. ¡°Caspar. I understand what you¡¯re saying. But you swore your oath and took your mark. That doesn¡¯t come for free. If ever I demand it, you will obey me. Your soul is mine eternally. You are mine eternally. When you live, you serve me. When you die, you will dwell with me.¡± I spread my arms. The window behind me closes. The candlelight flickers and dims. ¡°You¡¯re looking at your forever, kiddo.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°You never told me that.¡±


    ¡°Was it not obvious? You¡¯re the one who called me a goddess. How do you think that works? Haven¡¯t you been taught it all your life? This is the exact situation you had with the Father and you were pleased as punch about it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I was born into,¡± he protests.


    ¡°And you prayed all your life he¡¯d intercede for you or reveal his grace to you. Well, I did all that day one. Perhaps I should have been more withholding, but that isn¡¯t how I operate.¡±


    I lean across the table. My teeth slot out into the mouth I¡¯ve manifested. They are razor-sharp. ¡°If you¡¯d really hate it that much, I can eat your soul and consign you to oblivion instead, when this is all over. It¡¯s been so long since I¡¯ve had a soul. Not since the Father. They are delicious. And I am hungry.¡±


    He is afraid of me. He¡¯s terrified of me. I can feel it draping over him like a freezing shroud. But his face betrays none of it. ¡°You do what you think you must.¡±


    I twist the tiles we sit on to a blank wall, and open a door to the pocket of autumn. ¡°I am doing what I swore I would, my warlock.¡± I point out toward the tents. ¡°You will do the same. That inspector is a liability. End her.¡±


    ¡°If she becomes a liability,¡± Caspar says, ¡°I will.¡±


    I stand up. I walk behind him and rest my hands on his shoulders. My claws emerge and prick lightly through his shirt. Such a broad man. So accustomed to his strength. But his strength is naught before me.


    ¡°Do you know the things I could do to you, should I tire of your resistance? I could break you. I could hollow you out and pack you with servility. Your eternity is an eyeblink to me. I could fill it with the kind of pain you¡¯d do anything to stop.¡± The room twists and softens like candle wax, growing organic and cavernous. My hand travels across his trapezius and cups his neck. I press a finger gently against his jugular. ¡°I could turn you into an obedient puppet of meat and bone.¡±


    He tilts his head back and looks up at me. His cropped hair rasps against my midsection. His eyes are full of fear and defiance. ¡°Then do it.¡±


    We stare at one another. His jaw clenches.


    I billow out a sigh. "I had to get the himbo warlock." I stomp back to my chair and sit heavily down as the room resets into its geometrical masonry. It''s the fault of the separation that I''m so irked by this. The greater mass of me is serene, but my Irene fragment throws her hands up in annoyance. "All the hedge mages on Diamante and I pick the himbo. Fuck you, man. Fine."


    ¡°Fine?¡± And the way he looks at me tightens something inside the body I¡¯ve made him.


    ¡°Fine, spare your inspector. Truss her up and drag her all the way to the capital. But when she pulls some dumb hero thing that blows the plan up, I reserve the right to tattoo I told you so on your idiot corpse¡¯s chest.¡±


    He smiles at me. Ugh, that picture-hero smile. His teeth are so straight and shiny. ¡°You can put it on my forehead, even.¡±


    ¡°You are damn lucky you drew me out of all my sisters. I don¡¯t even know if Bina would tolerate this kind of disobedience.¡±


    ¡°Why do you?¡± He drains the last dram of his tea. ¡°You say you like humanity. You say you¡¯re doing this for us. Why, if we¡¯re so below you?¡±


    ¡°So suspicious of me, Caspar.¡± I tap my chest. ¡°Kinda hurts.¡±


    And I say it lightly, but it does. I wonder again if this Irene-loosening was a mistake.


    ¡°I want to understand you,¡± he says. ¡°I know I can¡¯t, but I¡¯d like to try as well as I¡¯m able.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°You don¡¯t need a reason to like the things you like. Sometimes you just like them.¡±


    ¡°Do you see how suspicious that sounds?¡±


    ¡°Is it really so crazy that I could have affection for humanity, even at such a remove from them? You¡¯ve seen wounded creatures and wanted to help them, even if all you had in common with their primitivity is the pain you know they feel. You¡¯ve seen industrious ants and hives of eusocial bees, and admired them, even been shocked and impressed by what they can produce.¡±


    I pace to the window again and look out at the drifting firmament of books. Bina and I are still exploring the library. We pass through a cloud of bodice-ripper romances.


    ¡°You were eleven,¡± I recall. ¡°And you rode your bike through the Clipperquay Trail after it had rained, and you accidentally crushed a frog with your front tire. And you gave him a burial and made a little headstone for him. Rest With The Father Mr. Froggy, you wrote. You remember?¡±


    He looks into the murky reflection in his teacup. He remembers.


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying all of us, and I¡¯m not saying all the time. I¡¯ve crushed mortals flat and given not a thought to them. But I like humans. My sisters often think I¡¯m silly for it. But I do.¡±


    He clears his throat. ¡°So you see me as a bug.¡± And it¡¯s unmistakable this time, a little curlicue of humor braided through his intent.


    I titter. ¡°Now you¡¯re being mean, Caspar Cartwright. The temple taught you better, brother.¡±


    He raises his hands. ¡°Apologies.¡±


    ¡°Accepted. Now finish your tea and let¡¯s get to training. I saw how you waved that pistol around. Not bad, but insufficient for an inspector.¡± I tilt my head and from around the corner steps a ghoulish caricature of Jordan Darius, her eyes big and red, her teeth sharpened into nasty fangs.


    ¡°That just ain¡¯t neighborly,¡± Caspar remarks.


    ¡°I¡¯m letting the little floozy live, aren¡¯t I? Up and at ¡®em. We¡¯re going to run through some CQC.¡±


    Caspar drains his cup. I unmake it and the cafe table, reducing both to thin filaments and sucking them back through the floor to give us room.


    ¡°She¡¯s going to try and disarm you,¡± I say. ¡°Don¡¯t let her.¡±


    Caspar drops into a combat stance and glances at his fist, where I¡¯ve manifested a copy of Edgar¡¯s pistol. His full lips harden into a line as his eyes dart to my uncharitable homunculus. I settle back onto a fast-manifested chaise, a little smile teasing across my unadorned face as I watch my warlock work.

 7. a hot tub

    ¡°Gentlemen. Please.¡± Caspar rubs his temples as Edgar scrambles through his knapsack, and Aaron babbles prayer. ¡°You already killed me once, and look where it got us.¡±


    I spatially baffle Florin¡¯s attempted flying tackle; the man goes flying through Caspar, as if the warlock were made of smoke. I stifle a laugh as he crashes into his own tent.


    ¡°Where is my damn gun?¡± Edgar empties his knapsack into the grass.


    ¡°Will you all shut up,¡± roars Sam. ¡°Let the man speak.¡±


    Finally, the men of Rogarth fall silent.


    Caspar holds up his hands in solicitation. ¡°First thing is, I¡¯m saying sorry. You all know me. I hope you know it gave me no joy to do what I did.¡±


    An awkward pause.


    I raise a finger. ¡°Is there anything you boys would like to say to Caspar?¡±


    ¡°Sorry we killed you, Cas.¡± Aaron wipes his nose on his wrist.


    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Edgar says. ¡°You were a warlock. Whole damn time. We kept you housed and fed and you were a warlock.¡±


    A vein stands out on Caspar¡¯s forehead. ¡°I became a warlock after you hanged me. It was that or Heaven, which¡ª¡±


    ¡°There is no Heaven for the sorcerer, says the Precepts.¡± Florian¡¯s righted himself and his tent.


    ¡°The precepts are¡­¡± Caspar hesitates. ¡°Out of date.¡±


    ¡°When can we go home?¡± Aaron asks.


    I inch innocently up to Caspar¡¯s ear. ¡°We can do my little presentation whenever you¡¯d like, Mr. Cartwright.¡±


    He scratches the back of his neck. ¡°Perhaps we¡¯d better.¡±


    I tap a foot on the dirt. A translucent bruise spreads from the point of my toe, flattening the grass into a stretched glass membrane.


    The men of Rogarth look at the abyss below their feet, and witness Heaven.


    Once I¡¯ve restored their forest floor, and the screaming has stopped, Caspar has the space he needs to explain himself. His neighbors listen in pallid silence.


    ¡°The Adversary deceives the minds and eyes of mortal men.¡± Edgar¡¯s voice is shaky and infirm.


    ¡°That¡¯s as the Father tells us.¡± Caspar crouches before his huddled teacher. ¡°And exactly what I said when Miss Irene showed me. But the Father is gone, Edgar.¡±


    ¡°Even if I am lying, there¡¯s nothing to be done about it,¡± I say. ¡°Not by you. We¡¯re only here because my warlock maintains some perverse affection for his betrayers. Why he thinks you¡¯ve ever deserved him is beyond me.¡±


    ¡°And we want to know if there¡¯s anything that¡¯d make you more comfortable,¡± Caspar says.


    Florin shrugs miserably. ¡°Maybe a pool table?¡±


    Sam nods. ¡°I¡¯d take a pool table.¡±


    ¡°Pool table and a taphouse,¡± says the screamy one, whose name is apparently Kai.


    ¡°Only we¡¯d need a calendar,¡± Aaron says. ¡°So that we don¡¯t end up drinking on Fridays. Fridays is temple days.¡±


    Sam lays a hand on the young man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Reckon we¡¯re well past that, Aaron.¡±


    Caspar leaves the boys with the promise of a taphouse, a pool table, and their choice of darts or pinball (I have to draw the line somewhere). He doesn¡¯t stick around for the resulting debate.


    I linger by the door back into the darkness of my insides as he takes one last look at the pocket of autumn. He steps through the threshold. ¡°I suppose I¡¯d better get back to it.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± I fold my arms.


    He gives me a quizzical look.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been through a lot, Caspar, in a brief time,¡± I say. ¡°If you keep this pace, you¡¯ll burn out. I promised you anything you liked when you were with me. Whatever you¡¯d have from me, I¡¯ll grant it, remember? You haven¡¯t been taking advantage.¡±


    He shuffles his feet. ¡°The tea¡¯s nice.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Cas. But surely there¡¯s something you¡¯d like besides tea and sandwiches, hmm?¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s all the same to you, ma¡¯am, I¡¯d just as soon get this all over with,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°It¡¯s not all the same to me,¡± I say. ¡°I can¡¯t just have you kill and maim and take hostages in my name without rewarding you. You are going to relax.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Okay.¡± He puts his hands up in surrender. ¡°I¡¯ll relax.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s your pleasure, mister warlock?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t rightly know,¡± he says, but he knows. I hear everything from him. Even the things he wants to hide. Wish granted, Caspar Cartwright.


    I snap my fingers. A chunk of the wall to our right sloughs away like a scab. Beyond it, accompanied by a blast of cool air, is the twinkling night sky of a mountainside vista, seen from an old-growth deck. At its center is a broad enamel hot tub, the kind you could fit a dinner party in. It¡¯s full of steaming water (and yes, dear reader, it¡¯s just water. I¡¯ve filtered out all the enzymes and impurities from what it was before).


    ¡°Voila!¡± I stride into my little vignette. ¡°Come on through, warlock. Have yourself a dip.¡±


    Caspar balks. He indicates his tweed suit. ¡°In this?¡±


    I toss him a swimsuit. He unfolds it. ¡°In this?¡±


    I sigh and manifest a somewhat longer one behind my back, so he can¡¯t see the membrane and the lipid tallow its polyester emerges from. I underhand it to him. He hesitates. ¡°All right.¡± He ducks round the corner, out of my Irene body¡¯s sight.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you anyway, you know,¡± I call.


    ¡°Please stop.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing I haven¡¯t seen many times, in fact.¡±


    Caspar emerges onto my mountain, his broad chest bare and flushing in the sudden chill. ¡°Humans have a concept called privacy, Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to keep track of every time you¡¯re scandalized by something that you happily accepted from the Father. And when we hit ten, you¡¯re going to owe me a free tea latte.¡±


    ¡°I never met the Father. It¡¯s different.¡±


    ¡°So a stranger peeping your business is different?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not¡ª¡± Caspar huffs out a laugh. ¡°If you want me to relax, let me pretend, please?¡±


    ¡°As you wish. Now your goddess commands you to have a relaxing soak.¡±


    Caspar slips into the hot tub and groans in relief as the water unknits his trammeled-up spirit. I give him a brief scratch on the head as I pass back toward the door. He cranes his neck.


    A thought from him, a small and circumspect anxiety, stops me in my tracks. I grin. Well, well.


    I do a half-turn, dress swishing around my ankles. ¡°Would you like company, Mr. Cartwright?¡±


    His attention snaps with contrite determination to the view of the mountain range. ¡°It¡¯s. Uh. It¡¯s a big tub. I suppose I just¡­ assumed. Apologies.¡±


    ¡°No apologies necessary. I could really use it, too.¡± I tug my dress up over my head. He doesn¡¯t turn around, but he is listening very carefully to the sound the silk makes as it glides across me.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    I slip into the hot tub on the other end. He marshalls his gaze away from the horizon only once the water is up around my shoulders and most of my ink-black body is occluded by the steamy surface.


    ¡°I¡¯m wearing a swimsuit, you know.¡± I raise my third eye¡¯s brow. ¡°This is all perfectly acceptable according to your little Precepts. The latest translation, anyway.¡±


    He allows himself a glance and immediately snaps back up to my face. ¡°I don¡¯t know if the padres would see it like that.¡±


    I giggle. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯d let the padres see it at all, Caspar. Anyway, there¡¯s no proscribed square footage.¡±


    He continues to studiously avoid my body. I make a show of turning away and gazing at the remnants of the day where they paint the peaks. I¡¯m rewarded by a dare of a glance at the curve of my breasts where they meet the meniscus of the tub. I¡¯ve reduced those just a touch since last we met, made them a bit more pert. I think they¡¯re cuter this way. Caspar does, too.


    Messing with my virtuous little mortal is far more fun than I¡¯d care to admit. I probe around the edges of his restraint. Is there a little less here than last time? I settle back with a contented sigh, all three eyes shut, and let another half-inch of my neckline slip above the surface.


    ¡°May I ask you something, Miss Irene?¡±


    I open one golden eye. ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it like?¡± he asks. ¡°To be a¡­ to be you.¡±


    ¡°You ever see a stage play, Caspar?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m something of a coarse yokel,¡± Caspar says. ¡°But I¡¯ve seen a show or two. Mysteries and parables of the Father, traveling mummer sorts of things.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever had that moment midway through the first act,¡± I say, ¡°when the flats and the threadbare costumes and stand-in props cohere into a shared illusion, and you believe that a sodium spotlight is the sun, and a flat painted set can be a forest or a palace?¡±


    He nods.


    ¡°And then the show ends, and the doors open, and you walk blinking back into the light, and the true nature of the world reasserts itself in all its solidity and dimension?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Imagine another door. And another light and another world. A dimension more real again than the last. Imagine crossing the stage and seeing what¡¯s behind it. Seeing all the trappings of your old reality for the insubstantialities and shadows they are, and beholding the true things they represent.¡±


    ¡°That sounds¡­¡± He searches for the word. ¡°Terrifying.¡±


    ¡°Terrifying, yes. And exquisite.¡± I lower myself further into the water. My foot drifts across the tub, a scant inch from his leg. ¡°When your self is no longer bound to its mortal flesh, I¡¯ll show it to you.¡±


    I give in and nudge his knee with my toe, half convinced that he¡¯ll bolt like a scalded puppy, but he doesn¡¯t. He just looks at me, his bright hazel eyes contemplative. I smile at my reflection within them. ¡°I think you¡¯ll love it, Caspar.¡±


    ???????????


    ¡°Throne One to Ophanim Blue.¡±


    The radio crackles to life a few minutes past the final votive exit, after Jordan¡¯s turned onto the Prudence route. She glances at Caspar. ¡°Ophanim Blue is me, Abe.¡±


    The radio chirps its hail again. Caspar shifts his attention from the slaloming treeline to his hostage. ¡°Can you ignore it?¡±


    ¡°Not without attracting a lot of suspicion.¡±


    ¡°All right. Go ahead.¡± He rests the pistol on his thigh, pointed at her seat back. ¡°Keep casual.¡±


    Jordan unhooks her transmitter. ¡°Ophanim Blue receiving, Throne One.¡±


    ¡°Rogarth post hasn¡¯t checked you in, Jordy.¡±


    Jordan fidgets with the call button. ¡°What do I say?¡±


    ¡°Whatever you need to. Delay.¡±


    She brings the transmitter back up to her lips. ¡°Van full of pilgrims had a breakdown outside 12-votive. I got a little stuck helping them out. But we¡¯re back on task now. Pass my apologies on to Rogarth post, yeah?¡±


    A little burst of static. ¡°Those damn temple wagons. What was it, a Morningstar?¡±


    Jordan chuckles. ¡°Yep. Rear axle. We got it sorted out.¡±


    ¡°Every time with the rear axle. All right, Ophanim Blue, good looking out. Father keep you.¡±


    ¡°And you, Throne One. Over and out.¡± Jordan holsters the transmitter.


    Caspar has kept his cause steady by imagining the inspector in his sights as one of the fearsome inquisitorial automata that parents spook their wayward kids with. The reality of Inpsector Darius is a distracting difference. He hopes fervently she¡¯ll keep cooperating. It used to be that he¡¯d pray for it. But as strong as I¡¯ve made him, I don¡¯t have control over the inspectorate.


    ¡°Lemme put on some music, Abraham?¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he says. He¡¯d like something to keep the thoughts quiet, anyway.


    Jordan flips the AM/FM on and tracks around momentarily.


    ¡°¡­ing to the Wayback Playback, brothers and sisters. And we¡¯re coming up on the Temple Tower Hour. That¡¯s right. Park it here for sixty uninterrupted minutes of Double-T on Ninety-six nine.¡±


    The crunchy introduction to Not Just Yet sizzles out of the sound system. ¡°Ohhh, shit.¡± Jordan taps the steering wheel to the first drum fill. ¡°Great timing. You know this one, right, Abe?¡±


    Of course he does. Everyone knows Double-T.


    ¡°Not! Just! Yet! Ba da da bah da na na.¡± Jordan bobs her head to the chorus. ¡°Come on, Abe. We¡¯ll be above it all, but Not! Just! Yet!¡±


    Caspar doesn¡¯t join in, but a grin cracks through his carefully chiseled mask.


    They¡¯ve passed several checkpoints and gates along their journey, and cruised through with nary a stop. I have to admit, it¡¯s helpful to have an inspector at the wheel. I still think Caspar could have just killed her and knuckled through, but Jordan¡¯s cooperating for now, and it¡¯s easing the journey.


    Forty-five minutes into the Temple Tower Hour, when Jordan¡¯s rolling through a backroad to get onto Prudence 55, they hit the checkpoint that fucks it all up.


    Jordan turns the radio down and leans on the brake as they coast toward a prefab gate that¡¯s been dragged across the road and locked. A uniformed templar, his scarlet-and-gold kevlar open and unzipped, beckons them forward.


    Jordan rolls her window down. ¡°Afternoon, brother.¡±


    ¡°Afternoon, Madame Inspector.¡± The templar peers into the cruiser. There¡¯s two more of them about fifteen feet behind him, leaning on their squad car. Caspar lays the pistol under Jordan¡¯s knapsack, grip tight on its stock. ¡°Hate to ask for your ID.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even need to ask, man.¡± She fishes her badge from her jacket pocket. ¡°I got you.¡±


    He flips her leather fold open and checks her picture. ¡°You heading to Chamchek?¡±


    ¡°Got it in one,¡± she says. ¡°My friend Abe here¡¯s a transferring acolyte.¡±


    The templar examines Caspar. ¡°Uh huh. Got ID, Abe?¡±


    Come on, man. Think of something.


    ¡°Thing is,¡± Jordan cuts in. ¡°His ID was outta date on account of it¡¯s his old parish, plus he¡¯s got a name and status change keyed in since he¡¯s got him a new wife in Chamchek.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Caspar hastily adds. ¡°We¡¯re doing the hyphenate thing.¡±


    ¡°So we up and didn¡¯t bring it since he¡¯s bound for a new one, anyway.¡± Jordan shrugs. ¡°Our bad, brother.¡±


    The templar clicks his tongue. ¡°Well, congrats to you, Abe. What¡¯s that new name you¡¯ve got.¡±


    Caspar blinks. ¡°Abraham Semfeld-Baker.¡±


    ¡°Semfeld? Like the guy from Temple Tower?¡± The templar chuckles. ¡°Any relation?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s laugh is strained. ¡°I wish.¡±


    ¡°Tell you what.¡± The templar leans out of the car. ¡°Normally I¡¯d let you just go right by, Madame Inspector. But we¡¯ve got a bit of a situation here. Warlock sighting in the area.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s blood goes cold.


    ¡°Now the description isn¡¯t anything like you two,¡± the templar says. ¡°But they can be face-changers now and then. So I have my orders and a sword dangling over my commission if I don¡¯t follow them.¡±


    ¡°Ah. I get it.¡± Jordan¡¯s knuckles have gone white on the wheel. ¡°Look¡ªyou give me the name of your superior and I¡¯ll give them a call. Let them know you did an inspector a solid.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Sorry, Madame Inspector.¡±


    Caspar can hear Jordan¡¯s breath pick up. ¡°Thing is, we¡¯re already late. There was a breakdown. Pilgrim Van.¡±


    ¡°I get it. Here¡¯s what we¡¯re gonna do, all right?¡± The templar gives her a smile. ¡°No need to do a whole intake thing. I¡¯m just gonna call ahead to Chamchek, run Abe¡¯s name by the prelacy there, and as soon as they give me the go-ahead, you¡¯re clear as crystal. How¡¯s that sound?¡±


    ¡°That, uh.¡± Jordan makes eye contact with Caspar. He recognizes her look. She is out of ideas.


    He thinks about the autumn evening, the taphouse. He thinks about his oath to me and my oath to him. He thinks about the mercy I have shown him and the mercilessness I expect from him.


    It¡¯s a forest backway, a lonely road. Only a matter of time before it gets less lonely. The time to move is now.


    ¡°Yes, Caspar,¡± I murmur. ¡°Good boy.¡±


    One hand clutches Jordan¡¯s and closes the cuff around her wrist. The other emerges from under the knapsack full of fire.


    A red circle blooms from just over the templar¡¯s eye. His head snaps back as the bullet carries his forebrain with it out the other side, the ghost of his amiable smile just beginning its downturn.


    Jordan screams in shock and anger. Caspar snaps the other end of her cuff to the headrest opposite her and bolts from the cruiser.


    One of the templar¡¯s fellows is already sprinting for the squad car. Caspar empties the revolver, sending the survivors reeling for cover, and drops it skittering to the ground as he pulls Jordan¡¯s .45 from his waistband. He lays down another storm of bullets and hears a yelp of pain from the opposite side of the car.


    He bull-rushes the noise. I feel his stern will, the tensing of his instinct, and my carapace armor bubbles forth from his face, spilling across his head and down his chest.


    By the time his mark has raised up from behind the squad car, Caspar is coated in a helmet and cuirass of shining chitin. The templar¡¯s service piece cracks through the dewy woodland air. But he¡¯s been trained to aim at center mass, and I am protecting my warlock¡¯s heart. The bullet kicks out a spark as it ricochets, and though Caspar¡¯s step twists from the impact, he doesn¡¯t slow.


    He vaults the hood and spins into the templar on the other side, locks a forearm around the man''s midsection and brings them both tumbling to the asphalt. He comes up with the templar locked in place between him and the third guy, who¡¯s roaring ¡°Drop him,¡± as if Caspar is some kind of disobedient dog.


    Caspar shoves the templar forward, hard, forgetting his own strength, and the man¡¯s legs clear the ground as he¡¯s lawn-darted into his squadmate. Caspar sprints after him, my claw punching from his forearm.


    It slices through the kevlar. It spears the heart of the thrown templar and hisses its exit like liquid silk.


    The final templar, trapped beneath his dead friend, issues a piteous cry and manages two more shots, one of which passes clean through the meat of Caspar¡¯s bicep.


    Then ensorcelled black bone takes the place of his right eye and pins him to the street like a dried butterfly. He spasms once and dies.


    Caspar¡¯s arm fluxes and seals as he stands, leaving a ragged hole in his stolen shirt and a crusty iris of blood around it. He leans heavily on the hood of the squad car. Three evocations in quick succession. That nearly laid him out last time.


    He straightens out and finds his footing. With a quick final swipe of his claw, he bisects the lock on the gate and shoulders it open. The claw slats back into him with a puckering slurp.


    He walks back to the cruiser, stride surer with every step. I smile at the progress my warlock is so rapidly showing, and at the look of frozen, furious horror on the inspector¡¯s face. Still feeling buddy-buddy with ol'' Abe, Jordy?


    Caspar picks up Edgar¡¯s revolver, then peels the kevlar and uniform shirt from the templar he shot in the head. A lip of blood dries on the collar, but it¡¯s the least damaged article of clothing he can find.


    He slides into the back seat. Jordan¡¯s right hand is still cuffed to the passenger headrest. ¡°Drive,¡± Caspar says, as he slots six new bullets into the revolver.


    No talking and no music. She lays her foot on the accelerator and the cruiser bumps over the bodies and through the gate.


    The warlock and the inspector leave the dead men in the dust with the broken fragments of their fellowship.

 8. a fantastic time

    Jordan is preparing to kill the man she calls Abraham. This was obvious before I dropped back in on her, but another quick dip into the inspector¡¯s mind confirms it. A bottle-fly cloud of contingencies, half-formed plans, and reproach buzzes through the folds of her gray matter.


    The Father has sent her this bloody reminder of what happens when mercy is shown to the enemies of creation. Give her another crack at that duplicitous little laundress and she¡¯d see the sorceress hanged. Give her another crack at Abraham, Father, and she will lay the warlock low in your name.


    She downshifts as they turn off Prudence to the Chamchek connector. From here at speed, it¡¯s six hours to the city. They¡¯ll arrive by sunset. By sunset, a warlock in a capital city. That won¡¯t happen on Jordan¡¯s watch.


    Three dead men already on her head; three families destroyed because of her doubt and delay. Damn her for forgetting her duty. Damn her for her weakness. Damn her for seeing a brother in a beast of the Void.


    That¡¯s right, Jordan Darius. My beast. With my speed and strength and fangs. Try it, Madame Inspector. Do me a favor and give him a reason.


    Caspar needs to shoot this tool of empire in the head and leave her by the side of the road. If they somehow end up turning in for the night without a showdown, I¡¯ll tell him so. Jordan finally makes eye contact with Caspar after miles of studious avoidance, and something tells me I won¡¯t have to. ¡°I have to pull over,¡± she says. ¡°Pee break.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Do you want me to piss myself, warlock?¡± The burnished skin of her forehead stretches and shines as she scowls. ¡°Would that please your false god?¡±


    Not really, though it might be funny.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s watching,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯s lied to you, Abe. It¡¯s using every weakness you¡¯ve shown it. It¡¯s turned you into a killer. How many more will it demand?¡±


    ¡°I was a killer already.¡± Caspar¡¯s hand is steady. ¡°And so are you. We killed for the Suzerain.¡±


    ¡°We killed for Diamante and for humanity,¡± Jordan says. ¡°And for the Father.¡±


    ¡°They die the same, no matter whose name they die for.¡±


    ¡°Not about to argue morals with a guy telling his sister-in-the-light to mess herself like a dumb farm animal.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°I¡¯m going to find a side road and pull over and do my business. If your new god says to murder me for that, I guess you¡¯ll have to.¡±


    ¡°Ooh, yes,¡± I say, though he can¡¯t hear. ¡°Murder her for that.¡±


    Caspar squeezes his eyes shut for a long blink. My prime form¡¯s thorax ripples with apprehension. ¡°Fine. Pull over.¡±


    Jordan jerks the wheel, and they swerve with authority into the exit lane. Off the populous highway and back into the derelict forested paths.


    Many of these offramps lead only to paved wildernesses. Some bear the skeletal frameworks of would-be missions and villages, planned with pride and confidence, and abandoned when the Suzerain declared the latest in Pastornos¡¯ steady cadence of holy wars. Half-built apartment blocks for young folks now moldering in mass graves on the other side of the world. Praise be to the Father. Father, keep your children. Should your son, your wife, your parent die in His service, why then do not cry. They await you in His paradise.


    Hateful bile rises in me. I discharge it from one of my ventral pseudopods and melt a charnel house on the distant broken ground. I wish we¡¯d kept Him alive longer when we were feasting on Him.


    The skeletal frame of a model town¡¯s bell tower pokes above the treeline where Jordan stops and parks. Caspar steps out of the cruiser first and reaches through the passenger window to uncuff her, then stands by and tracks her passage off the shoulder into the trees. ¡°Not too far, now,¡± he says.


    Jordan undoes her belt. ¡°Will you at least grant me a little privacy, brother?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re done with that,¡± Caspar says.


    She grimaces and unzips her pants. She pulls them down and the skin of her sienna legs emerges as she squats by a tree, and Caspar fucks up.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± I mutter, but he does. My warlock the boy scout turns meekly away from the inspector.


    The rock catches him right behind the ear, whistling like a fastball. His fingers go tingly as he staggers and perhaps he¡¯d have kept his footing, but Jordan is on him, shoulder to his gut in a picture-perfect takedown.


    A bright crash as the gun goes off, but she¡¯s already wrapped around his forearm and the bullet whirs past her snarling face. Caspar¡¯s throat tenses and I prime my acid, but Jordan Darius knows warlocks, has killed warlocks, and she digs one elbow into his neck and forces his head to the side. She shouldn¡¯t be able to do that. How is this woman so damn strong? The billow of corrosion sluices a black, boiling mark across the fallen leaves.


    Caspar¡¯s got warlock strength, but Jordan has Inspector training. She slides from the crushing clinch he tries to lock in and falls back into an arm bar, hyper-extending Caspar¡¯s elbow. With a grating snap, the bone breaks. He hisses with pain and his fingers jitter and she¡¯s about to get the revolver and I growl with rage and I know; I know. I said I wouldn¡¯t do this again. But if I don¡¯t, then Caspar¡¯s fucked, and neither combatant knows he can do this yet.


    I detach Caspar¡¯s arm. It pops off him like a crab¡¯s abandoned claw. Jordan rolls one way and Caspar rolls the other.


    The detached arm¡¯s fingers are still locked around the revolver and Caspar realizes he can still control it. He scrambles into a crouch, propped on the one arm he¡¯s still attached to. Jordan¡¯s expression is almost comical. ¡°The f¡ª¡±


    Caspar dives.


    Her ex¡¯s gravity knife jams itself through Jordan¡¯s ribcage. Caspar lies on it, presses his terrible weight against it as it catches briefly then slides further. Jordan¡¯s sky-colored eyes widen with shock and panic.


    Second time Sofia¡¯s broken my heart. That¡¯s her final, jittery thought, and then with a terminal thrust, her existence on Diamante is finished.


    She vents out her life with an elegiac sigh of ohh, like she¡¯s just received a troubling letter. Caspar rolls off of her and lies panting in the dirt. With a tensile snap, a stringy tendon lashes from his abandoned arm, and then it yanks back into place like a rocketing tape measurer, bowls him to one side with the force of its reattachment.


    He blinks. The pain of his broken limb shoots through him and with gritted effort, he channels another evocation to set it back into place. ¡°Why,¡± he says, ¡°is your magic so goddamn weird?¡±


    He beholds the staring corpse of his erstwhile hostage. That¡¯s that, then, he thinks, and then a wave of fear and reproach forces him to a knee. He isn¡¯t angry at me this time, either. His shivering isn¡¯t from the deep existential dread he felt upon taking his tenth (his tenth) life.


    It¡¯s because he felt nothing at all.


    He wants to will himself toward that same emotional wreckage from his first kill or his third or his fifth. He can¡¯t reach it anymore.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Well, good, I think.


    It¡¯s what I needed him to be. It¡¯s good. And anyway, he knows they¡¯re not gone. Not really. This is fine. This is good. I¡¯m not sure why I keep having to tell myself that.


    Caspar takes Jordan¡¯s badge, for all the good it¡¯ll do him. He sits with her and catches his breath and looks at her cooling body. He should have brought the shovel from the sedan. Why didn¡¯t he do that? He pops the trunk and bundles her in, the big dunce. Then a wave of fatigue crashes into him and he nearly falls in with her. Even with the long gap since the last clutch of evocations, that¡¯s three more spells today. He¡¯s nudging past his limit.


    He¡¯ll find a spot to inter Jordan, or buy the tools to bury her. But he needs to sit down before he passes out.


    He gets behind the temple cruiser¡¯s wheel and breathes an absurd laugh. At the wheel of his dream car in the middle of an endless waking nightmare. He clasps his hands together and fights off another uptide of exhaustion. He¡¯s not sure if he should attempt to get back on the highway. Probably too big of a risk.


    ¡°Miss Irene,¡± he begins.


    The fireplace glow of his prayer warms my face. Oh, it¡¯s just so lovely, his faith. So soothing. I feel a fondness flower inside me. I ought to be annoyed that it came to this after I warned him it would, that he needs to further delay his journey by sleeping this magic off.


    But I¡¯m not. I have this flappy little giddy feeling, instead. I¡¯m excited, I realize. I¡¯m excited to see him face-to-face.


    ¡°You delivered me back there. And with the templars. Your magic keeps saving me. I hope I¡¯m not disappointing you.¡± He clears his throat. An emotion he can¡¯t or won¡¯t name is creeping up his neck. ¡°Thank you,¡± he says. ¡°Please don¡¯t actually tattoo anything on my forehead. And please don¡¯t be too mean to Miss Darius. See you in a few.¡±


    See you soon, Cas.


    He steers the cruiser into the model town and finds an overgrown garage with a flock of sandy-colored doves living in its rusty rafters. As good a place to lay low as any. Nobody¡¯s been here in a long time.


    He sits back and lets the evocation strain drag him under.


    ???????????


    ¡°It¡¯s a bit low, I think.¡± Caspar gives the pool table a critical eye. ¡°Gotta make sure you can eye-level it.¡±


    With a tilt of my chin, I extend the femurs hidden within the table¡¯s wooden legs. ¡°How¡¯s that?¡±


    Caspar leans across the table and lines his shot up. ¡°Yep. That¡¯s the ticket.¡±


    We¡¯re gathered around the pool table I¡¯ve manifested for the captive humans. At my insistence, we¡¯re giving it a test drive before bringing it to them. Caspar doesn¡¯t object. His apprehension simmers as he prepares to stand before the new crop of Father¡¯s dead servants.


    Fortunately, I¡¯ve never played this game, and I¡¯ve taken the opportunity to demand that Caspar teach me. In my analysis of humanity, I¡¯ve concluded that giving a man the opportunity to explain something to an attractive, genuinely interested partner is just about the happiest you can make him with his clothes still on.


    Caspar chalks the tip of his cue. ¡°You wanna flip a coin to see who breaks?¡±


    ¡°You go ahead,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve only ever watched this stuff.¡±


    ¡°Go Caspar, go!¡± Bina waves a few tendrils excitedly. Traitor.


    Caspar clasps his tongue between his teeth and draws one well-honed arm back like a bowstring. An exhale and a clattering chorus, and the triangle of balls splashes into a riot of motion. His eyebrows shoot up at the sheer speed of the break. He¡¯s forgotten his own strength again.


    Bina ooohs appreciatively. ¡°I love that. How hectic.¡± She raises the triangle rack. ¡°And now we reset and do it again?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just the break,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Now we play.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Bina¡¯s tendrils droop a little. ¡°Oh, well.¡±


    I nudge my shoulder into Caspar¡¯s arm. ¡°Can I go?¡±


    He steps aside. ¡°Sure. You can play the solids and I¡¯ll do stripes. You wanna use the blank one to tap the others into the holes on the edges there. Once you got the ones labeled one through seven in, you can try to sink the black eight ball, and then you win. Piece of cake.¡±


    I whistle the tip of my cue through the air as I set up. ¡°You mind checking my form, Cas?¡±


    I¡¯ve swapped the cocktail gown out for a sundress in patterned paisley purple. It is appreciably shorter.


    Caspar dutifully examines me. ¡°Keep the cue lined up under your chin. And turn away from the table a little.¡±


    ¡°Like this?¡±


    He nods hesitantly. I am not leaning enough. ¡°You might want to, uh. If you lean forward, you¡¯ll get more control.¡±


    I nudge forward. ¡°How¡¯s this?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s hands stick into his pockets. ¡°Little more. Straighten your spine out some.¡± I do an intentionally piss-poor job at following his instructions, straightening an iota but staying humped like a cat. ¡°Not quite,¡± he says.


    I glance over my spaghetti-strapped shoulder. ¡°Maybe you could just scoot me like a doll.¡±


    His fingers bunch the material of his jacket. ¡°Okay,¡± he says, and lays his palm against my back as he eases my spine into a straight angle.


    It may bear mentioning, darling reader, in case you¡¯ve been hit on the head recently, that a primary goal of mine in crafting a humanoid form is to have sex with Caspar Cartwright. I¡¯ll disclose my reasoning, in case you find this a foolish or frivolous position:


    <ol>


    <li>


    As far as my sisters and I can tell, the promise of sex is a primary motivator for enough of your species that it affects you on a civilizational level. If I¡¯m to take over from the Father, I need to understand you fully, and therefore I need to understand sex beyond my third-party observations and its obvious biological role in creating more humans.


    </li>


    <li>


    Caspar¡¯s previous sexual partners, especially his former fiancee, have all enjoyed consistent and attentive loyalty from the man. If I become his bedmate, I anticipate the same. In my effort to deprogram his extensive Pastornist indoctrination, I¡¯ll take every advantage I can get.


    </li>


    <li>


    Caspar¡¯s sexual desire for me is steadily growing. His gaze lingers on the slim hourglass span of my waist and the graceful outward flair of my hips. His self-effacement and personal prohibition are sources of considerable mental and emotional discomfort, which will only compound itself as he keeps trying to ignore his attraction. As his patron, his health and happiness are my responsibility.


    </li>


    <li>


    Almost every mortal I¡¯ve ever seen having sex looks like they¡¯re having a fantastic time. Especially when they¡¯re having sex with Caspar. I¡¯d like to have a fantastic time.


    </li>


    <li>


    Caspar smells good, and he¡¯s big, and he¡¯s got big rough hands, and whenever I¡¯m kind to him, his voice gets soft and scratchy and warm. And when he smiles at me, this thing happens where the air in my chest goes solid and an invisible fist clenches around my belly.


    </li>


    </ol>


    I¡¯m not prepared to explain #5 at the moment, as neither Caspar nor his hands are actually big. I am, in fact, many times larger than Caspar.


    With that exception, the logic is sound. But humans aren¡¯t logical about sex, and to my interest, I¡¯ve discovered that I¡¯m not either. Would it feel nice to ride my warlock like a bronco? By every indication, yes. It would. And I know for a fact that it would feel nice for him, too. I¡¯ve designed this body to ensure it. I¡¯ve done exhaustive research on human nervous systems in general, and Caspar Cartwright¡¯s predilections in particular.


    It¡¯s the reason I haven¡¯t just created an entirely accurate human avatar. Caspar finds our stark differences interesting. He¡¯s always been a curious young man. He¡¯s curious about me, and he¡¯s getting curiouser.


    Why haven¡¯t I indicated my intention to him? It ought to be straightforward, no? Why do I continuously hesitate to bring it up?


    That¡¯s a genuine question. Being a human, I¡¯m afraid you probably have a better answer than I do. I¡¯d love to hear it, but tragically, our discussion is one-sided. I suppose I¡¯ll have to keep frustrating you while I figure this out. Please accept my apologies and take solace in the fact that I¡¯m frustrating myself, as well.


    I put all this down to interference from the Irene Experiment, which seems more and more like a vulnerability that ought to be corrected and concluded. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll get around to that, eventually.


    And so instead of immobilizing my warlock in my many tentacles and shredding his clothes off, I breathe into his hand at my back, and line the cue up beneath my chin, and say ¡°Good?¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± His touch departs me; the air is cool and insubstantial in its wake. ¡°Okay, strike and keep the follow through straight.¡±


    I take careful aim and sink the ball into the pocket.


    ¡°Huzzah!¡± cries Bina.


    Caspar lets out the freest laugh I¡¯ve ever heard him make around me. ¡°That¡¯s a scratch, Miss Irene. You don¡¯t want to sink the cue ball. You use it on the others.¡± He plucks the ball out of the release. I gotta tell you, dear reader, I like when he calls me Miss Irene. ¡°Now I get to put this wherever and it¡¯s my turn.¡±


    I tsk. ¡°Come on. You¡¯re making that up.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°You so are. Do you see what I put up with, Bean? My human¡¯s a dang cheater.¡±


    Caspar leans down and eyes his next shot. ¡°Ain¡¯t no need to cheat.¡±


    ¡°Cocky Caspar!¡± I give him a playful swat on the shoulder. ¡°Okay, big guy. Show us.¡±


    Caspar gives a couple of test strokes. ¡°Nine ball, center pocket.¡± His cue clacks sharply against the ball. It snaps one of the stripy numbered ones into a pocket and nudges another out of the corner into what even I can recognize is a prime position.


    ¡°Fuck me, Cas. How¡¯d you do that?¡±


    ¡°Pool was a religion of ours in Rogarth. And I ain¡¯t converted all the way to you just yet.¡± He straightens. ¡°Just about the only game I ever got good at.¡±


    ¡°When I rule reality,¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯ll make special dispensation for pool idolatry. Maybe make you the patron saint.¡± I rub the chalk thing on the end of my cue. ¡°What do you say we do a couple more turns on this table, and then we haul it to the Autumn pocket and work on our limb reattachment?¡±


    His smile falters. ¡°Whatever you like, Miss Irene.¡± Now he¡¯s thinking about that dumb dead inspector again.


    Let¡¯s see if we can¡¯t get his mind off her. I hum to myself as I set up. I put a little arch in my back with my lean, enough to raise the hem of my dress to the first cursive curve of my raven-black butt.


    He forgets his attentiveness to my technique. His eyes slowly wander. I relish the fanning spark of his appetite. It kindles my own. My deadly warlock. My faithful servant. Mine.


    You may not be converted all the way just yet, Caspar. But by the time I take my throne, I¡¯m gonna have you singing your new goddess¡¯s name.

 9. a partner

    ¡°I need more than that.¡±


    Jordan Darius dabs her tear duct. Caspar gives me a sharp look as another drop of blood rolls down her cheek. That¡¯s not my fault, all right? The woman demanded another look at Heaven. The rest of the new arrivals have fled to the taphouse to shake off their vision of the truth. Only the inspector remains out in the crisp evening.


    ¡°You could fabricate this,¡± she says. ¡°All of it. What am I gonna believe, that you somehow killed the Father of Creation or that the great deceiver of humanity is deceiving humans?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really give a shit what you believe, inspector,¡± I say. ¡°You are dead.¡±


    Jordan folds her arms. ¡°You two cheated. Would have been your man with the hole in him.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± I grin. ¡°But we did cheat. The Father may have cheated for you, if I hadn¡¯t, as mentioned, eaten him.¡±


    ¡°The Father trusts His children.¡± Jordan grins right back, teeth bared. ¡°It wasn¡¯t me, but it¡¯ll be someone. You got the tricks, we got the numbers and the faith. I take those odds.¡±


    ¡°What would count as proof for you?¡± Caspar says. I don¡¯t know why he¡¯s bothering with this jerk.


    She shakes her head. ¡°I can¡¯t think of anything.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Oh, I can.¡± Bina waves a half-formed wing. ¡°Can I try?¡±


    We turn our attentions toward the fuzzy beast. ¡°Knock yourself out,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°Okey dokey!¡± Bina scurries away, toward the door out from Autumn. ¡°Back soon!¡±


    ¡°Would you like to take in the taphouse while we wait, Madame Inspector?¡± Caspar says. ¡°We¡¯re gonna have a pool table in there.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t think we can just pick it up like we¡¯re friends, Abraham.¡± Jordan shoves a finger into his chest. ¡°You killed me and left my body in the woods.¡±


    This might have crippled the Caspar of a few days ago. But my warlock has grown his calluses. ¡°Beg your pardon, Madame Inspector. But I put you in the trunk.¡±


    She scowls.


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡± Caspar shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m gonna go see what Miss Irene thinks a red ale tastes like.¡±


    ¡°Ye of little faith.¡± I follow him into the taphouse.


    The templars¡¯ arrival has thrown the darts/pinball vote into disarray. Kester, the man who got his head revolver-ventilated, recovered quickly from the shock of his death (¡°I wasn¡¯t doing much with that brain anyway¡±) and has organized a strong pro-pinball contingency.


    The conversation dies as the conversers¡¯ killer steps into the taphouse, in the company of his heretic goddess.


    Aaron coughs. ¡°Howdy, Caspar.¡±


    ¡°Howdy.¡± Caspar crosses sheepishly to the bar. Edgar¡¯s standing behind it, giving him a hard expression. ¡°How¡¯s the place?¡±


    With a bump of wood-on-wood, the front door bonks open and the pool table enters the taphouse, clopping across the floor on its four legs like a wandering ox. It brushes past an agog templar and nudges Sam out of the way as it finds its spot past the booths and plants itself on the floor. The pool cues clatter as they roll to a stop on its lip.


    Edgar unracks a stein from the wall and fills it with amber beer. ¡°Stout¡¯s a little flat.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a nitro,¡± I say.


    The conviviality gradually returns as the men of Chamchek Diocese get some drinks into them. Eventually, Caspar¡¯s up at the pool table, chalking his cue.


    ¡°You watch out.¡± Sam slaps the back of the warlock¡¯s templar opponent. ¡°Cas here is a hustler.¡±


    ¡°I am not,¡± Caspar protests. ¡°I¡¯m humble is all.¡±


    ¡°Theria 7:17, buddy,¡± the templar says. ¡°They whose humility dwells upon the tongue have none in their heart.¡±


    ¡°Irene 1:1,¡± I say. ¡°Nut up or shut up, cop.¡±


    Jordan leans by the door, gives the entire establishment the stink-eye.


    ¡°Beer, Madame Inspector?¡± Edgar holds up a stein.


    Jordan sneers. ¡°We¡¯re inside the literal belly of a beast, brother. You wonder what exactly it is you¡¯re drinking?¡±


    Edgar stares in disquiet at the glass.


    ¡°I¡¯m baaack,¡± a voice sings. Bina saunters into the function. She¡¯s started to get the hang of bipedalism, and bounces back and forth excitedly on her dewclawed feet. ¡°Jordan, can I borrow you?¡±


    Jordan puts her hands on her hips. ¡°Fine.¡±


    ¡°Great! We will be right back, dead and undead humans. And Irene.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m coming along, Beany,¡± I say. ¡°I want to see this.¡±


    ¡°Oh, fun!¡± Bina flutters her pseudopods. ¡°Beam us out, boo thing.¡±


    Caspar looks up from the pool table. ¡°You need me?¡±


    ¡°Nah.¡± I shoot him a thumbs up. ¡°You keep thrashing the servants of the Father. I¡¯m around if you need me.¡±


    ¡°You got it, Miss Irene.¡± Caspar returns to his game.


    I really, really like how he calls me Miss Irene. Have I mentioned that?


    Inspector Darius¡¯ posture straightens as we depart the cozy evening into the pitch-dark corridors of my primary demesne. She regards the marble colonnades and the geometric tiles with well-practiced suspicion. Here, finally, is the crepuscular realm of the Adversary that she expected.


    I steer us into a hatchway that I¡¯ve grown on my flank. We shuffle into a limousine interior of dark amethyst velvet cushions and curtains drawn across the windows. Jordan lifts the corner of one and it tugs itself from her hand and flaps shut. I tut at her. ¡°No more putting your hand on the Heaven stove, inspector. Caspar¡¯s already peeved at me from last time.¡±


    A jolt as I expel us from my prime form. The tumorous pod within which we ride unfolds leathery wings and flaps toward Bina¡¯s demesne, which floats patiently a mile from mine.


    ¡°I really cannot wait to host you again,¡± Bina says. ¡°It¡¯s been, like, forever. I¡¯ve learned a lot.¡±


    ¡°I bet,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m interested in what you¡¯ve done with the place.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not all spooky and gothic like your stuff.¡± A note of pride thrums through Bina¡¯s harmonics. ¡°But I¡¯ve really gotten the hang of hiding my organelles.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    With a sucking judder, my pod anchors to Bina. The door swings open into a chamber of dripping, rough-hewn stone. Lime and moss flower through the cracks in its cyclopean brickwork.


    I step from the limo and admire the flickering torches in their wrought-iron sconces. ¡°Bean, this is great. The atmosphere. Is that mildew I smell?¡±


    She nods gleefully as she bends to beckon Jordan. ¡°You can come out, Miss Inspector.¡±


    Jordan eases into Bina¡¯s dungeonesque depths. Bina nudges her. ¡°Pretty good, right?¡±


    The inspector just grunts.


    ¡°Your architecture has come so far in just a half century,¡± I marvel, and the torches flare as Bina practically glows with pride. ¡°Last time I was here, I stepped on the wrong flagstone and accidentally punctured a gallbladder.¡±


    ¡°Ohmygod Irene, don¡¯t tell her that.¡± Bina gives me a light whack with one malformed wing. ¡°Okay, Jordan. Right this way.¡±


    She leads us down creaking byways and over splintered floorboards.


    ¡°Why do you practice these things?¡± Jordan eyes a rat as it skitters past.


    ¡°To affect your world, we need warlocks,¡± I say. ¡°Refracting ourselves into human-parsable spaces is important in their care and keeping.¡±


    ¡°Plus, it¡¯s fun.¡± Bina stops before an ironshod ring-pull door. ¡°Here we are. Go on through, Miss Inspector.¡±


    Jordan clasps the ring and creaks the door open. We are immediately buffeted by a discordant chorus of moans, screams, and indescribable sounds. Biological instruments pushed into overdriven realms of unimaginable pain. The acrid, unspeakable scents of every automatic process sharpened into a caustic joke on humanity.


    Jordan beholds a raw ruin of humanoid wreckage, twisted and racked and so tangled underfoot and over wall that it¡¯s impossible to know where one being begins and another ends. A jagged mouth, its vocal cords stripped and tenuous as catgut string, twitches open and makes a phelgmatic sound like Juh. Juhrdn.


    Jordan¡¯s knees and spirit tremble. ¡°What is this.¡±


    ¡°This is everyone you¡¯ve ever known who went to Heaven,¡± Bina says. ¡°I gathered them up for you so you could talk to them yourself.¡± She points at the thing that managed to speak. ¡°That¡¯s your father. Go on. Ask him anything.¡±


    ???????????


    Bina¡¯s unpracticed in her small-scale manifestations, but eventually she manages a quilt without hair growing on it and a mug of tea that has no sebaceous fluid. We pass both to the inspector.


    The first thing she says, when she finds her voice again, is:


    ¡°Send me back.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow. ¡°Back in there?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Jordan croaks. Her hands have stopped quivering. ¡°You sent Caspar back. Send me back.¡±


    ¡°Caspar¡¯s a warlock,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s the only way my people can bring the dead back to life.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Make me a warlock and send me back.¡± She peers up at me. ¡°I had your boy beaten, even with the strength a warlock brings you, and I have inspector credentials. I¡¯m an asset.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I¡¯ve already got a warlock. Can¡¯t tend more than one at a time.¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t have a warlock. I¡¯ve never had a warlock.¡± Bina sits cross-legged (a complicated origami with her current form) before Jordan. ¡°Wanna be my first, Jordan Darius?¡±


    ¡°Bean,¡± I murmur. We¡¯ve been talking about Bina¡¯s first warlock for a very long time, now. I¡¯ve been training her. It¡¯s important she gets it right. ¡°I don¡¯t know if she¡¯s suitable material for your trial run. Maybe we find someone more malleable, huh?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want malleable. This one has fire in her.¡± One of Bina¡¯s tendrils snakes below Jordan¡¯s chin and tilts it upward. ¡°Don¡¯t you, Miss Darius? You wanna be mine?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± She doesn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°I need to fix this. I need¡ªwe need answers from the Suzerain.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to kill the Suzerain,¡± I say. ¡°Caspar¡¯s just the same, you know. Still clinging to the hope a conversation might earn him the key. You ought to be clearheaded about your mission, and understand how impossible that is.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do what I have to do,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Always have. Make me your warlock, Bina. I¡¯ll work with you.¡±


    ¡°You mean serve her,¡± I say.


    Jordan nails me with a look. ¡°I mean what I say.¡±


    ¡°You were more than happy to serve the Father.¡±


    She scoffs. ¡°You ain¡¯t the Father.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Irene.¡± Bina¡¯s drooling maw tilts upward at its black-lipped edges. ¡°Miss Darius and I are going to have so much fun together.¡± One of her appendages wavers before the inspector, glowing a cherry red with heat. ¡°But you¡¯re going to need to accept my mark if you want my power, you know. And it¡¯s going to hurt like the dickens.¡±


    Jordan¡¯s gaze is dagger-sharp on my sister. ¡°Fine.¡±


    ¡°Where do you want it?¡±


    With mechanical determination, Jordan unbuttons the bottom of her service blouse and indicates a stretch of her abdomen. There¡¯s already a snaking scar across the hip. ¡°There.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± sings Bina, and with no preamble, she slams her brand down onto Jordan¡¯s exposed skin.


    Jordan howls a drawn-out ¡°Motherfucker!¡± and slaps her hand against the flagstones as Bina lifts her appendage away. ¡°You couldn¡¯t have given me a countdown?¡±


    ¡°Oops.¡± Bina is genuinely abashed. ¡°Sorry. It¡¯s done now, though. Welcome, warlock!¡±


    ¡°Say the thing,¡± I prompt.


    ¡°I accept your service,¡± Bina says. ¡°I grant you my strength.¡±


    ¡°Now it¡¯s done,¡± I say.


    ¡°Okay, Jordan.¡± Bina helps the inspector clamber to her feet. ¡°Now we¡¯re partners. So you need anything, you just say it. And you get all my spooky magic.¡±


    ¡°I think what I would like,¡± Jordan says, ¡°is to get back to that bar and get drunk.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re going to be working in concert with my warlock,¡± I say. ¡°Will that be a problem?¡±


    Jordan tilts her head. ¡°Will it?¡±


    I really wish I could just kill her again, but now Bina¡¯s in charge of her.


    ¡°Hooray! They¡¯ll be friends.¡± My sister gasps. ¡°Irene! We could have them go on little dates! What if they have little warlock infants?¡±


    My jaw clenches hard enough that I think I might have broken off a tooth in my throat.


    ¡°Hate to disappoint, Bina,¡± Jordan says. ¡°But I¡¯m a lesbian.¡±


    ¡°Oh!¡± Bina blinks. ¡°That¡¯s okay. Where¡¯s Lesbia?¡±


    ¡°I like girls,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°Me too! They smell lovely.¡±


    ¡°Instead of boys.¡±


    ¡°Ohhh.¡± The pieces fall into place behind Bina¡¯s eyes. ¡°Wait! Irene. Salome had a girl warlock, right?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not a dating service, Bina,¡± I say.


    Bina pads off toward the limo. ¡°You are just no fun.¡±


    The ride back is in tense silence. Jordan sits curled in on herself. Finally she says, ¡°What happened to them?¡±


    ¡°Same thing that happened to you,¡± I say. ¡°Same physical and spiritual agony. Only you had a second of unprotected exposure to Heaven. They¡¯ve had years. My sisters and I think the Father designed His kingdom to repair dead humans, then shelter them from the effects of this dimension while your next forms incubated. Forms that could handle it.¡±


    I¡¯m leaving a few things out. I doubt she could handle the unvarnished truth.


    ¡°But the processes broke down and the psychopomps disappeared, and the wards failed. And that¡¯s the result. By the time we arrived at the Father¡¯s kingdom, He¡¯d sealed himself into His palace and left His subjects to spoil.¡±


    ¡°Can you fix them? The people in there? Can you do like what Irene did with the men her warlock killed?¡±


    ¡°You like that, huh?¡± I cross my legs. ¡°You ready to admit it¡¯s a cozy spot?¡± Jordan gives me a dim look.


    ¡°I can do my best,¡± Bina says. This is not a comfort to her new servant. ¡°Now that they¡¯re in my demesne, I can fix some of the damage Heaven did. But it might take a little while.¡±


    ¡°Bina is very good at anatomy,¡± I say. ¡°I know her appearance doesn¡¯t suggest it, but as far as knitting flesh, I¡¯d say she¡¯s one of the best of us.¡± Bina preens at my compliment.


    ¡°How many of you are there, anyway?¡± Jordan asks.


    ¡°Eight,¡± I say, at the same time Bina says ¡°Seven.¡±


    ¡°Eight,¡± I insist. Bina clams up.


    Jordan¡¯s brows lower, but she gives that a pass without questioning it.


    When we return to Autumn, Florin is on the roof of the taphouse, gazing out across the woods, something unreadable on his face.


    ¡°You break your neck, I¡¯m gonna make you wait before I reset it,¡± I call as we duck inside.


    Jordan fills a stein with weissbier and drains half of it with one gulp. ¡°Abraham.¡± She points at Caspar, who¡¯s reracking the pool table.


    He jogs over. ¡°Yes, Madame Inspector?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a warlock now and we¡¯re going to be working together,¡± she says. ¡°So if you thought you were gonna get to drive my cruiser, think again.¡±


    Caspar works through his shock at her words (He did think he was going to get to drive the cruiser, but he¡¯s more excited than upset). ¡°You should probably start calling me Caspar, then,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m Caspar Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°You wanted that, you shoulda introduced yourself as it.¡± Jordan shakes her head. ¡°I¡¯m gonna keep on with Abe.¡±


    He blinks. ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Oh, this is just going to be so fun.¡± Bina babbles brightly as we assemble outside the taphouse. ¡°Irene¡¯s taught me all about how to do this. Do you want a scary claw like Caspar¡¯s?¡±


    Jordan gives my warlock a look. ¡°Prefer my gun back.¡±


    Caspar shrinks somewhat. ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t let her walk all over you now, Cas,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re senior to the warlock game, remember.¡±


    ¡°Oooh. You hear that, Jordan?¡± Bina wriggles teasingly. ¡°Irene¡¯s afraid we¡¯re gonna out-lock her.¡±


    Jordan smirks. ¡°Just return us so Abraham can give me back all my shit.¡±


    ¡°Kay.¡± Bina taps Jordan¡¯s forehead with a tentacle, and Caspar witnesses firsthand the bizarre spatial fold that expels her from our dimension.


    His lips purse. ¡°I thought you had to plant a kiss on someone to do that.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Bina glances over. ¡°Who told you that?¡±


    ¡°Anyway uh you should probably get your new partner out the trunk okay wakey wakey good bye.¡± I hastily peck Caspar¡¯s forehead. His consciousness fractalizes and jolts back into his Earthly body.


    ¡°Dude,¡± I say. ¡°Don¡¯t blow up my spot.¡±


    ¡°Ohhhhh.¡± Bina¡¯s ridgy brows raise. ¡°Oh, I get it. You¡¯re kissing him because you want to have smushy human intercourse with him.¡±


    I glance back at the taphouse. ¡°Keep your voice down around the dead people, okay? That¡¯s not how mortals talk about this stuff.¡±


    ¡°But you do, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I do.¡±


    ¡°Gross,¡± Bina says, delighted.

 10. an enemy

    Caspar snorts awake behind the cruiser¡¯s wheel.


    There is a rhythmic banging noise behind him. He hastens out of the car and pops the trunk open. Jordan Darius unfolds herself from the detritus and sits up, a pair of jumper cables hanging off her shoulder. ¡°My gun,¡± she demands.


    Caspar passes it to her, unloaded. She tucks it back into her holster as she leaves the trunk. ¡°All right.¡± She grimaces downward at herself, the sizable orchid bloom of blood that came from her impaled heart. ¡°Step one is a damn wardrobe change.¡±


    Back into the cruiser, and Jordan steers them away from the model village. They maintain their strained silence.


    As they coast back onto the highway, Caspar says, ¡°Maybe some music again?¡±


    Jordan just stares at him. I¡¯m losing my patience with this woman.


    ¡°Okay, Madame Inspector.¡± Looks like Caspar is, too. Good boy. ¡°I¡¯m sorry that I killed you, but you can¡¯t keep holding it above my head, all right?¡±


    ¡°You hear yourself?¡± She scoffs. ¡°You took me away from everything I cared about and now I¡¯m the worst thing in the world. You broke my life.¡±


    ¡°Your life was broken already.¡± He leans forward. ¡°I killed you, but I was right to.¡±


    She sneers at him.


    ¡°I was,¡± he insists. ¡°How many people have you executed for a lie, Jordan? How many more if I hadn¡¯t come along? And now you know the truth.¡±


    She flicks her eyes from his and stares at the road. That¡¯s right, Caspar. You tell her.


    ¡°You want to be pissed?¡± He folds his arms. ¡°You go ahead. You have every reason. But you¡¯re wasting it on me. You know you are.¡±


    ¡°Fabulous start to our partnership,¡± she mutters.


    ¡°It¡¯s unfortunate. I ain¡¯t saying it isn¡¯t.¡± Caspar sighs. ¡°But if we can¡¯t be friends, I ask you at least to be civil. This job¡¯ll be hard enough without us giving each other the evil eye the entire way to Chamchek.¡±


    Jordan reaches over and turns the radio back on. Caspar¡¯s shoulders relax.


    They pass a massive billboard with Archbishop Tilliam¡¯s tombstone-toothed smile stuck across it. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TODAY? It asks.


    Jordan gestures up to the sign. ¡°Guy¡¯s a prick, y¡¯know,¡± she says. ¡°Met him a few times.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± In Caspar¡¯s pre-warlock days, he¡¯d tuned into Tilliam¡¯s Tabernacle every Friday, live from the Chamchek Basilica. I used to watch through his eyes and think deeply uncharitable thoughts about the Archbishop. ¡°Doesn¡¯t come across on TV.¡±


    It absolutely does, Caspar.


    ¡°Yeah, well. TV rots your brain.¡± Jordan scoots past a slow-moving 18-wheeler. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t mind assassinating that motherfucker now that I¡¯m a servant of the Adversary, tell you what.¡±


    Caspar twinges. He doesn¡¯t like to remember that¡¯s what he is.


    ¡°Rebecca¡¯s a total sweetheart, though. And a smoke show. No way does he deserve her.¡± Jordan waves at the truck driver while she passes; he¡¯s doing an unsafe amount of genuflection behind his wheel. She glances into the rearview. ¡°You notice how your weird goddess stole her wardrobe?¡±


    ¡°Hadn¡¯t realized,¡± Caspar lies.


    ¡°You seem awful chummy with her.¡±


    ¡°I owe her. And she¡¯s kind.¡±


    She snorts. ¡°Kind?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says, unwavering. ¡°You ease up on her and maybe you¡¯ll see that. She¡¯s a kind person, I think.¡±


    My chest gets a little tingly. I¡¯m not used to these involuntary reactions my humanoid manifestation keeps feeding me. I thought you guys smiled as a choice, not by accident.


    ¡°She¡¯s not a person at all,¡± Jordan says. ¡°You know how much you¡¯re not seeing? How much she¡¯s hiding? She¡¯s just showing you this little bit of her you¡¯ll like.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Caspar says. ¡°That¡¯s what people do.¡±


    Jordan clicks her tongue. She doesn¡¯t have a response to that. ¡°What I wanna know,¡± she says instead, ¡°is why you get a sexy shadow chick and I get a wolf bug monster thing.¡±


    ¡°They can both hear us, you know,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Well, no offense, Miss Bina.¡± Jordan quirks an eyebrow. ¡°And don¡¯t let it go to your head, Irene.¡±


    Shut the hell up, inspector.


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna need to help me out with these powers and such.¡± Jordan flicks her turn signal on and heads toward an exit. ¡°That armor thing especially. I want to try that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how it works with Miss Bina,¡± Caspar says. ¡°But I¡¯ll do my best. They really do a number on you at first.¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± Jordan says. ¡°No rush, right? The Suzerain ain¡¯t going anywhere.¡±


    A see-saw twist in the traffic tunnel ventricles of my heart. Of course, it had to be Jordan who brought the time thing up.


    It¡¯s probably high time to introduce these warlocks to the competition.


    ???????????


    I objected to Caspar calling my sisters and me devils, but speak of the devil.


    As Caspar and Jordan roll through a nursery suburb, seeking as out-of-the-way a clothing store as they can find, the war-trumpet psychic siren of Ganea thrums in my gut.


    WE WILL MEET, it sounds, and it rattles my baleens. Bina corkscrews about in a panicky tizzy as she reorganizes her insides; she¡¯s always trying to impress Ganea. I put forward my demesne as a meeting point and propose a council of manifestations. I¡¯m always the one who agitates for this sort of thing. It¡¯s not as if our psionic pathways are that much faster or more detailed, and Ganea especially has a bad habit of inadvertently sending the scents of saltpeter and brimstone through them.


    FINE, Ganea grouses. Oh, like she isn¡¯t excited to roll in whatever war machine she¡¯s been working on lately. Always cracking my damn tiles.


    I dust off an amphitheater I manifested a while ago and drape it in violet pennants. As an afterthought, I hang it with Bina¡¯s favorite emerald green as well. A little show of sisterly solidarity.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Ganea¡¯s avatar announces its presence with a firm broadside thwack into my side before I even have the chance to open a valveway for her. Ow. Dick. Then a mechanized rumble sounds through my corridors as she arrives.


    Five times my height, coated in riveted steel and brass mail, her horned war-helm in the crook of her ramrod forearm. Every fall of her sabatons reverberates back to me.


    I tap a heeled foot in an exaggerated show of impatience as she sits across four rows of my amphitheater, crumbling the masonry with her big metal ass. Her armor glares in the pink light of my fake sun.


    ¡°Hi, Ganea,¡± I say. ¡°Been a second.¡±


    ¡°Irene.¡± Her razor teeth grit. ¡°Where¡¯s Bina? I know she¡¯s here. You¡¯ve been plotting.¡±


    ¡°Plotting.¡± I roll my golden eyes. ¡°Like I¡¯ve been at all subtle about my intentions. How many invites have you ignored, Gan?¡±


    Bina flaps into the arena, her wolf form clarified and streamlined. I know she¡¯d prefer a lot more funky pseudopods, but she craves Ganea¡¯s brutalist approval. She settles on her haunches. ¡°Hi, everyone.¡±


    ¡°A warlock, eh, Bina?¡± Ganea leans forward with a sound like a massive creaky door. She fixes her six grilled eyes on our youngest sister. ¡°Finally got skin in the game?¡±


    Bina tries to look confident. ¡°I never found the right human before, that¡¯s all. I¡¯m ready now.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a game,¡± I say.


    ¡°It is. And you convinced Bina to support your play.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t need to convince her,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s the right move. You know it is. We¡¯ve been going about this shit all wrong. We worked together to take the Father down. It was the only way. We need to cooperate on His servants, too. You underestimate them.¡±


    ¡°His servants are a bare concern,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I¡¯m interested in yours.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll happily coordinate with you,¡± I say. ¡°You just need to promise not to kill these.¡±


    Ganea shakes her head. ¡°Two ants crush under a wheel as easy as one does.¡±


    She¡¯s talking about the Butcher. She¡¯s going to sic him on us. One thing at a time, Irene. That maniac¡¯s on the other side of the ocean, last time I checked.


    ¡°Gan,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s time to get serious. Eight is making moves while we squabble. If we keep fucking around, you know what¡¯s going to happen. Nobody wants her in charge.¡±


    ¡°You want you in charge.¡±


    ¡°I want us to be a pantheon,¡± I explain. ¡°I keep telling you this.¡±


    ¡°With you at the head.¡±


    I throw up my hands. ¡°That¡¯s what happens when I¡¯m the one trying to herd the elephants and you insist on being an elephant. I¡¯m not interested in putting myself above you. I¡¯m really not. And I¡¯ll happily negotiate w¡ª¡±


    Ganea¡¯s gauntleted fist smashes me flat, breaks every bone, liquefies every organ, sends every nerve in my Irene body into the painful red zone for the second they take to die.


    I reconstitute from the grease stain she reduced me to. ¡°You done?¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡± She leers. ¡°I don¡¯t negotiate. Why argue for a slice when you can take the cake?¡±


    ¡°Because you haven¡¯t taken it,¡± I say, ¡°and you won¡¯t. You can keep throwing warlocks at the wall. You haven¡¯t even made a dent.¡±


    ¡°Neither have you.¡±


    I put a defiant arm around Bina. ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯re cooperating.¡±


    She crushes us both.


    I stand up as my bones de-powderize. ¡°Oops! And I¡¯m back. You see how that keeps not working, Gan?¡±


    ¡°Ow ow ow,¡± mutters Bina.


    ¡°You can come to the table now, when you have something to actually bring,¡± I say, ¡°or you can come begging for scraps when your position erodes. Your choice.¡±


    ¡°Or I could splinter the table,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I¡¯ve gotten good at it. You could submit. Stay out of my way. That¡¯s what I¡¯m here to tell you.¡±


    I put my hands on my hips. Ganea even offering a truce like this, that¡¯s new. She¡¯s realizing my plan might work.


    ¡°When I have the key, I¡¯ll give you and Bina your own kingdoms,¡± Ganea says. ¡°Your own little slice of heaven. That¡¯s a good deal. Best and last one you get.¡±


    We¡¯ll see about that.


    I shake my head. ¡°If we all just race each other for the key, we all know who wins. She¡¯s already winning. And then we¡¯re fucked.¡±


    Ganea¡¯s huge fingers drum on the side of her helm. ¡°Sounds like I¡¯m talking to the wrong sister.¡±


    ¡°You want to go parley with her? You be my guest,¡± I say. ¡°You can let me know how it went after the rest of us scrape you off the stratosphere. Bina¡¯s got a warlock and the landscape¡¯s changed. Other sisters are going to see which way the wind blows.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see. I¡¯m gone.¡± She stands up. ¡°Bina.¡±


    Bina tries not to quake as she looks Ganea in the LED-light eyes. ¡°Uh huh?¡±


    ¡°Welcome to the warlock business. I¡¯ll kill yours last.¡±


    She tips a column over as she stomps away.


    ¡°Fucking Ganea, huh?¡± I shake my head. ¡°Such a narrow definition of power.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want her to kill Jordan and Caspar,¡± Bina says. ¡°I like Jordan and Caspar.¡±


    ¡°She won¡¯t.¡± My column resets itself and the enamel slides back across the craggy break. ¡°I have a good feeling about these two.¡±


    Well, I have a good feeling about Caspar, anyway.


    ¡°But if she does, they can¡¯t come back, right?¡± Bina¡¯s ears flick. ¡°It¡¯s a one-shot thing.¡±


    ¡°Even if she does,¡± I say, trying to sound blas¨¦, ¡°there¡¯s always more mortals.¡± If we have the time, I don¡¯t say.


    I settle to watch my warlock. He¡¯s trying on shabby workwear at the moment, in a threadbare changing room. His conservative earth-tone yes pile sits side-by-side with all the interesting nos that he¡¯s lost courage about. If Ganea¡¯s little conference denied me prime peeping time, I¡¯ll never forgive her. Okay, false alarm. He¡¯s taking his pants off.


    When he unbuttons his shirt to try on his other finds, and he reveals the brand I planted on him, a rush of dark, gleeful possessiveness pulses through me. He prods at his marked pectoral, his face distant and pensive. That''s right, my pretty little warlock. Remember she who awaits you.


    Remember that you are mine.


    After five wonderful minutes, he emerges in unassuming denim and linen and lays a few ducats on the counter, dropping his change in the battered war orphan tin.


    Jordan¡¯s waiting in the parking lot. She¡¯s replaced her pinstripe suit with a pair of cargo shorts and a shirt portraying St. Petraeus of the Lines in galoshes and a fly-fishing hat over the slogan FISH DON¡¯T PRAY SO IT¡¯S OKAY.


    Caspar tosses the rest of his acquisitions into the back seat. ¡°No new suit?¡±


    Jordan shakes her head. ¡°Too used to the Inspectorate tailors. I got two modes. This is the other one.¡±


    ¡°You ever do any fishing?¡± Caspar sits in the back.


    ¡°No, Abe, that¡¯s the joke.¡± Jordan slides behind the wheel. ¡°Man, just get up here. Take shotgun. I need someone to man the radio.¡±


    A cheerful lurch through Caspar at that pronouncement. This redeveloping camaraderie doesn¡¯t bug me like it used to, and I¡¯m not entirely sure why. I suppose it¡¯s because I know Jordan isn¡¯t a threat now.


    To the mission, I mean.


    Before they get back onto the highway, Jordan takes them into a secluded field that¡¯s grown up around an abandoned parking lot.


    They practice their warlock powers. Caspar¡¯s getting the hang of flinging his arm off of him like a whirling boomerang, and while the sickening ghost weightlessness discomfits him, he¡¯s learned to skitter the detached limb around with his fingers.


    ¡°Fuck kinda power, is that, anyway?¡± Jordan chuckles. The kind of power that got your ass killed, I wish I could say.


    ¡°Miss Irene says it works on other parts, too.¡± Caspar blinks, and then his right eye pops out of his head. ¡°Oh, this is so odd.¡± He shuts his left eye and peers around with his detached peeper.


    The inspector marvels at the body armor Bina can generate, and I do, too. My armor manifests unadorned and featureless. But when Jordan¡¯s helmet bleeds forth, it¡¯s with a wrought wolf¡¯s head of black iron atop her crown.


    Shit, Bina. You¡¯re showing me up in front of Caspar.


    Jordan discovers firsthand how gnarly acid breath tastes, and how fatiguing the system strain is. After her second billowing exhalation, Caspar holds a hand up. ¡°You do another and you might not be okay to drive.¡±


    ¡°Hell do you mean by that? I¡¯ll have you know my half-marathon time is augh, okay.¡± Jordan takes a woozy step. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right.¡±


    He sits with her as she recovers in the driver¡¯s seat. They¡¯re quiet for a while and then they¡¯re talking about Wicketball and the Cardinals, then about Archbishop Tilliam again, then about the people they¡¯ve killed.


    ¡°Ten,¡± he says. ¡°One before I was a warlock, five when I came back, then the three templars and you.¡±


    She takes a long pull from a water bottle. ¡°Fifty four,¡± she says. ¡°Four warlocks, about a dozen sorcerers, and the rest were decimations.¡±


    He wants to pat her on the shoulder or the back, but he isn¡¯t sure how appropriate that would be. He just says ¡°Sorry,¡± instead.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t. Well, I was, and then I told myself it was all right. That I¡¯d shriven them best as I could, and maybe they¡¯d get an okay shake at the gate of Heaven. Told myself it was in the father¡¯s hands.¡± She barks out a humorless laugh. ¡°Oops.¡±


    He passes her the last third or so of his fruit leather. She inhales it. ¡°Do you want to get out of here?¡± He asks. ¡°Sooner we¡¯re in Pastornos, the sooner we can let them all out.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± She starts the car. ¡°Turn the Suzerain upside down and shake him till the key falls out, right?¡±


    ¡°My hope is we can just explain ourselves.¡±


    She looks hard at him for a few seconds. ¡°You¡¯re serious,¡± she declares. ¡°You¡¯re actually gonna try.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a wise man.¡±


    ¡°You must be dumb as a bag of rocks, Caspar,¡± Jordan says.


    He grins. ¡°You used my right name that time, though.¡±


    ¡°Shut up and buckle your seatbelt.¡±

 11. a doughnut

    The sun is beginning its downward crawl when my warlock arrives in Chamchek, Temple Seat of the Tilliam Diocese. Chamchek, the Jewel of Varagos, its people call it, as they swan with heads high and imperious through the largest city on the coast. Chamchek of the thousand falcons, the brochures call it, owing to the peregrine statues that decorate its rooftops. Chamchek the spinning city, the pilgrims and truckers call it, thanks to its cloverleafs and roundabouts.


    Jordan steers them down one of these asphalt corkscrews, into a decidedly unglamorous part of town. If Chamchek is the gilded mirror reflecting the glory of Pastornos back across the Montane Ocean, then the neighborhood they call the Chutes is the ugly cork bit you nail to the wall.


    Crumbling and askew buildings, crumbing and askew people. Caspar¡¯s view from the window is of a neighborhood turned punch-drunk from neglect, its horizon cluttered with tenements and the unadorned inverses of billboards.


    Caspar peers out the window at the shuttered storefronts and grilled windows. ¡°This isn¡¯t the neighborhood I pictured you taking us to, Madame Inspector.¡±


    ¡°Spent the first half of my life here,¡± Jordan says. ¡°I swore to myself more than a few times I wouldn¡¯t come back.¡±


    ¡°Why have we?¡±


    ¡°Because if we¡¯re gonna get you on that airship, saying pretty please won¡¯t cut it. That flimsy-ass alibi didn¡¯t even get us safe to Chamchek.¡± Jordan hand-over-hands the wheel down a cramped turn. ¡°We¡¯re here to make Abraham real.¡±


    They stop the car in front of one of the few lit shops. It¡¯s a Debbie Doughnut. Caspar¡¯s cousin out in Marteshe got one of these recently and she¡¯s obsessed. The only time he ever went inside he ordered a breakfast tea and it tasted like breakfast tea. Got that going for it.


    ¡°Hey.¡± Jordan calls to the corner, to a shabby fivesome of young people with the bomber jackets and braided belts of the low-hound scene. ¡°You all ain¡¯t gonna steal my ride, right?¡±


    The oldest of them shakes her head. ¡°No, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Jordan flattens a fifty-ducat note out on the hood of the car. ¡°You make sure nobody else does, there¡¯s another fifty once I¡¯m out.¡±


    She leaves the kids to argue about the money and ushers Caspar inside. The lights fizz and flicker a washed-out, unappetizing light over the flatracks of stale doughnuts. A cardboard cutout of St. Deborah of the Harvest guards the counter, her corrugated insides showing in vertical pinstripe across her bleached, beaming face.


    ¡°Welcome sister to Debbie Doughnut where the Father¡¯s Fritters Fry Fabulously.¡± The zitty young man at the counter maintains a staccato monotone. ¡°How can I help you today.¡±


    ¡°Yeah gimme a double oolong with honey milk and a lump, an old-fashioned, one of those guava sticks¡­¡± Jordan peers behind the cashier to his sticky display. ¡°You need anything, Abe?¡±


    ¡°Small black tea.¡±


    ¡°And that. And go get your boss. Leonard. Tell him Jordy¡¯s back for that favor.¡±


    If Zits is impressed by Jordan¡¯s namedrop, he does a fantastic job of hiding it. ¡°Which first, tea or the boss?¡±


    ¡°Tea.¡± Jordan flops into a booth. ¡°I¡¯m not about to deal with Leonard under-caffeinated.¡±


    Caspar sips an unremarkable tea from a styrofoam cup and squints out the dirty window. His experience with Chamchek is all fancy city core and stern municipal buildings. He didn¡¯t realize it was this dilapidated in places. The only one of the thousand Chamchek falcons in view right now is stuck atop a billboard, one of its legs stripped of its brass and reduced to a skeletal wireframe.


    There¡¯s a slam from behind the counter and a scrawny leather whip of a man emerges, face stretched into a rictus grin. His ¡°Inspector Darius!¡± is a clinic on forced cheer.


    ¡°Lenny!¡± Jordan stands up and sweeps Leonard into an embrace. Then she twists him around and slams him onto the table. Caspar grabs his tea as a dram of it spills out over the lip.


    ¡°Madame Inspector. Ahaha.¡± Leonard wriggles with desperation as Jordan unclips her cuffs. ¡°I think we are both victims of a misunderstanding.¡±


    ¡°No misunderstanding.¡± Jordan binds Leonard¡¯s wrists together. ¡°Just an oopsie-daisy delay. That con you got the transfer papers to Exuma for? Shot a man in the gut and killed him. You¡¯re an accomplice to murder.¡±


    ¡°Wh¡ªI run a doughnut shop. The only deaths I¡¯m responsible for are coronary.¡±


    ¡°Will you give us some privacy, young man?¡± Jordan smiles sweetly at the zitty employee, who remains miraculously zombified behind the counter.


    ¡°Kay.¡± He tugs a halfcloak on. ¡°On break, boss.¡±


    ¡°Acheron 8:54, Lenny.¡± Jordan shoves Leonard into the seat next to Caspar as the young man departs and lays her gun on the table between them, fingers light against its stock. ¡°He who turns from my slaughter without protest surely rests his hands upon the murderer¡¯s knife.¡±


    Leonard¡¯s throat makes an exasperated rattle. ¡°Always with the goddamn quotes, these inspectors.¡±


    ¡°In layman¡¯s terms. This is a terminal fuck-up and your protection policy has run out.¡±


    ¡°You try to take me down I can hurt you.¡± The amount of sweat on Leonard¡¯s upper lip is a biological fascination to me. ¡°You know that? I can talk.¡±


    Jordan chuckles. ¡°You¡¯ve been off street-level way too long, Lenny. Your survival instincts are gone. You don¡¯t say that to the bitch with the gun.¡± She taps her index against the black metal of her .45. ¡°The good news for you is that I¡¯ve got an alternative for you. Say hello to Abraham.¡±


    Caspar, who is taking to this situation like a fish to motor oil, gives a crooked little wave. ¡°Hey.¡±


    Leonard¡¯s shivering eye turns to Caspar. He says nothing.


    ¡°Abe here needs a refresh. New ID, new papers, new life. He¡¯s a bachelor with family in Pastornos.¡± Jordan stands. ¡°You¡¯ll fix him up, and then you can slip away before an inspector without my charitable nature comes by to shrive you.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t just up and fuck off,¡± Leonard says. ¡°I¡¯ve got a business to run.¡±


    With a slow orbit, Jordan takes in the empty, grease-spattered doughnut shop, its glistening confections, its collection of dead flies. ¡°Your loss will be a blow that the sturdy, Father-fearing people of Chamchek shall lean upon their faith to weather.¡±


    ¡°You missed the morning rush,¡± he protests.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Mea maxima culpa.¡± She hauls him to his feet and unlocks his cuffs. ¡°Let¡¯s go to your office.¡±


    ¡°All right, all right.¡± Leonard massages his wrist. ¡°It¡¯ll take me a while. Pastornos papers, those things are tough to reproduce. I don¡¯t suppose your man Abe knows how much he weighs.¡±


    ¡°Two hundred and fifteen pounds,¡± Caspar says.


    Jordan whistles. ¡°Well damn, Cas¡ªAbe. You¡¯re yoked.¡±


    ¡°Many oxes are,¡± mumbles Leonard, and I¡¯d love to be a full goddess so I could make spiders crawl out of his eyeballs or something. He drags his feet all the way to a cramped office full of filing cabinets and smelling of glue, and gets to work under Jordan¡¯s watchful eye, turning Caspar¡¯s crappy lie into a half-decent fiction.


    An hour later, the warlocks leave Debbie Doughnut with a stack of stale carbohydrates and a baker¡¯s dozen of forged documents.


    The bell chimes a farewell as they return to the Chutes. Jordan digs another fifty-ducat note out and pays the low-hounds by her cruiser. ¡°Don¡¯t spend it all in one drug den, now,¡± she calls after their retreating feet.


    The squad radio has a blinking red light on it. Caspar gestures to it. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡± Jordan squints. ¡°That¡¯s an emergency page. Right about now, they¡¯re getting ready to put out an APB over a missing inspector. We gotta work fast and I gotta swing dick, but if we¡¯re quick enough, I can get us seats on an airship to Pastornos.¡±


    ¡°Might be time to get some giddy-up in this cruiser, then,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Don¡¯t sound too excited, buddy.¡± Jordan smirks. ¡°The Father frowns on traffic violations.¡±


    ¡°How far¡¯s the airship terminal?¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m a good little girl? Bout an hour with the crosstown traffic.¡± Jordan flips a switch on her dash and the red-and-gold emergency lights on top of the cruiser flash on. ¡°But I¡¯m a big, bad warlock now. Buckle up, Brother Abraham. And find us a station with something loud and fast on it.¡±


    They stay off the criss-crossing highways and their rush hour congestion, keeping instead to the lower streets where Jordan¡¯s flashing lights and wailing siren can speed them through the grids and intersections.


    ¡°So you went from the Chutes to this, huh?¡± Caspar watches the buildings straighten and brighten as they leave the squalor behind.


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Couldn¡¯t get to the academy fast enough. And once I was there, well. You come up in a place like the Chutes, you want to win. That ain¡¯t exactly the Father¡¯s way. But every time I got to see the looks on all the dynasty brats¡¯ faces when the dirty little Chutes girl won top marks¡­ ah, fuck it. Father¡¯s dead. It felt amazing.¡±


    ¡°I bet it did,¡± Caspar says. ¡°This was Chamchek Martial?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°I went through the militia training there. Might have been we were around at the same time.¡±


    ¡°How about that. Might have been.¡± She takes her eye off the road for a moment to glance at him. ¡°You ever think about the templars or the inspectorate? Big, obedient guy like you, they¡¯d have loved it. And you wouldn¡¯t have had to ship off overseas.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Idea was just to do my bit and then go home. I suppose I felt that would be enough. To make up for the, uh, the straying I did at the clinic. And I wasn¡¯t ever one to¡­ stick out, I suppose. Wasn¡¯t like you with the winning. I had my little corner, so to speak.¡±


    Jordan smacks her lips. ¡°Six foot one, two fifteen? Corner couldn¡¯t have been that little.¡±


    ¡°Suppose not.¡± He rubs his thumb knuckle. ¡°Never saw myself as a warrior, though.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not a thrill to hear from the man who killed you, Cartwright.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Apologies.¡±


    ¡°I wonder if¡ª¡±


    And that¡¯s as far as Jordan gets before the world becomes sound, motion, and glittering shards of glass.


    As the horizon inverts, Caspar gets a brief view of the pickup truck that hit them before the airbag blooms into his face. They skid, spin, the metal of the roof shrieking across the asphalt.


    Then the only sound is clattering glass. Caspar blinks the blood out of his eyes and pulses my curative magic through himself. It closes the gash along his face and knits his broken nose.


    A piercing scream from the street. A stampede of civilians. The little hatchback that was behind the temple cruiser at the light executes a forgivably sloppy u-turn.


    Jordan is spitting and cursing as she scrambles upside down for her seatbelt. She turns to Caspar, starts to say something, then goes ¡°Armor armor armor¡ª¡±


    The pickup door has swung open. A foot crunches against broken glass. A chunky mechanical catch-and-clack sound. That¡¯s an autogun.


    Caspar forms his armor just in time. The auto¡¯s chattering roar shreds the passenger side of the cruiser open, splinters the dashboard and bursts sparks from Caspar¡¯s chitin.


    Jordan extracts her leg and tumbles to the roof/floor. She rams her puckered door open. ¡°Move.¡±


    The seatbelt¡¯s been sliced from Caspar by a bullet. He seizes his revolver from the glove compartment and rolls out of Jordan¡¯s door.


    The ex-inspector¡¯s wrist is turned the wrong way. She hisses in pain as she examines it. ¡°Motherfuck.¡±


    ¡°Evoke,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You can¡ª¡±


    Another storm of bullets. This one ends with a click. Caspar rises from cover and beholds a figure in sleek, blood-red warlock armor overhand hurling an empty autogun at his face.


    It slams into Caspar¡¯s helmet and knocks a buckle into the chitin. Then the red warlock is upon them.


    It catches Caspar and slides them both to the ground. Behind them, near the cruiser, Jordan stands and then buttons right back down as the crack of more weaponry sounds. She curses aloud as she scrambles for cover, her magic popping and crinkling her hand back into its joint. Red here has friends.


    Caspar winches his legs up into guard, tries to sweep himself out of Red¡¯s grasp. But this enemy matches his strength. An errant shot from his revolver slams Red¡¯s arm back with its force, and he turns the moment of discombobulation into a chokehold. That''s the militia training kicking in. Caspar, you dumbass. He¡¯s in armor. You can¡¯t put a blood choke on a guy with a gorget. I remind myself that my warlock isn¡¯t trained to fight people covered in full bug plate, which okay. Fair enough. We¡¯ll fix that next time he¡¯s in my demesne.


    My claw shoots from Caspar¡¯s forearm. He tries to punch it into Red¡¯s skull, but the ensorcelled bone that hacked through kevlar and wood meets its eldritch match, and squeals a trail of useless sparks across Red¡¯s dome instead. Find the articulation points, Caspar. Go for the armpits or the crotch. Think, you desperate himbo.


    A twisting elbow from Red into his arm and the revolver spins away. Dark fluid jets from the enemy warlock¡¯s palm and solidifies into a bristling gauntlet crowned by a long, protruding spike. Red launches a flurry of punches, aiming for the weaker grille across Caspar¡¯s eyes.


    Caspar grapples for advantage, teeth gritted. He spots Jordan, bracing her forearm against the frame of the car and popping off return fire toward Red¡¯s accomplices. ¡°Jordan!¡± He tries to trap Red¡¯s gauntlet, but the barbs make it impossible. ¡°Help!¡±


    Jordan whips round to him, her empty magazine clattering to the ground as she reloads. Red braces Caspar and rolls him round. The barrel of Jordan¡¯s .45 weaves as she seeks an opening.


    Caspar feels the point of the punch-dagger scraping across his armored throat. His mind races. His arm flies off.


    The red warlock falters, then reasserts his grip. Caspar¡¯s severed arm clatters across the ground, steadies itself with palpating fingers, and closes around his dropped revolver.


    With a crunchy slam, Caspar¡¯s arm cannons back into place. The force spins both warlocks around and wrenches mine loose. Caspar sinks every remaining bullet in his cylinder into Red¡¯s chest. Jordan roars triumphantly and unloads at the same time. The chest piece distorts under the ballistic force, and Red¡¯s knocked from his feet.


    Caspar pounces onto his fallen foe and rams his claw through the gap between Red¡¯s arm and his chest. It slides right through and turns the inside of Red¡¯s ribcage into a punctured, pumping mess. Red goes instantly, his armor cracking and bubbling as it runs in rivulets like blood off of his twitching body.


    Jordan¡¯s reacquiring her targets at the pickup before the light¡¯s even left Red¡¯s eyes. Caspar crawls to the upturned cruiser in time to watch pink mist burst from the skull of a gunman.


    The other dives back into the truck and ducks his head behind the dash. The pickup¡¯s engine growls back to life, and the hulking vehicle reverses at speed. Caspar slaps Jordan¡¯s back to get her attention off the windshield, which she¡¯s sinking shot after shot into. ¡°Leave him. We gotta get off the street.¡±


    Jordan snarls. ¡°He fucked my fucking car. Fuck.¡±


    ¡°I know. I know. Come on.¡± Caspar lurches into a sprint, cutting for an alley, and she follows, leaving her prized Temple Cruiser a blown-out wreck on the intersection.


    ???????????


    I make a grab for the red warlock¡¯s soul, but he¡¯s already pledged to one of my sisters, and he sluices off to her demesne before I can close my metaphorical fingers around him.


    The trucker with the drilled-out brain, I drop into my lounge.


    Iron-hard tentacles of gristle and rubber pinion him to the floor. His eyelids flutter in desperate confusion at the indescribable sensation of his brain regrowing.


    From the dark I emerge, my body stretching and warping with every step until I am ten sinuous feet tall, my hair tendrils curling and hardening into jagged spines. The cyclopean eye on my forehead expands and pushes my rudimentary face down into a withered flap of skin hanging from my crocodilian jaw.


    ¡°And whose little mortal,¡± I say, as glutinous threads of drool run down my many teeth, ¡°are you?¡±

 12. a ring

    ¡°Car¡¯s fucked.¡± Jordan counts it on her fingers. ¡°Witnesses everywhere. Emergency pager was on, which means they were already suspicious. Shotspotter definitely picked up that gunfire and they¡¯re going to match the ballistics to my service weapon. Security is about to be tighter than a fly¡¯s asshole at the docks and the ports since there¡¯s armed suspects running around.¡±


    She finishes on a full five-star jazz hand of trouble and smacks herself in the forehead with it. ¡°I¡¯m burned. Your papers are more legit than mine at this point. So everything has gotten a lot more complicated.¡±


    ¡°And a warlock just tried to kill us,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°And that. Very true.¡± Jordan sighs and stares out the diner window. ¡°So what the fuck.¡±


    Caspar picks at his slice of strudel. ¡°You looking for suggestions, Miss Jordan?¡±


    ¡°Jordy,¡± Jordan says. ¡°My friends call me Jordy. Called me Jordy. I don¡¯t imagine I have any left.¡±


    Caspar reaches across the table and rests his big farm boy hand on Jordan¡¯s. ¡°Mine called me Cas.¡±


    Jordan¡¯s iceberg eyes slide away from the open window and study Caspar¡¯s. She flips her hand around so their palms touch and gives his a squeeze. ¡°All right, Cas.¡±


    Caspar squeezes back. ¡°All right, Jordy.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your suggestion?¡± Her fork incises through the strudel¡¯s flaky crust. Man, that looks delicious. I need to give that a try. I get muted sensations through Caspar, but ever since creating my Irene body, I¡¯ve realized it¡¯s like looking at a photo instead of being in a place. Humans have such active nervous systems.


    ¡°I think we find a no-tell motel type place and hit the hay,¡± Caspar says. ¡°The sisters owe us an explanation, and maybe Miss Irene will have ideas.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe Bina will,¡± Jordan says, with a note of surprising defensiveness that makes Caspar chuckle.


    ¡°Could be.¡± He takes up his fork. Oh yes, Caspar. Give me a taste of that strudel through the connection. ¡°Either way, well¡ªI¡¯ve always told patients and privates alike. Sleep helps. Meeting the patrons aside.¡± I let out a pleased hum as he takes his bite and its buttery crust melts on his tongue.


    ¡°How did you meet yours, anyway?¡± Jordan asks. ¡°Nice Pastornist fella like you. Why¡¯d you take up with her?¡±


    ¡°Irene saved my life,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You were coming to Rogarth, so the boys back at the taphouse took it upon themselves to hang me. If you¡¯d have shown up and found they were harboring a sorcerer, it would have been decimations.¡±


    ¡°Would have been. Yeah.¡± Jordan chews pensively. ¡°Suppose I oughta say sorry, then.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°It wasn¡¯t you, it was just¡­ the wheels. Turning everything and making us go along the little tracks they cut out for us. I always thought it was the Father doing that. But I guess they¡¯re just spinning on momentum, huh?¡±


    ¡°Well, you can¡¯t blame momentum,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Can¡¯t shoot it, either. Think I blame the Suzerain.¡±


    Caspar shifts uneasily. Still so reluctant, my warlock. ¡°You and me didn¡¯t know, did we? He might not, either.¡±


    ¡°I get it, Cas.¡± She swallows a mouthful, shaking her head. ¡°You grew up with his picture in your schoolhouse and your temple and his statue, I bet, in Rogarth Square.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± he allows.


    ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t,¡± Jordan says. ¡°No schoolhouse, no temple, no square. Only place the Suzerain smiled at us from was our money and we had fuck-all money. Belief was my ticket out of the Chutes, and then it was my passing grade at the Academy, and then it was what I held on to in the Inspectorate, cause my job was picking weeping farmers at random and shooting them in the head. And now I have no use for it.¡±


    ¡°Not even for Bina?¡±


    ¡°Sure, I believe in her, and I believe in us. From now on, I believe it when I see it.¡±


    Caspar pops the last crust of strudel into his mouth. ¡°We¡¯re a couple broke-down old lean-tos, huh? All built up for something that doesn¡¯t live in us anymore.¡±


    ¡°True that.¡± Jordan clatters her fork onto her empty plate. ¡°I intend to make it someone else¡¯s problem.¡±


    ???????????


    ¡°Out here, Cas.¡±


    Caspar follows my voice to a wrought metal gate, which he swings outward as he steps into Autumn. I¡¯m on the downward swoop of a hill looking out over the stretching auburn forest. Over my dress is a fluffy cream cable-knit sweater. In my hand is a copy of the Father¡¯s Precepts. By my hip is a wicker picnic basket.


    ¡°Evening, Miss Irene,¡± he says.


    ¡°Evening, Mr. Cartwright.¡± I nudge the picnic basked toward him. ¡°I¡¯ve been doing some light reading while I waited for ya.¡±


    ¡°Uh oh.¡± Caspar pulls a chicken parmesan sandwich, of course, wrapped in crinkly brown paper, from the basket. I¡¯ve put a cola in there too for him. He was jealous of Jordan¡¯s.


    ¡°Some of these rules you went and broke, Cas.¡±


    He gives me a rueful smile as he unwraps his sandwich. ¡°You¡¯re having too much fun with me.¡±


    ¡°Be You a Traveler, you shall Halt at thy Thirtieth Mile, and Thirty Upon Thirty Thereafter, to give thanks unto the Father for the Welcoming Road,¡± I read. ¡°Well, you certainly haven¡¯t been doing that.¡±


    ¡°They wrote that when we were riding horses,¡± Caspar says. ¡°There¡¯s¡­ you gotta interpret it.¡±


    I flip to another dog-eared page. ¡°The Joys of the Flesh¡ª¡±


    ¡°Okay now.¡± Caspar sets his picnic aside and reaches for the book.


    My arms disjoint and spaghettify as I keep it away from him. ¡°¡ªare Joys Espousal. You who Take of Them, Without Marriage¡¯s Covenant, Pluck the Green Fruit before it Ripens and Thereby Spoil thy Feast.¡±


    ¡°Miss Irene¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey, hey. I think it¡¯s all fine. I¡¯m just reading the book. But if we¡¯re talking about¡­¡± I stand up as he makes another grab. ¡°Sowing thy Seed within Untilled Earth, that thy Love be only for thyself, and in no part for Me. That¡¯s pulling out, right?¡±


    He lays his face in his hands.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen you pull out,¡± I say.


    Caspar makes a strained gargling noise that I choose to take as a laugh.


    ¡°Looks like you sinned, Cas. I don¡¯t know how to tell you this, but I think your soul might belong to the Adversary now.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot of really interesting interpretive scholarship on that chapter,¡± Caspar says through his interlaced fingers. ¡°And how it applies to modern courting.¡±


    ¡°I bet.¡±


    ¡°Can you come back here and have a seat?¡± Caspar gestures to the blanket. ¡°And maybe you can tell me why a warlock almost killed us today.¡±


    I inhale through my teeth. ¡°Ah. Yes, that.¡± I return to the picnic blanket and remove my lunch from it. Apple strudel, of course. I snap a crisp, sugar-powdered corner from it. ¡°I hadn¡¯t mentioned this yet, because I thought we had more time before it reared its ugly head and I didn¡¯t want to rush you at the beginning of your warlock career. But you and Jordan talking about we¡¯ve got time and Suzerain ain¡¯t going anywhere. That¡¯s not strictly true.¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    He frowns and waits for me to continue. I pop the bit of strudel into my mouth. This is exactly the fortifying sweetness I need.


    ¡°My sisters and I, Bina excepted, have some¡­ disagreements about how Heaven ought to be reformed,¡± I say. ¡°I want things returned, more or less, to the place¡¯s original goal of a shielding paradise. Although I''m thinking fewer mile-high skyscraper palaces and more... I don''t know. More like this.¡± I gesture to the field around us. ¡°I guess I¡¯ve watched you too long, and now I¡¯m a hayseed.¡±


    Caspar is about to take umbrage to the term, but he supposes it¡¯s as accurate as any.


    ¡°I¡¯ve convinced Bean,¡± I say. ¡°And I¡¯m hoping to convince more. But we¡¯re all strong-willed, and whoever gets the key gets their way.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in a race.¡± He sets his sandwich aside. ¡°You¡¯re all in competition.¡±


    ¡°And ruling over Heaven, and humanity, is the prize,¡± I say. ¡°That warlock who tried to kill you was one of my sisters trying to slow me down. That red armor makes me think it was Alexandra, and what I got out of that goon you delivered me has me further convinced. She¡¯s excitable. It makes sense she¡¯d strike early. I¡¯ll talk to her.¡±


    ¡°What does she want to turn Heaven into?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Don¡¯t think she¡¯s thought that far ahead. She just wants to win. Believe me, Caspar. You don¡¯t want my sisters to win. I am the best hope your species has.¡±


    He looks unsure. ¡°How many of you are there?¡±


    ¡°Seven,¡± I say. ¡°Well. Eight.¡±


    ¡°That eighth has you tense,¡± he says.


    ¡°That eighth has everyone tense,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s¡­ well, she never picked a human name. Not like the rest of us. Just call her Eight, I guess. She¡¯s the oldest of us and very much the strongest. I keep telling my sisters that if we don¡¯t get our acts together, or at least out of each other¡¯s way, she wins. Which would be very bad.¡±


    ¡°What happens if Eight wins?¡±


    ¡°She eats Heaven and all the souls in it, then she eats us,¡± I say. ¡°Eating is the only thing she¡¯s interested in doing. I think it was when she tasted the Father. Something broke.¡±


    Caspar has grown still. Ill-defined, catastrophic visions are warring for prominence in his mind. None of them come close to the true horror that awaits at Eight¡¯s hands. ¡°And she¡¯s in the lead?¡±


    ¡°She is,¡± I say. ¡°She has many human servants, and unlike the rest of us, she¡¯s powerful enough to tend multiple warlocks. That Adversary the pastors warned you about, the devouring Void, she comes closest to fitting the bill. We¡¯ve been at this key business for a couple of decades now. It¡¯s my opinion, and Bina shares it, that we¡¯re in the endgame.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s grip has tightened on the crescent of sandwich in his hand. His fingers are nearly. smushing the damn thing.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say. ¡°Put your head in my lap.¡±


    This snaps him out of it somewhat. He puts his parm aside. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re worried and stressed out,¡± I say. ¡°And because I¡¯ve never had someone¡¯s head in my lap.¡±


    ¡°We have to plan,¡± he says. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here. That warlock attack, it¡¯s ruined¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know. I was watching, remember. We can plan with your head in my lap. C¡¯mon.¡±


    ¡°Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m your wrathful goddess and I¡¯m gonna fill your stomach with bees or something unless you put your head in my lap.¡± I wriggle closer. ¡°Thou shalt put thy head in my lap.¡±


    I¡¯ve banished the apocalypse from his mind and replaced it with a much tastier kind of stress. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna be¡­ inappropriate,¡± he says.


    ¡°Why? You¡¯re mine forever, aren¡¯t you? How could this be inappropriate?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just that it¡¯s a bit of an intimate gesture. That¡¯s all.¡±


    My lips curl at the edges. ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡±


    He adjusts his collar.


    ¡°Oh. I got an idea. Maybe this¡¯ll help you relax about it.¡± I pull a diminutive black tendril from my head. ¡°Give me your hand.¡±


    He haltingly does.


    I clasp the tendril around his finger. I tap it and it turns into solid, swirl-designed gold. ¡°There you go.¡±


    ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s your engagement ring.¡± I twirl my own finger and a matching ring appears on it. ¡°Now you¡¯re my fianc¨¦ and not even the Father could object, if He hadn¡¯t been digested. We¡¯re appropriate as hell.¡±


    He gives his ring a tug. It stays firm. ¡°Very funny, Miss Irene.¡±


    An expulsion of surprised air from him as my hand lands on his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m not kidding. I own your soul, remember? Did you think I¡¯d let anyone else have a piece?¡± I knead my fingers into his muscle. ¡°Not gonna happen. Sorry. The Father may have let you go giving your matrimony to other mortals. But that old dead bastard wouldn¡¯t know a sexy single if one ran up and chewed His face off. I speak from experience. I¡¯m locking you down, mister.¡±


    ¡°Typically,¡± he says, the trepidation clear in his voice, ¡°you ask first.¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± I say. ¡°You said yes, little warlock. Remember? You bear my mark.¡±


    And I make him feel it. Not a pain, not really, but an itch. A raising of his skin. My brand on his heart.


    ¡°You¡¯re as mine as if you swore it on the nuptial altar. More mine than that. I just thought it might make you more comfortable about the whole thing if we put it in human terms.¡± I hold my own ring up. ¡°I got one too, see?¡±


    ¡°Mortal husbands and wives¡­ do things together.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± I say. ¡°Things like putting their heads in each other¡¯s laps.¡±


    ¡°Miss Irene,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it if we didn¡¯t discuss it in these terms. There¡¯s a lot of human baggage on this stuff.¡± He twists his ring awkwardly. ¡°My baggage.¡±


    I raise a brow. ¡°Is this about Vesta, then?¡±


    Caspar flinches at his ex-fiancee¡¯s name. ¡°Little bit.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± I say. ¡°No marriage. We¡¯ll send back the cake and cancel the cover band. And you can take that off. On one condition.¡± I pat my thigh. ¡°Heeeere, Cassy-Cassy.¡±


    He rasps an exasperated chuckle. ¡°All right.¡± He scoots over to me.


    ¡°Good boy,¡± I say, as he lowers his head. I feel the weight smush against the softness of my thighs. I ignore the illogical stab of numb discontent as I reduce our rings once more to inert tendrils and slough them from our knuckles.


    Caspar lets out a deep sigh and gazes up at the eternal sunset. I frame his face with my void-dark hands. ¡°Now, does that feel so terrible, Mr. Cartwright?¡±


    ¡°You are a strange woman, Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m your strange woman, Mr. Cartwright. The last and strangest woman you¡¯ll ever have.¡±


    His eyes move to mine. The little prickles of his short-sided hair poke through the fabric of my dress and brush my bare skin. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for today,¡± he says. ¡°I fear I¡¯m not measuring up.¡±


    ¡°Shhh.¡± I scratch my fingers behind his ears. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, boy. The world is arrayed against you. It¡¯s you and me, and it¡¯s everyone else.¡±


    ¡°What about Bina and Miss Jordan?¡±


    ¡°Okay and them,¡± I say. ¡°The point is. I¡¯m not disappointed in you. Not at all. You¡¯re surviving and you¡¯re getting closer. You¡¯re doing a fair bit better than most of my other warlocks have ever done. I have a feeling, Caspar. A good one. You¡¯re my winning ticket.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    ¡°I only wish I could be there for you more,¡± I say. ¡°That I could protect you myself. You¡¯ll see once we win. Then it¡¯ll be my turn to do all the hard work. And I¡¯ll take care of you.¡±


    He wants to nestle further into the fluffy wool of my sweater. I wish he would. ¡°Do you have any ideas?¡± he asks.


    ¡°In fact, Mr. Cartwright, I do.¡± I tap his nose. ¡°Beep.¡±


    He expels a humored gust through his nostrils and quarter-turns away from me. ¡°Of how we could get to Pastornos, I mean.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I mean, too,¡± I say. ¡°You won¡¯t be getting onto any public or provincial airships, that¡¯s for sure. But I think I have a hookup on a private flight.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Didn¡¯t take you for someone with that kind of stroke on the surface.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s the thing. I¡¯m not, exactly.¡± I sigh. ¡°I got a sister who is. Which means it might be time to cut a deal with Saoirse.¡±


    He reads my tone. ¡°Not a fan?¡±


    ¡°Oh, she¡¯s fine. She is. But I¡¯m going to have to make concessions, and I really hate doing that.¡± I pick at my strudel as it cools in the fall air. ¡°Still. If Alexandra¡¯s tracking you and Ganea¡¯s trying to cut treaties, then we¡¯ve got to get our butts in gear for the final act. And she¡¯s been someone I¡¯ve put off a few times.¡±


    ¡°Do you need me in attendance?¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± I say. ¡°You ought to go meet that fellow Jordan shot. He¡¯s rather shaken up.¡±


    Caspar chuckles. ¡°Since when do you care about how they shake up?¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t, but I know how you get your sick altruistic kicks.¡± I shake my head. ¡°You¡¯ve got an addiction. Such a shame to see. And here I am trying to make you a proper evil cultist of the Adversary.¡±


    ¡°Problem is,¡± Caspar says. ¡°I don¡¯t really want to get up.¡±


    A tickle of tranquil happiness eases across me and loosens my shoulders. ¡°Then don¡¯t. Sit awhile with me.¡± I drop the precepts against his chest. ¡°Read me something.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna make fun of it.¡±


    ¡°I am not,¡± I say. ¡°Not if you pick a good passage. Your favorite, maybe.¡±


    ¡°Gosh, all right.¡± He cracks the precepts. ¡°It ain¡¯t exactly a page-turner.¡±


    I settle onto my forearms as he scoots his head down my thigh to prop himself up. ¡°We have time,¡± I say.


    And here in the Autumn meadow, it¡¯s true.


    Eventually, the food is eaten and the jokes are cracked and the time, even in this timeless space, has come. We can¡¯t keep avoiding the people we need to see. Caspar heads off for the taphouse and I send an echoing psychic cry through Heaven¡¯s carcass, seeking She of Gentle Repose in whatever decaying cavity she¡¯s infesting these days.


    While I wait for her return ping, I sit up alone in the Autumn meadow. A breeze cuts across the tops of my thighs. I blow out a sigh, letting the air raspberry my lips. That¡¯s fun. Tingly.


    I manifest the ring again. ¡°Ridiculous,¡± I say, although nobody¡¯s here to listen. And isn¡¯t that peculiar? How deeply I feel it? I used to spend content decades alone in vacuum. Now my silly little human is gone and after a bare minute, I get this itch in my skull.


    I recycle my blanket to fibrous keratin and my basket to glistening tendon. Then I turn my attention to my humanoid. It¡¯s time to absorb Irene back into the mainframe. I can have my fun with him without letting myself become this¡­ affected. I understood academically the way your bodies meddle with your minds, but I wasn¡¯t prepared for just how strong and confusing the sensations would be. I must stop this experiment before it becomes a complicating factor in my decision-making. And I¡¯m going to do it right now.


    Right now.


    ¡°Right now,¡± I murmur, as I turn my ring in a slow rotation with my thumb.


    But I don¡¯t.


    And when Saoirse¡¯s burbling call returns to me, I delicately hike up my skirt and set off across the meadow with a very human determination in my stride.

 13. an orchard

    A monstrous worm is curled in a city block-sized crater, its massive rubbery folds and spines blossoming with moss and towering fungal growths. Without seeing the lamprey mouths and manifold eyes of its blunt head, an observer might believe that my sister Saoirse is a chaotic garden, or a festering fen, so intermingled is the decay and renewal pursuing itself across her. Bina¡¯s main body is already here, roosting next to her. My younger sister¡¯s spiracles trill a cheerful greeting.


    I drift over Saoirse and send a cautious hail, a request to manifest in her demesne, and the smell of fresh earth after a storm. She returns a flood of serene affection and a fond invitation, along with a detailed description of everything she¡¯s currently cultivating across her huge and fructiferous body.


    I¡¯d reproduce it here, but I¡¯d need a couple thousand pages and I worry I¡¯d bore you. This sort of instant transfer is a useful part of being a creature like me. I¡¯d love to give my story to you this way, so that you could ascertain, in the space of an instant, every minute detail of every scene in its telling, from its barometry to its ambient noise threshold. Unfortunately, our language would cause your brain to denature and pour out of your nostrils. So I suppose you¡¯d better keep reading instead, my delicate audience. Remember to take regular breaks to combat eye strain.


    I hastily reconfigure my Irene body with skin that can survive Saoirse¡¯s caustic environs and lungs that can filter her many spores away. No offense to my sister, but we have different ideas about closeness, and I don¡¯t fancy the idea of spitting bits of moldy lung out when I¡¯m back inside myself.


    Then I enter Saoirse¡¯s kingdom of decay.


    I pass slime molds and glowing redcaps; I maneuver around fungi oozing fecund poisons. Lattices of protein and pupae, ripe with the sickly-sweet scents of many thousands of life cycles devouring their own tails, bloom to rot to bloom to rot again. With every step, I crush dozens of tiny shoots and growing things; they fertilize my footfalls, such that new colorful bursts of ever-mutating life mark my passage. This is not the place for you if you have trypophobia, or mycophobia, or mysophobia, or really any kind of phobia. Even my well-tempered resistances find repulsion here and there.


    But Saoirse is beautiful, as all my sisters are beautiful. Even Eight, menace she may be, has a great and terrible beauty.


    Saoirse waits for me in her largest growth chamber. Her tumescent form is suspended gracefully over a churning terrarium, drifting spores from manifold species into her latest project. A forest of jewel-toned dragonfly wings, spreading from her like a woven cloak, keeps her aloft with a harmonious buzz. Imagine, if your stomach is fortified for it, a glamorous fairy queen made of death caps and teratomas.


    Surrounding her, each in their own cell of a vast honeycomb, are her blooming servants. Her newest is still identifiably human, his face a picture of restful repose as the fungi which feast on his brain flood the gaps they leave with endorphins.


    I genuflect to her. ¡°Sister. Thank you for welcoming me in.¡±


    The pinpoint lights within her weeping eyeholes burn brighter as she smiles. ¡°Irene. Dear heart. Hello.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Bina? I saw her outside.¡±


    Saoirse waves a knotty hand toward one of the overgrown channels tunneling through her titanic body. ¡°Exploring. She was waiting faithfully until I mentioned a fruit orchard I¡¯ve been growing. She got excited. Shall I call her back?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s our Bean for you,¡± I say. ¡°She can take her time. Let¡¯s catch up.¡±


    ¡°Of course, darling.¡± Saoirse floats to the chamber floor. The delicate hem of her dress is a curtain of mycorrhizae, which curl into the loam around her as she sits on the lip of her terrarium. ¡°You are here, I think, to negotiate. And I am here to listen. Nectar?¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± I say.


    She presses a bowl into my hand, and a drizzle of amber-colored fluid discharges from the canopy above our heads, filling it to the brim. I take a sip and savor the sweetness, then regurgitate a long, thready parasite, which I gingerly remove from my mouth. ¡°This is delicious,¡± I say, ¡°but can I request you stop trying to infest this manifestation? I¡¯ve been doing my best to keep from having to reconstitute it.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, dear. Force of habit.¡± Saoirse takes the plasmoid from my hand and tucks it into her teeming mantle. ¡°From what I hear, you¡¯ve been getting plenty of that from Ganea.¡±


    ¡°Have you been talking to her?¡±


    Saoirse chuckles. ¡°Talking, fending off. Same thing with Gan-Gan. She tells me you¡¯re making some sort of play.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± I say. ¡°My latest warlock, Bina¡¯s first. There¡¯s real potential here. And I want to bring you in.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve thought about my terms.¡±


    ¡°I have,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about it.¡±


    Saoirse is kind, and Saoirse shares my affection for you and your world. But Saoirse has a very different idea of Heaven than I do, and a very different idea of what makes you happy. This isn¡¯t the first time we¡¯ve had this conversation.


    Bina pokes her wolfish head out of one of Saoirse¡¯s tunnels. A persimmon¡¯s gleaming pulp runs down her jaw. ¡°Hello!¡±


    ¡°Hello again, Bean,¡± Saoirse says, and our youngest sister frowns at the propagation of her nickname. She perambulates down the wall like an octopus and sits on her haunches next to me.


    ¡°Bina and I need to get our warlocks from Chamchek to Pastornos,¡± I say. ¡°Do you still have your guy there?¡±


    I hesitate to use the world warlock. Saoirse doesn¡¯t have warlocks like we do, not exactly. Saoirse works differently.


    There¡¯s a man you may meet, some day, at a concert. Or a pretty girl at a party. They¡¯ll be interested in you. They¡¯ll ask you about yourself, and they¡¯ll really listen. They¡¯ll laugh at your jokes and they¡¯ll brush your hand. They¡¯ll invite you somewhere, tonight or tomorrow night. They¡¯ve been paying close attention to you; they¡¯re good at guessing where you¡¯d like to meet them next.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    A day will come when they ask you if you want to have some real fun with them. They¡¯ll offer you silo. Maybe they¡¯ll call it by a different name: glory dust, p.semi, The Special. When you take it, either up the nose or under the tongue or vaporized into your lungs, you are Saoirse¡¯s. You¡¯ll have your first dream of her that night. You¡¯ll behold an indistinct shape. You¡¯ll hear tuneless music. You¡¯ll wake up feeling desperately deprived.


    There is no comparison to the bliss Saoirse¡¯s offering will give you. None on Earth, anyway. You¡¯ll upend your existence for more. You¡¯ll do anything for more. And you¡¯ll need more, and more, in larger doses.


    Saoirse will wait until your life¡¯s already hollowed out by your own hand, and then she¡¯ll appear to you. What she offers you isn¡¯t the power of a warlock, not exactly. She gives you a simple deal.


    Every night, you will slumber in her demesne, and sleep a beautiful, dreamless sleep, with all the silo your reconfigured brain hungers for. You¡¯ll be immersed in it. No thoughts, no ills, no needs or wills. Just unthinking bliss.


    In exchange, you¡¯ll be called on, now and then, to do her a favor in your waking days. Eventually, that favor will be a spell, the only spell she¡¯ll ever teach you, the last spell you¡¯ll ever cast. And then she¡¯ll free you from what¡¯s left of your body, and bring you into herself, and you¡¯ll have that silo bliss forever. And she¡¯ll have more living gardens to tend.


    It¡¯s a lot more haphazard and chaotic than how the rest of us operate, and her servants are more delicate than ours. But it¡¯s a rather ingenious way to get around the one-warlock limit the rest of us struggle to breach.


    ¡°Chamchek. Let¡¯s see.¡± Saoirse stands, her dress tearing its filaments from the earth with a silky hiss. She sways past row upon row of slumberers. ¡°Chamchek, Chamchek. Chammy cham¡ªAh, yes. You¡¯re talking about Perry, here. The flyboy.¡± She reaches out and plucks a morel from an overgrown mass, which shifts and sighs in response. I can just make out a human figure beneath the excrescence. ¡°Pretty Perry. Oh, he¡¯s sprouting so well.¡±


    ¡°And he¡¯s still working with the private airship people?¡± Bina asks.


    ¡°He is.¡± Saoirse strokes Perry¡¯s forehead. ¡°I believe I understand where this is going. You¡¯ve need of my servant to get you an unchartered flight. Well, but of course.¡± She gives me a laceration smile. ¡°Let¡¯s negotiate for it.¡±


    Saoirse, should she obtain the key, would turn all of Heaven into her night garden. You¡¯d be fertilizer for her unending creations. Of all the sisters I¡¯m competing with, hers is the gentlest victory. The spores would steal your mind and end your freedom, but they¡¯d flood you with so much pleasure you¡¯d miss neither.


    ¡°Here¡¯s my offer,¡± I say. ¡°When Heaven is being reshaped, you¡¯ll have dominion over every mortal soul whose paradise can only come from the destruction of another¡¯s. The genocidalists, the arsonists, the serial murderers, the billionaires. The people whose happiness must emerge from the greater whole¡¯s sorrow. Them you can plant in your gardens. I¡¯ve watched their dimension closely. You won¡¯t be wanting for raw material.¡±


    ¡°And in return, my Perry flies your warlocks.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± I say. ¡°A simple endeavor with a rich reward.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve thought this one over, haven¡¯t you?¡± She lets one of her larvae crawl across her splayed-out fingers. ¡°And, you know, it¡¯s quite reasonable.¡±


    A silly hope springs up in me.


    She clicks her tumorous tongue. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll have to ask for more.¡±


    ¡°Sersh¡ª¡±


    ¡°You needn¡¯t convince me of your intentions,¡± she says. ¡°Ganea already gave me the outlines and Bina here has filled in the rest of the spiel.¡±


    I slant my gaze to Bina, whose tail thumps nervously. ¡°Then you understand the field.¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°And the threat our oldest sister poses.¡±


    ¡°Very much. Alliances are necessary. But I have you, it would seem, over a barrel.¡±


    ¡°There are other ways to Pastornos,¡± I say.


    ¡°If there were, you¡¯d have taken them.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°No. You need me. And I believe I could see my way to needing you, beloved sister.¡±


    ¡°Do you have an additional price in mind?¡± I brace myself.


    ¡°Yes. Two additional conditions.¡± Saoirse holds up a flowering finger. ¡°First: when your pretty humans are finished with their old world, when the last one dies, I want Diamante. The whole thing.¡±


    I chew my lip. ¡°Promise me you won¡¯t hasten their extinction?¡±


    ¡°No hastening. You have my word.¡± She brushes my wrist. ¡°You love Diamante for the Diamantans. I have quite the fondness for its more primeval processes. Once your little humans blow themselves up, or however they go, the world that remains will be an intriguing canvas.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s condition two?¡±


    ¡°Pretty Perry is being held prisoner,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°By some gentlemen at a gambling parlor called the Platinum. I understand it¡¯s something about debts he¡¯s racked up. One reason I¡¯ve just been letting him fertilize. He¡¯s perfectly content and quite beyond any pain they try to inflict on him, but I believe they¡¯re preparing to dispose of him. If you want him, you¡¯ll need to break him out.¡±


    ¡°How does an airship pilot in prison help us any?¡± I ask.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a state prison. His credentials remain, I believe, in place.¡± Saoirse smiles and shrugs. ¡°He still knows how to fly. My gifts have left him that. If your warlocks can lift him from the Platinum and take him home, he has his lovely little uniform, his papers, his job. At least for a few more days.¡±


    ¡°So we just have to break your druggy airship pilot out of a casino prison and maybe he can get us on an airship.¡± Bina munches on another persimmon. ¡°And you get a slice of Heaven and an entire planet.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Saoirse pats her velvety head.


    ¡°Sersh,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re lucky I love all my sisters, you know that?¡±


    ¡°I know and am in awe of it, Irene, darling.¡±


    ¡°You have yourself a deal.¡± I stick my hand out.


    ¡°Oh, wonderful!¡± Saoirse bypasses my hand and brings me into a tight hug. I return the gesture, surreptitiously brushing off the tiny questing lifeforms that creep from her to explore my skin.


    ¡°It¡¯s a shoddy deal on your end, I know,¡± she murmurs into my ear. ¡°I hope you don¡¯t resent me and that it all works out wonderfully.¡±


    ¡°If it doesn¡¯t, we won¡¯t be able to deliver on your side,¡± I say.


    ¡°If it doesn¡¯t, I do believe our eldest sister is going to eat us all.¡± Saoirse lights a twinkling laugh. ¡°And it will be a moot point. I¡¯d quite given up on obtaining that key, my dear. I¡¯m so glad you¡¯ve come here to include me.¡±


    ¡°Does that mean that you¡¯ll activate a sleeper or two for us in Pastornos?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Of course. Provided you give me a bit more of that reward.¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m your last hope to avoid our big sister¡¯s jaws, perhaps we¡¯ve both got each other over a barrel.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Irene.¡± She laughs again. ¡°You might, if I were afraid of dying. But really, I do think it might be interesting, being killed and eaten.¡± She plucks a young chute from her forearm and watches it dry and wither. ¡°Nothing is forever.¡±


    I squeeze her shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll see about that.¡±


    ¡°My determined sister.¡± Saoirse beams. ¡°Good luck, Irene. Love you, dear.¡±


    ¡°Love you too, Sersh.¡± With that, I click my heel and turn from the eroded fairy and her hall of decomposition. ¡°Come on, Bina. Let¡¯s go free ourselves a fungus-brain.¡±


    ¡°Bye, Saoirse!¡± Bina waves. ¡°Thank you for the persimmons!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re so welcome, darling.¡± Saoirse lights back into the air, turning lazy, pollinating circles as she waves us adieu.


    ¡°Check your system for parasites,¡± I say to Bina, sotto voce. ¡°Saoirse probably wants to nose in.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m not worried,¡± Bina says. ¡°I¡¯m just going to liquefy this manifestation and make another. You ought to as well.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re probably right.¡±


    Bina snickers. ¡°But I bet you won¡¯t. Cause you spent like a million years on this one. Cause you got a crush.¡±


    I give her a playful swat. ¡°Can you just turn into goop already?¡±


    ¡°Reenie wants a kissieeee,¡± sings Bina, her flesh sloughing from her bones. ¡°Reenie¡¯s got a cruuuuubhbhhb.¡± The last word trails off as her vocal cords unravel and her manifestation¡¯s gleaming skull falls to the floor. It crumbles and flakes like ash.


    ¡°We are not doing Reenie,¡± I tell the puddle.

 14. an acoustic guitar

    I return alone to my demesne. My warlock is holding court at the bar, sipping from an amber as he fields questions.


    ¡°So she¡¯s a goddess,¡± says Kester.


    ¡°After a fashion,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Whatever species they all are, the Father was one, too. But she needs one last ingredient to really be a god, I think. That¡¯s what I¡¯m trying to do.¡±


    ¡°And why are you tryina do that?¡± demands Florin.


    ¡°She¡¯s got good ideas, and she likes humans,¡± Caspar says. ¡°And she keeps her word. The Father didn¡¯t.¡±


    Aaron fidgets. ¡°You¡¯re blaspheming again, Cas.¡±


    ¡°I am indeed, Aaron.¡± Caspar rests his amber on the table. ¡°Look. Fellas. We all saw the kingdom of Heaven. I don¡¯t imagine I¡¯ll ever be able to forget. I won¡¯t proselytize, but we need to face facts. At the very least, I¡¯m expecting you to act like good guests. I know your parents taught you how to do that.¡±


    Edgar looks up from his reflection in his beer. The schoolteacher has been doing that lately. Reflecting. ¡°I reckon we can do that,¡± he says.


    ¡°She¡¯s a demon.¡± This from the newest member of the dead men¡¯s coterie, the truck driver Jordan headshot. His name is Stephen¡ªthe first question I asked him and the most difficult to extract. He didn¡¯t yet understand his situation when I asked. ¡°A fucking monster.¡±


    ¡°See, that¡¯s what we¡¯re not gonna say,¡± Caspar says. ¡°I get that you¡¯re shook up. But that woman is the reason you¡¯re not in terrible pain right now.¡±


    ¡°Hear hear, Mr. Cartwright.¡± I choose that moment to make my entrance.


    Stephen screams and flees the taphouse. The rest of the dead men watch him go. Edgar shakes his head. ¡°Fella needs to adjust to his situation.¡±


    ¡°Hello, gentlemen of Rogarth,¡± I say. ¡°Hello, templars.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Miss Irene,¡± Sam says.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go with ¡®ma¡¯am¡¯ unless we¡¯re Caspar, shall we?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Very good.¡± I hook my arm into Caspar¡¯s. ¡°Come, warlock.¡±


    The eyes of the dead men sink like fruitless fish hooks into our departing backs. Caspar steps in front of me and holds the door for my exit. Ooh la la.


    ¡°The boys and I have another request, Miss Irene.¡± He waits until we¡¯re out of the taphouse to say it. ¡°We were wondering if you might see your way through to having a jukebox put in.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Goodness me. So needy, these mortals.¡±


    ¡°We could call it practice, right? For when you¡¯re a goddess. Answering prayers all over.¡±


    ¡°You always know how to mollify me,¡± I say. ¡°All right. How¡¯s this.¡±


    I shave a sheet of bone from the vault of my ribs and drop it from the autumn sky. When it lands in my hands, it¡¯s an acoustic guitar. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not up-to-date with all the big hits that would go in a jukebox,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve viewed a lot of the last decade from the eyes of a gentleman with a real yen for crusty old yacht rock.¡±


    ¡°Hey, now. The Kerry Druckman Band is not yacht rock.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d know better than me, I suppose. You¡¯re the one who¡¯s listened to them like 3,000 times.¡± I pass him the guitar. ¡°The gents in there need productivity. Unlimited time, no more pressing concerns of the flesh to address. No striving to survive. They¡¯ll need to replace it with something else or they¡¯ll drive themselves cuckoo. Surely one of those stiffs has wanted to learn the six-string.¡±


    Caspar taps his chin. ¡°I think Hollis mentioned something about it.¡±


    ¡°Pass it to him, then. If they think they can just get whatever they want from me, there¡¯ll be no afterliving with them.¡±


    ¡°You said I could have anything I¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°And you can. None of those yokels are named Caspar Cartwright last time I checked.¡± I crack my knuckles. ¡°Now I¡¯ve got the plan set up. You will not love it.¡±


    I fill Caspar in on what Saoirse, Bina, and I discussed, and watch the consternation march across his face.


    ¡°Seems like a lot to give up for a sparse amount of gain,¡± he says.


    ¡°Do you disapprove of what I traded?¡± I ask. ¡°I was self-congratulatory about it. Thought it was a nifty idea.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nifty,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Well, it¡¯s horrifying. But it¡¯s nifty. I¡¯m just skeptical of what Sors¡­ whatshername¡­¡±


    ¡°Saoirse,¡± I say. ¡°Sir-sha.¡±


    ¡°Seems like we¡¯re putting a lot of trust in her.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s my sister,¡± I say. ¡°Keep that in mind, mister man. Don¡¯t go badmouthing.¡±


    ¡°Never, Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°Good boy. Now, before you skidoo, I¡¯m going to teach you how to do this.¡±


    My face warps and flexes, and Archbishop Tilliam is staring Caspar in the face. ¡°You¡¯re shitting me,¡± he says.


    ¡°Well how-dee-doo, Brother Cartwright,¡± I say. ¡°Dontcha know cussin¡¯ like that is some ding-dang blasphemy?¡±


    ¡°Please change back.¡±


    With a musical crackle of cartilage, I subsume Tilliam¡¯s face and return to my minimalist shadow-visage. ¡°Now you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t rightly know if I can do that,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Sure you can,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve so granted it.¡±


    ¡°What I¡¯m wondering,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Am I able to do all of this stuff, and you¡¯re just showing me everything one at a time? If there¡¯s stuff I can do you¡¯re not telling me about, maybe we oughta get it all out in the open.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t exactly work like that, Caspar,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ well. You¡¯re beyond nasty shocks by now, right?¡±


    ¡°I hope so.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m mutating you,¡± I say. ¡°Every night. The more you use my magic, the more your system can take and the more new spells I can jam in there.¡±


    Caspar blinks.


    ¡°In my defense, if I¡¯m making you more eldritch abomination-y, you¡¯re making me more human,¡± I say. ¡°Earlier today I had a hankering for bread. Bread, for fuck¡¯s sake. So boring. Please say something.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what it is.¡± Caspar¡¯s face is stoic. ¡°I signed up for it.¡± A pang of guilt runs through me. I almost wish he¡¯d cussed me out.


    ¡°All right, my martyr. How about you try it?¡±


    ¡°Who should I be?¡±


    I tap my chin. ¡°Let¡¯s try Edgar the schoolteacher. Picture him, and then just¡­ make the face.¡±


    Caspar shuts his eyes and tries to recreate the flaring nostrils on his old deceased teacher, the workman frown. I stretch a membranous tissue around my hands and widen it into a mirror.


    Caspar opens his newly brown eyes and beholds himself. ¡°Well good grief.¡± He touches his own lumpen nose. ¡°I¡¯m an old white man.¡±


    I snort. ¡°It¡¯s only going to last about ten minutes before you need to refresh it. You¡¯ll look Caspar-er and Caspar-er as it fades. So try not to stay under observation too long when you¡¯re doing it.¡±


    Caspar shakes his head around rapidly, like he¡¯s got a bug on him. Edgar¡¯s visage subsumes, and he¡¯s his old handsome self again. Phew.


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°That ought to help you get into the Platinum.¡± I give him a light tap on the cheek. ¡°And avoid the manhunt while you¡¯re doing it. It¡¯ll let you do the voice, too, if you hear enough of it.¡±


    ¡°What a nightmare of a guy you¡¯re making me,¡± Caspar says, but he says it like a joke. He makes me smile.


    ¡°Well, nightmares end,¡± I say. ¡°Gotta send you off again.¡±


    He sighs as he kneels. And he doesn¡¯t say it, but he doesn¡¯t need to. If he didn¡¯t have his duty, he¡¯d want to stay here, inside of me, in my darkened corridors, my autumn evening that never ends.


    As I clasp my hands to the sides of his head, I feel the germination of that yearning. He is beginning to feel more at home in my world than in his.


    Suddenly it¡¯s strangely difficult to draw another breath. How odd.


    My hesitation turns what is normally a quick grab-and-kiss into a longer hold. ¡°Miss Irene?¡± he prompts. I don¡¯t respond. Instead, I step between his knees and clasp my arms around his back, pulling his head up against my chest. His face lands in the fluffy cashmere of my sweater.


    ¡°You know what I just realized?¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve never thanked you.¡±


    He glances at me, eyebrows up. ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For all of it. The things you¡¯re doing for me. The thing you¡¯ve become for me.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to thank me,¡± he says. ¡°My soul is yours, remember?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t. And it is. But thank you anyway, Caspar Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re very welcome, Miss Irene.¡± His smile is as soft and all-encompassing as a sunrise. It colors the rest of the world gold. I lay my chin on top of his head and inhale his scent. Rushing blood, healthy musk, subtle perspiration, an echo of peppermint aftershave.


    I don¡¯t want him to go back, either. I don¡¯t want it. I don¡¯t want him covered in blood and fearing for his life and doing the horrible shit I make him do. He¡¯s brave, and he¡¯s trying so hard, but his mind isn¡¯t built for this task; he evolved to be a social, empathetic creature, and I¡¯m making him a murderous outcast. The things I love about him are getting in the way. The stress and the stakes and the cold-blooded killing are taxing his human hardware.


    It would be so easy to just keep him here, to pamper him and protect him. I could make him so happy. I could grant his every wish. His earthbound body could stay in the motel and just waste away, decompose into the cheap bed it¡¯s laying in, and he¡¯d never have to leave me again. He wouldn¡¯t even feel the moment it died. I could find a different warlock. We never want for volunteers, my sisters and I. A crowd of would-be Adversary worshippers scribble fruitless pentagrams and spill livestock blood in search of power, every day. I could pick a promising one out of the crop and Caspar could stay. My little mortal could stay with me.


    No.


    I think of my usual stock of warlocks. None of them have measured up to Caspar. Not in his militia training, nor his natural aptitude for the use of my magic. Nor his disciplined reluctance, his attachment to society and humanity. Until him and Jordan, I¡¯ve never met a warlock anything short of misanthropic. They''re quick to anger, prideful, eager to use my magic for their own gain, tough to corral. They''ve cut deals. They''ve accomplished tasks in exchange for power. And then they''ve happily used that power to get their stupid asses killed by the inspectorate.


    Caspar actually believes in me, in my cause. I feel it every time he''s close. That flame of faith, always growing. His reluctance, annoying as it is, keeps him cautious and calculating. The shocking luck of him being cut down in his prime and my swinging in for the save is not how we usually operate. I won¡¯t have a chance like this again, not with a mortal like Caspar. Not in time. I have to send him back.


    ¡°Ready?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°If you¡¯re in my corner?¡± He nods. ¡°Always.¡±


    ¡°Always.¡± I press my lips to the top of his head. My kiss lingers. Caspar takes a deep breath.


    She smells like rain, he thinks. I never noticed. My goddess smells like rain and peaches.


    With a pop of displaced air, he''s reduced to two dimensions, then one, and he folds from my demesne, back into the harsh light of his doomed reality.


    My finger strays up to my lower lip. I press into the indent where my warlock¡¯s skin was a second ago.


    ¡°Good luck, darling,¡± I whisper to the empty space he left behind.


    ???????????


    Caspar jerks awake, like he dreamt of falling. He reemerges into a world of taupe, smoke-scented curtains and faded floral print. He rolls over and checks the time on the dusty table clock. Eight in the morning and he¡¯s sore all over.


    Jordan¡¯s already awake, splayed across the floor on her fingertips, doing pushups. ¡°Morning, Cas,¡± she grunts.


    ¡°Morning, Jordy.¡± Caspar slides to the opposite side of his bed and pulls a pair of grubby khakis on. ¡°You get the details from Bina?¡±


    With a final hiss of air, Jordan kips up to her feet. ¡°Yessir,¡± she says. ¡°We got ourselves a wild goose chase, sounds like. I don¡¯t love the odds.¡± She balances on one leg and starts doing pistol squats.


    ¡°Irene says to trust her.¡± Caspar buttons his shirt up and finds his belt. ¡°You remember you¡¯re warlock-strong now, right? No need to keep training.¡±


    ¡°Force of habit.¡± Jordan changes legs. ¡°Bina says trust the mushroom lady, too. I guess we¡¯re trusting her.¡±


    ¡°How is it, being at Bina¡¯s?¡± Caspar asks.


    ¡°You know how you go to a reunion and there¡¯s that one cute little cousin who¡¯s running around showing you things and craving your approval? It¡¯s that, but she controls reality. Right now it¡¯s a bigass tropical resort.¡±


    Caspar crosses to their grubby bathroom and finds his ducat-store disposable razor. ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound half bad.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Though she¡¯s kinda 99% of the way there on some things. I found a tooth in my tiki drink. Sorry for blowing up your spot, Bean.¡±


    Caspar scrapes the stubble along his chin. ¡°She¡¯s letting you call her that?¡±


    ¡°Bina,¡± Jordan says. ¡°If you don¡¯t want me to call you Bean, stop my heart and kill me.¡±


    The warlocks wait.


    ¡°Suppose she is.¡± Jordan returns to pistol squats. ¡°Anyway, my goddess could beat up your goddess.¡±


    Caspar chuckles. ¡°Let¡¯s not start.¡±


    They check out and retrieve their collateral¡ªJordan¡¯s gun and Caspar¡¯s charm braid. She clings to hers like it¡¯s returning to her from a long voyage. He tosses his into the storm drain as they leave the motel. I do so love this man.


    In a dingy parking garage decorated with aluminum cherubs and chintzy saints-of-the-road airbrushes, the warlocks boost a car. Caspar wants to take a homely little wood-paneled four-door. Jordan insists on the convertible. ¡°We ain¡¯t using it long,¡± she says, prying the panel loose. ¡°And I¡¯m much less convinced we¡¯re taking some poor granny¡¯s property.¡±


    ¡°They teach you how to do this at the Inspectorate?¡± Caspar tries to watch over her shoulder and see what she¡¯s doing.


    ¡°What do you think, Abraham?¡± She calls him that when he¡¯s being dumb. ¡°No, sir. Got this trick from Chutes University.¡±


    The engine purrs to life. ¡°Oh, yes.¡± Jordan purrs with it. ¡°You¡¯re going to be my rebound, aren¡¯t you? Temple Cruiser who? Never heard of her.¡± She slides into the leather-clad seat. ¡°Hop in, Cas. We got a casino to turn over.¡±


    They coast through the Segmentus, and into the Treasure District. Here the magnates and robber barons spread their peacocking tailfeathers and preen themselves higher and higher into skyscraping art d¨¦co columns. And few of them shine as bright as the Platinum.


    Gambling is, of course, an abomination in the eyes of the Father. The Platinum is not a gambling establishment. The Platinum gladly accepts donations (tax-deductible and benefitting several Suzerain-approved charities) in return for markers of piety. These may be exchanged in a panoply of rites and rituals which¡ªto the foolish heathen, perhaps¡ªresemble slots and dice and card games. These rites determine who, in this Platinum place of worship, is most beloved by the Father. And doesn¡¯t that love deserve monetary recompense?


    The most beloved leave their ceremonies with extra markers to exchange for ducats again in a beatific eucharist; those who have some repenting to do are lucky to keep their shirts.


    At one in the afternoon, Degmar takes his break. Out of the pearlescence and wealthy gospel, and into the smoky back room and the creaky lockers where he stashes his frock and his cheesy smile.


    ¡°Blackjack again?¡± Margo, his work wife, is powdering up for her shift.


    ¡°Yep.¡± He grimaces. ¡°Bunch of hotshots thinking they¡¯re card counters, going apeshit when they bust.¡±


    ¡°The Father works in mysterious ways, is what I always tell them.¡±


    ¡°The Father works for those who work for it,¡± he grumbles. ¡°They should try a fucking day job.¡±


    Margo favors him with a chuckle as he dips out for lunch. Maybe he¡¯ll get her a tea. Would that be overstepping? He doesn¡¯t want to overstep. She knows he¡¯s a married man. Maybe if he keeps it slow, she¡¯ll warm up to the idea.


    He¡¯s a block away from the Platinum when the servants of the Adversary pull him into an alley.


    A big elephant-killer looking revolver makes a clicking mechanical promise next to his temple.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Deg. Uh Degmar.¡±


    ¡°Degmar. Repeat after me.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Oh, Father. Please don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°That apple was absolutely fantastic.¡±


    Degmar¡¯s forehead wrinkles. ¡°What¡ª¡±


    ¡°Say it or it¡¯s two in the head.¡± The other voice is a woman¡¯s.


    ¡°That apple was absolutely fantastic.¡± A tear drips down Degmar¡¯s nose.


    ¡°The north wind and the sun were disputing who is stronger.¡±


    ¡°The north wind and the sun were. Fuck. Uh.¡±


    ¡°Disputing who is stronger.¡± The man sounds much more patient.


    ¡°Disputing who is stronger,¡± weeps Degmar. ¡°Please, man. I don¡¯t know what I did, but I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so fucking sorry.¡±


    ¡°Take your uniform off.¡±


    ¡°My clothes?¡±


    The gun prods hard against his skull. The woman: ¡°Now, motherfucker.¡±


    They strip Degmar to his skivvies and tie his arms and legs. The woman stuffs a sock into his mouth and duct tapes it shut.


    ¡°Thank you for your time,¡± she says. She¡¯s rangy and mean looking, dressed in ragged secondhand, with a scar below her lip and long, tight locs. Behind her, Degmar gets a look at the man.


    It¡¯s him. It¡¯s Degmar, staring back at Degmar, carefully cinching his tie into position.


    ¡°We can¡¯t spare him,¡± the woman says. ¡°Neither of us can stay with him.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t knock him out?¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°You been watching too many movies. They don¡¯t stay down like you think they do. He¡¯ll have a better time at the taphouse than telling a casino nail-yanker a man stole his face.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I intend to do.¡± His doppelg?nger speaks in his voice. ¡°It¡¯s the people he¡¯d leave behind. And the pain and the fear.¡±


    ¡°Taracus 5:64, Cas. Let he who serves well and willfully fear no death, for he is gladly awaited, and none shall be parted in His kingdom.¡±


    ¡°I told Irene.¡± Degmar number two shakes his head. ¡°I will not kill just because it¡¯s convenient.¡±


    ¡°This is a populous area and I don''t know it. Don''t know where to stash him. He could thrash, he could holler. Gags don''t work well enough. He makes noise, he gets found, he blows us early.¡±


    ¡°That''s not a good enough reason to kill him.¡±


    ¡°Give me a better reason to spare him.¡±


    Silence at that.


    ¡°They won''t go easier on us for letting him live. We''re waxed either way. And he''ll be better off. You trust Irene? Trust her with him. You are a warlock now. Do your duty.¡±


    The doppelg?nger looks as though he¡¯s preparing to argue. Then a shutter slams shut behind his eyes. The pity excises itself from his mind. Degmar sees it. He sees it on his own face.


    His last hope turns away. ¡°Do what you have to.¡±


    The woman looks Degmar up and down. ¡°I will,¡± she says.


    Degmar tries to say wait. Wait. But his voice comes out as a garbled whimper. Like a sickness or a nightmare. A hand closes around his throat. A gleam of metal.


    There is a sharp, tearing sound, and a sharp, tearing pain.


    And then a gorgeous sunset, framed in the fiery foliage of the fall. And a woman like a hole in the world, gazing at him with three golden eyes.

 15. a song

    Bina sings a song she made up as her manifestation enters my demesne. She¡¯s only found the lyrics for the chorus so far, which goes:


    Reenie Reenie Reenie / Wants to be a Queenie / Reenie Reenie Reenie / In a teeny bikini / Trying to get steamy


    Thusly she serenades me as she pads up the balustraded promenade to my lounge. ¡°I have managed the stairs on two legs,¡± she announces in triumph. ¡°Hello, Reenie!¡±


    ¡°Did I not say we weren¡¯t doing that name?¡± I coax my flagstones into a telescoping whorl and fill it with fluid to display my view for my sister.


    ¡°I¡¯m returning fire. If I¡¯m Beany, you¡¯re Reenie.¡± She flops down on my couch, glad to be free of her bipedalism. ¡°I¡¯m here to confront you. Why are you crying?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I touch my face and my finger comes away damp. ¡°Oh. What the hell.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have to call you Reenie. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m just fucking about.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that. It¡¯s¡ª¡± I surmount a step aloft of my humanoid¡¯s emotional cocktail and peer into its admixture. ¡°I think it¡¯s because Caspar just took an innocent life.¡±


    ¡°The Degmar guy?¡± Bina lays her wolfy head on my lap. I absently scratch it. ¡°That was Jordan.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how he sees it.¡± My exhale has an unwelcome shake in it. ¡°He feels himself disappearing. Metaphorically,¡± I hasten to add, as a curious look crosses Bina¡¯s face.


    ¡°Just because he¡¯s killing people?¡± Bina¡¯s ear quirks. ¡°But you¡¯re scooping them up and giving them all that room to run around. And they¡¯d end up here anyway in a few decades.¡±


    ¡°I know. I know that. But it¡¯s hurting him.¡± I manifest a handkerchief from lacy epidermis. ¡°Oh, Bina. I think I made a mistake.¡±


    ¡°What? By picking Caspar? You love Caspar.¡±


    ¡°No. I untethered my manifestation.¡± I indicate my body. ¡°And now I cry and such.¡±


    ¡°Oooh.¡± Bina licks her chops. ¡°And you can¡¯t just tether it again?¡±


    ¡°I can. I should. I don¡¯t know.¡± I wipe my eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t want to. I¡¯m not making any sense.¡±


    ¡°Crying¡¯s okay. You can cry. I won¡¯t tell anyone if you don¡¯t want me to.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Bina.¡± I scratch her muzzle. ¡°Do me a favor, all right? If ever I make a decision and you think Irene¡¯s compromised, because of this whole¡ª¡± I indicate my body. ¡°Me situation. Tell me, all right?¡±


    ¡°I will, my love.¡±


    ¡°And if I still don¡¯t listen to you, kill this body. Eat it or something. I give you permission ahead of time.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± She repositions her fuzzy body to facilitate my scratches. ¡°It smells tasty. I wouldn¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my dear.¡±


    I observe Caspar¡¯s calloused fingers work through his stolen uniform¡¯s buttons. It¡¯s tighter on him than it was on the dead man. With luck, nobody¡¯s looking as closely as I am. ¡°What did you want to confront me about?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You keep scooping the guys Jordan kills,¡± Bina says. ¡°You don¡¯t need to, right? Not according to your agreement.¡±


    ¡°What, do you want them? You can have them.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no. No, it¡¯s no problem. I don¡¯t imagine Jordan cares overmuch.¡± Bina crosses her paws. ¡°I¡¯m just curious.¡±


    ¡°It makes Caspar happy.¡±


    Bina noses up against my palm and I dutifully start scratching her muzzle again. ¡°Will that keep him kind, do you think?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need him to be kind,¡± I say.


    Bina¡¯s lupine eyes fix on mine. ¡°Yes, you do.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I do.¡± I sigh in defeat. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have to steal a page from the Father¡¯s stupid precepts. How his servants keep their spirits through the shit he has them do.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s that?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s vision fills with the glassy vacancy of the dead man¡¯s face. He tilts the dumpster lid shut.


    ¡°Faith,¡± I say.


    ???????????


    ¡°You killed me, y¡¯know. I got over it.¡± Jordan sits atop the dumpster with poor dead Degmar inside it and sips her tea. ¡°Our mission is too important. I¡¯m not leaving these things to chance. We¡¯re facing too many vectors of failure already. We get the chance to eliminate one, by any means, we do it. One man¡¯s uncomfortable transition into a cozy afterlife can¡¯t be balanced against the agony of all our ancestors.¡±


    Caspar makes a noise of disgust in his throat.


    ¡°You¡¯re mad,¡± Jordan says. ¡°You think I could be wrong. Maybe Degmar would have kept quiet. Maybe he¡¯d have made noise, and someone would have found him. This is one fewer maybe. I locked eyes with my father, Caspar. At Bina¡¯s. Saw what the capital-F Father let happen to him. You ever see your dad without his skin on? What we¡¯re doing is too important for maybes.¡±


    ¡°You sound like an inspector again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Her probing blue eyes are unmoving on him. ¡°I¡¯ve done much worse deeds for a much worse God.¡± She blows across the surface of her drink. ¡°I am sorry, but I won¡¯t stop. Go ahead and hate me for it if you have to.¡±


    Caspar takes another bite of his crumb cake so he doesn¡¯t have to respond. They need to waste another ten minutes of this dead fellow¡¯s lunch break before he can convincingly clock back in.


    ¡°Fella told me not long ago that I had every right to be mad, but I was wasting it on him.¡± She blows across the surface of her drink. ¡°Pretty sharp statement, I came to find.¡±


    Caspar wipes the crumbs from his front. ¡°Give me time.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough, friend.¡± Jordan slides off the dumpster. ¡°Your hair¡¯s shrinking. Freshen up before your entrance.¡±


    Caspar comes face-to-face with their victim in the reflection of a storefront. He focuses hard and watches his skin shift and lighten, his whiskers push themselves from sinking cheeks. ¡°Five minutes,¡± he says. ¡°Then come in.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    He leaves the alley without looking back. Slouch in the right shoulder. One hand in the pocket. Hips forward. Good boy, Caspar. He may not be a fast talker, but my warlock¡¯s observant of body language.


    He joins the inflow of Platinum patrons. Clockers-in, burners-out, fuckers-up. Microcosmic and eyes forward, united in departure from their better selves.


    The river trudges down a mosaic hallway with plush silver carpet. Dizzying joy beams from the painted faces as they celebrate their Father-granted prosperity. New car, new tits, new grill. Just look at those tiled t-bones.


    A knot of hard-faced men idle around a gleaming row of metal detectors, herding the crowd through and waving chunky wands across petitioners like aspergillums. Caspar sidles from the line, raising his wrist in the air and gesturing the time to one of the frowning guards. ¡°Late from lunch,¡± he calls.


    The guard huffs in annoyance. The silvery goggles atop his helmet flash as he jerks his head past the pillars. ¡°Go on through, Deg. Fuck around less next time.¡±


    ¡°Blessings, brother.¡± Caspar grasps the man¡¯s shoulder as he edges past the detectors. Sofia¡¯s gravity knife nudges his shin from its seat in his boot.


    Out from the sparse hallway and into the great chamber of acquisition. Through the rows of neon saints beckoning from their perches atop the slots. Along the thoroughfares where the barflies perambulate, dizzy with their victories or simmering with resentful loss. Past sunken conversation pits paneled in hardwood and attended by glittering bottle girls. The live band is playing something peppy, something to put a pop in your step and a vacancy in your heart. A musical progression ending on a tension note, a sonic question mark. Will you win big? Are you the sanctified mogul of whom we sing?


    Caspar glances at himself in the mirrored column bolstering the bar. The disguise holds.


    Beyond a crash barred door, Caspar moves through a bland and unadorned back hallway, past the smells and sounds of an industrial kitchen. Clattering cutlery and caramelizing protein. Pork ribs, maybe. He didn¡¯t realize how hungry he was.


    I make a mental note to feed my faithful servant some barbecue next time he¡¯s in my demesne.


    Caspar squeezes between a barking middle-aged man and the trembling, damp-eyed hostess he¡¯s chewing out. He flattens against a wall to grant passage to a pushcart full of champagne flutes, dominated by an ice sculpture of an unrealistically nubile priestess in prayer.


    He follows a pair of chattering dealers to the locker room. Here¡¯s Degmar¡¯s locker and here¡¯s Degmar¡¯s lock, keyed to a combination my warlock doesn¡¯t have. Caspar checks his peripherals, then runs his hands along the cool metal frame. Cheap and flimsy. He takes a deep breath and exhales a curling cloud of acid, which melts the lock and a chunk of the door to powdery slag. He pries his fingers through the resulting hole and tugs the locker open. They¡¯re going to dock poor Degmar¡¯s pay for that one.


    He shrugs the frock across his shoulders and hangs the charm braid over his heart. Its wooden clacks add themselves to his strident footsteps as he returns to the casino floor.


    Halfway through his trek back through the dingy hallway, a woman dressed in the same getup as he makes smiling eye contact and changes her steps to fall in with him. ¡°You¡¯re back on time,¡± she says. ¡°Miracle of miracles.¡±


    I am not endeared by the way she¡¯s looking at my warlock.


    ¡°Yeah.¡± He tries a dry chuckle and an affable departure. ¡°Busy day.¡±


    ¡°Hey.¡± Her hand brushes his arm. ¡°You need a hand at the tables? I can ask Oren to swap over.¡±


    He tries not to leap back like her touch is a live wire. ¡°Oh, no. No, it¡¯s all good.¡±


    ¡°You sure, Deg? You look sort of¡­¡± She squints at him. Her brow furrows as her touch solidifies on his (significantly more muscular) arm.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure.¡± And he threads a vein of cold iron into it as he pulls away. ¡°Just got to get this day over with.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Sheesh.¡± She steps off. But as he returns to the floor, she¡¯s watching him with clear and attentive concern. I share his fervent hope that my sister¡¯s warlock comes through for him, fast.


    He returns to the casino floor and slow-rolls his return to the blackjack table. Caspar, man of virtue that he is, has never played a game of cards for stakes that rose higher than a pile of toasted almonds. He¡¯s familiar enough with Blackjack, of course¡ªno scoring to remember like Poker or equations to run like Inquisition¡ªbut his able hands are not built or trained for the rapid riffling and dextrous displays of the Platinum dealers. A blessing that Degmar¡¯s a dawdler, then. The pit boss on duty raises her tweezer¡¯d brow at his slow circuit but doesn¡¯t lay into him.


    And here comes Jordan Darius. Thank¡ªwell, thank Bina, he supposes. I¡¯ll allow it; I can¡¯t get too used to my man¡¯s monotheism if I¡¯m going to be wheeling and dealing my way into a pantheon.


    ¡°Here comes my ladyyy,¡± my fellow goddess in question trills. ¡°Oh, Irene, she¡¯s so cool. You don¡¯t even know.¡±


    Caspar is cooler, I think. ¡°Do you mind if I eavesdrop?¡±


    ¡°Go ahead, honey.¡±


    I slip into a passenger seat in Jordan¡¯s head, and am met with a blast of irritation. Miss Darius has had a hell of a time slumming it through the security line. She remembers a time when a flash of her badge and a crisp word of authority could bypass any civilian checkpoint. Reminds her of how she hates this kind of place. Reminds her of the way the money just disappeared through these doors every time she managed a windfall and her dear old uncle found the proceeds.


    She crosses to the bar and makes a quick study of its customers. This early in the afternoon, it¡¯s a careworn type crowd. The sort of fellow she¡¯s looking for shouldn¡¯t be a difficult one to find. Here he is. Mister bolo tie with the forehead sweat.


    Jordan scans the floor. There¡¯s Caspar. Good old Caspar. A throb of sheepish sorrow. She¡¯s met few people as dependable and mindful as that simpleton. (Hey. Only I can call him that.) His upset at the dead dealer is still raw in the glance he returns to her. He¡¯ll come around, she knows that. And she knows there isn¡¯t room to force his forgiveness when she was so prickly with him at the onset of their partnership.


    Jordan regrets Caspar¡¯s resentment. But Jordan doesn¡¯t regret killing the man. She did it with the same annoyed ease you might swat a fly.


    She spent years of her life in service to a false idol, praying in secret terror for a certainty she never truly reached. But she has reached it now. Hers is a mission unimpeachable in its virtue. Hers is the true cause, and training and doctrine have made her a causal weapon.


    Jordan is broken. Broken like a window, all edges and shards, ready to draw blood at the first touch. Death was cheap to her before she saw it as a vacation. Now it¡¯s nothing at all. But that¡¯s fine. Creatures like her are necessary. Her faith in my sister is her solace, her anchor to human decency. She will see our task finished.


    Here¡¯s what I¡¯m realizing: If Bina required it, Inspector Jordan Darius would kill every person in this casino, one at a time, looking them in the eyes.


    ¡°Jealous?¡± Bina¡¯s hearing the same interior monologue I am.


    ¡°No,¡± I lie.


    Jordan parks next to the bolo tie drunkard and counts to ten. One bless-the-father. Two bless-the-father.


    She slams her palm on the bar and stands up. ¡°Do we have a fucking problem?¡± she demands.


    ¡°What?¡± Bolo Tie looks up from his drink in belligerent bewilderment. ¡°Me?¡±


    Her eyes narrow. ¡°Do we have a problem.¡±


    He tries to look bigger. ¡°Do we?¡±


    ¡°If we don¡¯t, I wanna know why you¡¯re looking at me like that.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re nuts, lady.¡±


    Jordan tips his lager into his lap.


    She takes the first swing to the face and lets it land. Got to make this guy think he¡¯s got a chance, if she wants this dragged out, and the first punch never has the whole heart behind it. Still, she¡¯s shocked at how little she feels it. Belatedly she remembers her warlock fortitude, and sells a staggering drop backward, then a surge forth. Over her foe¡¯s shoulder she notes with satisfaction the security man powerwalking her way, unhitching his boxy radio as he comes. Away from the door he stands in front of, the one designed to meld into the wall. The one they beckoned Perry through on the last day he was outside.


    Caspar moves.


    I light from Jordan as she throws a pulled punch into Mr. Bolo Tie¡¯s stomach, sweeping her foot out and tipping her opposite neighbor off her stool. The din rises. Back behind Caspar¡¯s eyes as he slips through the exit door into the metallic guts of the casino.


    Caspar only has secondhand details of the place, and these from a drugged-out prisoner who¡¯d been thwacked on the head. But he told Saoirse, and Saoirse told me, and I told Caspar, that the Platinum bruisers took Perry down. Down and down, he said.


    Down a sheet-metal hallway, Caspar finds a gated elevator door. That¡¯s down. He flashes the button to summon it and waits as the guts of the Platinum churn and shift. A surgical ping sounds with its arrival and Caspar slides the portcullis aside to climb inside. A suite of a half dozen buttons wait for his instruction. He scans the metal-punched labels next to each. Garage, that¡¯s one. Good. There¡¯s his exit, he hopes.


    Security is another. His finger hovers over the diode, then drops two rows lower, to the lowest button on the panel. This one is unlabeled. Down and down. He pushes the button in and cues the elevator.


    The slide and whirr of machinery is his only accompaniment as the elevator tick-tick-ticks down the floors. Please, please. Please, nobody hail this lift. Caspar knows I¡¯m powerless to prevent it; he prays to me anyway. Irene, don¡¯t make me hurt these people in your name.


    Sorry, Caspar. No dice.

 16. A bad dream

    The rust-pocked doors slide open at Caspar¡¯s destination. He emerges into guttering fluorescents slatted through an ugly, drop-tile ceiling. It doesn¡¯t look like a hidden holding cell. It looks like a depressing office.


    Through the hall. Check every door, sweep every corner. A directory at a T-intersection catches his attention. Room B5-018, to his right: detention. He takes the turn.


    He finds a weighted metal door with a red-light keycard reader on it. There¡¯s no muscling through this one.


    Caspar takes a fortifying inhale. He steps to one side of the doorframe. He moves the gravity knife from his boot to his hand. Guard these souls, Miss Irene. Protect me. Protect them. Be our salvation from this world fallen into violence and vexation. Reward my faith in you, that I might redouble it.


    I do like the sound of that.


    He raps his knuckles against the door. He waits ten seconds and repeats the gesture. Will it work? A strained feeling like relief at the possibility that it won¡¯t, that there¡¯s nothing beyond this locked door, that¡ª


    The handle clicks and turns. Caspar rockets a boot against it and slams it open with brutal, warlock-enhanced force.


    He pounces into the dimly lit room beyond and onto the musclebound woman who opened the door. Its sudden rebound has broken her nose and shattered her balance. No thinking; no hesitation. She dies under his knife, throat bubbling and crimson.


    He twists from the arterial spray, but takes flecks of it on the crisp white uniform, anyway. The pool of blood spreads across the linoleum. He creeps around the stain and thinks: twelve. Twelve people now.


    Here¡¯s the seedy holding cells he was expecting. Four of them, two-to-a-side and facing one another across a dimly lit concrete floor. Gore-steeped knife in hand, he creeps across the room, eyes trained on the room¡¯s other entrance.


    ¡°Alys?¡± A voice behind it. Caspar bolts to the side of the door frame and flattens out against it. He raises his knife and waits.


    I really think he ought to be using my claw; much bigger and deadlier. And cooler. But I suppose he doesn¡¯t want to mess those sleeves up overmuch, and there¡¯s virtue in keeping those telltale cavernous claw marks away from scenes of investigation.


    The speaker slowly pushes out the door, his gun barrel raised and tracking the egress. He¡¯s checking his corners. He¡¯ll see Caspar or he¡¯ll see the corpse. Time to close this man¡¯s eyes, my warlock.


    Caspar¡¯s free hand fires forth and shoves the gun barrel skyward as it emerges from the next room. An eardrum-busting crash as his target blows a slug into the ceiling. Caspar plants both feet on the wall by the doorframe and pushes off from it, yanking the casino guard into the cellblock and wrenching his arm as they both careen to the ground.


    A quick check into the room the guy emerged from¡ªthe remnants of a card game scattered across a cheap particle board table seated for two. No additional egresses. Caspar rolls onto his back, tucks his legs around the man¡¯s waist, and closes his elbow across the neck in a rear naked choke.


    The man thrashes. The man tries to push himself to his feet. The man spits and wheezes. Caspar holds him until he stops moving, then keeps holding him. Through unconsciousness and down further, past the demimonde of brain death and into the murky dark, where my tendrils poise to catch his soul and draw him into me.


    Somewhere in the walls, the hum of an air conditioner cuts off, and Caspar is caught by the silence beyond silence, like an extra step in an unlit stairwell. He hears his own breathing, pinched and whistling through his nose, and the crinkling of his victim¡¯s suit as he convulses, then goes still forever.


    Caspar loosens his grip. His hold dug little red crescents into his upper arm. He turns over and lays his thirteenth murder on the concrete.


    That¡¯s that.


    Our first lady victim, I note (well, second, but Jordan flew the coop). I wonder whether it will affect the boy¡¯s-club atmosphere of the taphouse.


    Bina clicks her wolfy tongue. ¡°I admit it. Caspar is also cool.¡±


    Pride punches through the odd twisty feeling I get when my warlock kills for me. ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°I can see why you want to have sex with him.¡±


    ¡°Him being good at killing people is not why I want to have sex with him.¡±


    Bina looks askance at me. ¡°Okay. Weirdo.¡±


    ¡°It isn''t! Jordan kills people all the time. You¡¯re not trying to seduce her.¡±


    Bina shifts her gaze away from me.


    I lean toward her. ¡°You¡¯re not, right?¡±


    ¡°Oh, look.¡± Bina innocently pokes a pseudopod toward the viewing pool. ¡°Caspar¡¯s found our guy.¡±


    Caspar looks up from his broken victims and surveys the cells. Three are empty. A huddled figure occupies the fourth, curled up on an unadorned mattress. One bony wrist is cuffed to a handrail that runs across the length of the cell.


    The woman has a ring of keys on her belt, laying in the crimson mere of her jellifying blood. Caspar unclips her carabiner and tries her keys at random. On the third guess, he unlocks the cell and swings its steel bars open.


    The huddler is asleep by the even susurrus of his breath. Caspar lays a hand on his shoulder and shakes. The guy grunts and shifts but does not wake. Caspar shakes harder.


    His rescuee makes a noise like whazthfuck and opens unfocused eyes. ¡°What?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s brows furrow. ¡°Perry?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, man.¡± Perry sits up. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here to rescue you.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Okay.¡± Perry runs a hand through his shaggy hair. Its strands hang together, sticky with perspiration and dried blood from a score on his forehead. ¡°You¡¯re the guy. Sersh¡¯s guy.¡±


    ¡°Sersh? Uh, yes. I¡¯m the guy.¡±


    ¡°Fuck. All right. I¡¯m up.¡± Perry starts to sit up, then realizes he¡¯s manacled. ¡°Oops. Can¡¯t come out, sorry.¡± He gives Caspar a grin. He¡¯s missing several teeth, courtesy of the casino roughnecks.


    Caspar finds another key and unlocks the cuffs.


    ¡°Ah, shit.¡± Perry slouches to his feet. ¡°Fine, man. Fine. Let¡¯s get ¡®er done.¡±


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    A mystified Caspar steps from the cell, Perry shoeless and grimy in his wake.


    ¡°So you¡¯re, like, you¡¯re a warlock, right?¡± Perry removes a corpse¡¯s shoe and inquisitively presses it to his foot as Caspar gathers the gun from a fallen guard. ¡°You liking that? Liking the bennies?¡±


    ¡°We have to move.¡± Caspar grabs Perry¡¯s forearm and half-drags the man out of the cell block.


    ¡°Dude.¡± Perry picks up speed as they emerge into the office hallway. ¡°This is intense.¡±


    Caspar tears round the corner to the elevator, making as much noise as he dares, pistol sweeping out from the corners.


    He hits the elevator button. It dings into place and opens on a bored-looking woman in a linen suit. She looks at Caspar and screams.


    ¡°Out.¡± Caspar trains the gun on her. He doesn¡¯t need to tell the lady twice; she bolts down the hallway, going ¡°oh Father oh Father oh no oh no.¡±


    The seconds are burning now. I lean forward, pride and anxiety burning a skirmish line through my manifestation¡¯s silly little brain. Bina lays a pseudopod next to my hand on the couch. I take it.


    Caspar pulls Perry into the elevator and mashes the button for the garage with the butt of his pistol. The floor lurches.


    ¡°I wanted to press it,¡± Perry says.


    Caspar slaps Perry in the face. ¡°Sober up,¡± he hisses.


    Perry gingerly touches his jaw. ¡°Fuck you, dude. You know what you pulled me out of? And into?¡±


    ¡°We need a ship and we need a pilot. Can you do that?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, man. I can do that. Can you chill?¡±


    The elevator opens on a cavernous intake garage, its far wall lit by a crescent of daylight through a freight door. A mousey, coveralled attendant loiters in a small booth, nose in a book of psalms. Probably studying for his promotional petition.


    Caspar knocks on the side of the booth and the attendant looks up right into the rifling of a barrel.


    ¡°Door,¡± Caspar says.


    No further conversation needed for this fellow. Must have been reading a prayer of prudence. A lever is thrown and the freight door gives a plaintive metal grumble as it opens.


    Caspar keeps the pistol trained on the attendant until they¡¯re halfway through the garage, then turns and bolts the rest of the way, as fast as his blowout barefoot cargo can stumble.


    They ascend a ramp into a yard, past a box truck, its flank decorated by purgative flame and an open Yow! Salsa jar. The driver dives under her saintly bobbleheaded dash as she sees the piece in Caspar¡¯s fist. He clicks the safety on and stuffs it into his waistband. This Perry guy is too damn slow. Caspar hoists him into a piggyback and goes sprinting around the ugly, business-end geometry of the Platinum.


    ¡°Yooo!¡± Perry breaks into a giggle fit by Caspar¡¯s ear. ¡°You¡¯re strong as shit, man.¡±


    Piggyback rides. It¡¯s been so long since Caspar was in grade school that I completely forgot about piggyback rides. I wonder how I might talk my way into getting one of those.


    They curve round the loading dock, back to the mirror-plated front facade of the building. Caspar drops Perry back to the ground, in the vain hope that a blood-flecked man with a slowly shifting face and a filthy gap-toothed guy with no shoes might attract less attention sans piggyback.


    It¡¯s a hypothesis with mixed results. Much of the intake crowd is distracted with anticipation or engaging in surreptitious pre-gaming from hidden flasks, and many of the outgoing folks are caught up in their own dramas, wondering where they might squander their winnings or what they might hock to dig themselves free from their debtor¡¯s graves.


    But they¡¯re getting looks. The first hey mister, is that blood from a passerby laces ice through Caspar¡¯s veins, and he abandons his incognito stroll for an out-and-out jog. A doorman is having a whispered conversation on his radio, eyes hidden behind sunglasses but mouth hard-lined.


    Caspar rests his palm against the stock of his handgun.


    They round a corner out of sight from the casino for the rendezvous. Jordan Darius, who successfully threaded the needle of nuisance enough to be kicked out and not detained, clocks their approach and hastily cranks the sun roof up. Caspar cracks a door and hucks the stoned pilot across the back row.


    ¡°This is your car?¡± Perry wipes his mouth, where a drip of bloody spume has emerged. ¡°This is flash.¡±


    Caspar slides Perry over and climbs in. ¡°Drive.¡±


    Jordan rolls into a U-turn to keep them out of sight from the casino. ¡°Where are we going, Perry?¡±


    ¡°You ain¡¯t gonna floor it or nothing?¡± Perry sits up.


    ¡°That¡¯s how you get attention.¡±


    Perry giggles. ¡°You didn¡¯t want attention, and you got a convertible?¡±


    (I¡¯ve wondered the same thing, but I¡¯ve realized lately how your cute little minds fog up when you see something with four wheels that goes vrooooom.)


    ¡°Shut up, man.¡± Jordan glares out the rearview. ¡°What¡¯s your address?¡±


    ¡°Do I shut up or do I give you my address?¡±


    ¡°Cartwright, can you punch him, please?¡±


    Caspar grabs Perry¡¯s sweat-stained lapel and turns his face around. ¡°Wake the hell up, sir. You¡¯re on-mission. Ain¡¯t have time for jokes.¡±


    Perry blows a coppery breath into Caspar¡¯s face. ¡°Fifty eight Misericorde ave.¡±


    Jordan flicks her turn signal and lurches into the next lane.


    ¡°This world is a joke, man,¡± Perry adds, settling back into his seat. ¡°Bad fucking dream.¡±


    Caspar glances out the crinkled plastic of the sunroof¡¯s back window. ¡°That doesn¡¯t give you the right to give up on it.¡±


    Perry chuckles. ¡°This last trip does. One more for my lady and she¡¯s giving me my ticket outta this consciousness bullshit. You have my sympathy, folks. Drew the wrong sisters.¡±


    ¡°Not surprised you¡¯d see it that way.¡± Caspar¡¯s contempt is a very rare thing to witness.


    ¡°That¡¯s the way, man. The way we are, it¡¯s a fuck-up. Your you is a side effect. The endgame mistake a bunch of little bugs made 500 million years ago. Only reason it¡¯s so precious to you is the trap your ancestors wired you into so you¡¯d keep the game going. Spread the shit around. For what?¡± Perry closes his eyes and shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m almost out. You left me there, I would have gotten out faster. Take me home and let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    He lapses into silence for the rest of the ride. Well, it¡¯s an improvement.


    Misericorde avenue is a line of townhouses, painted in cheerful colors, on a shady and verdant street. A falcon statue¡¯s steel eye seems to track them as they pass it. I wonder briefly if there¡¯s actually a thousand. Perhaps I should make it a project to count them once our task is done. If Chamchek is still around after.


    They jimmy the lock on the woodgrain door of a four-story and climb a set of creaking hardwood stairs. Perry¡¯s apartment isn¡¯t difficult to find. It¡¯s the one with the overdue notices and red slips plastered all over the entrance.


    Inside, the place is as hollowed-out and grimy as everything else in Perry¡¯s life. There are pale marks on the floor where the furniture was, and scrapes along the hardwood where it was dragged away. The icebox is open and depowered. The kitchen sink is a technicolor horror.


    ¡°Welcome to the fortress of dreams.¡± Perry ambles through the gutted living room. ¡°So what are we doing. I get my ID and my uniform, we pinch an airship? Sound about right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Go on and get your stuff. And take a shower.¡± Jordan¡¯s lip curls as she takes the place in. ¡°We¡¯ll be in the car. Come on, Caspar.¡±


    ¡°What a sorry son of a bitch,¡± Caspar says, as they descend the stairs.


    ¡°Makes you think about the entities we¡¯re working for, huh?¡± Jordan opens the front door and takes a deep breath of the uncorrupted air. ¡°The things they do with humans.¡±


    Miss Irene isn¡¯t like that, Caspar wants to say. But he recalls the sightless eyes of his victims and thinks again about the wreckage he used to be after he took a life. He¡¯s lost his indignation at Jordan. He takes a moment to remember Degmar¡¯s name. And I¡¯ve been changing his body, by my admission. How much is still human? The distance between him and Perry isn¡¯t the gulf he imagined.


    No, Caspar. My faithful warlock. You don¡¯t really think that. You can¡¯t. I miss him suddenly, fiercely. I want to banish those doubts. I want to kiss his forehead again until those lines smooth out. I want his warmth back.


    I make up my mind. When he returns, we¡¯re going to have a talk. We¡¯ll sort it out. I¡¯ve been reluctant to discuss this thing we have with each other, but I can¡¯t let it sit like this, to ferment into doubt.


    ¡°Your warlock has a mouth on her,¡± I mutter.


    ¡°I know.¡± Bina wags her tail with affection. ¡°She¡¯s so headstrong.¡±


    There¡¯s no accounting for taste.


    Their last hope emerges onto the brownstone stoop in a wrinkled, navy-blue uniform, its brocaded vest hanging open and billowy off his thin neck. This was clearly an outfit sized for a healthier version of Perry. At least the peaked cap and its shiny black visor do an okay job of obscuring his waxy skin and his faded eyes.


    ¡°Attention passengers,¡± he says. ¡°Air Perry is preparing to depart. Children, veterans, and warlocks first.¡±


    Jordan chuckles. ¡°That¡¯ll work. If everyone¡¯s squinting.¡±


    ¡°I got my uniform, I got my ID and my papers. I got a little pick-me-up.¡± Perry wipes his nostril and sniffs. ¡°This is the agreement. We¡¯ll get the shit done. Or we¡¯ll die and it won¡¯t matter.¡±


    He slouches into the convertible.


    Jordan touches Caspar¡¯s sleeve. ¡°This is gonna go so wrong.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Caspar says. ¡°But our eyes are open.¡±


    ¡°You get that feeling like we¡¯re just running out the clock?¡± Jordan scratches her neck. ¡°Like we got bits and pieces falling out and getting glued back on, and as soon as the momentum stops we¡¯re gonna crash?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still moving,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Are you?¡±


    ¡°Still moving.¡±


    ¡°You have my back, I¡¯ll have yours.¡±


    ¡°All right, Cas.¡±


    ¡°All right, Jordy.¡±


    The convertible rumbles like an oncoming storm. The tree shadows dapple them as they steer out of Misericorde avenue, and onward to the awaiting calamities.

 17. A prayer

    I¡¯m relaxing in a stalactited lagoon at Bina¡¯s, a pre-soak for our little viewing party, when an itch echoes in the back of my brain.


    Someone is praying to me.


    Florin, the Rogarth fellow, is on the roof of the taphouse again. He¡¯s sitting cross-legged, his face in his hands, hot tears trickling down his fingers, and he¡¯s praying. Not aloud. But I can feel it, like the heat of a struck match.


    ma¡¯am or irene or however you want me to call you please please watch over the sickbed of my mother bella whose time was growing so short even before i went, and me her caregiver and my sister with child there¡¯s nobody for her now and it won¡¯t be long, she¡¯s gonna go, and i think of her falling down to that place you shown us and wanna tear my hair out, my hands and my heart they shake over it, to think of her in that place, in that pain, and if there ain¡¯t room enough for her then put me there and put her here, for i was not a good person and i deserve it, i cheated and lied and killed caspar cartwright with the rest of them, but she is, a good woman a good mother all my life, please o please. please. please. please. please.


    Ugh. This is the sort of thing I was worried might happen when I first agreed with Caspar¡¯s silly demand. How often have I made it clear to these mortals that they are strictly guests?


    If Caspar learned I¡¯d heard this prayer and ignored it, what would he think of me?


    What would he think of me if I granted it?


    Am I so desperate for my silly servant¡¯s approval that I slice a splinter off my precious attention to sit in the backseat of a feeble old mortal mind, in a small stuffy room that smells like sick, with dried flowers on a dusty windowsill, waiting out the declining hours?


    I will not answer that.


    I climb out of the cool waters of the lagoon and spin the violet silk of my sun dress across my body. My heels sprout and clack across Bina¡¯s flagstones. In a shade-dappled mausoleum I find my hostess, her viewport already open in a fissure along the limestone wall.


    She senses my vexation as I sit next to her on a smooth granite grave bench. She nuzzles her head against my hip. I feel great gratitude toward her patience with me as my turbulent foray into human emotion continues.


    ¡°Did the bath help?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Hugely.¡± I give one velvety antenna a scratch. ¡°Love you, little sis.¡±


    ¡°Love you, big sis.¡±


    ¡°Hello, my dears. Thank you so kindly for allowing me in.¡± Saoirse sashays through Bina¡¯s demesne and perches on a headstone opposite us. ¡°Bean, I do adore your work. The little pops of decay. So lively.¡± She coos in delight as she examines a weatherworn statuette, its face blasted smooth by age. ¡°Oh, this moss. Is this bryum?¡±


    Bina¡¯s so pleased to have Saoirse mooning over her, she overlooks the insidious spread of the Bean sobriquet. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°I might suggest a nice hypnum for the level of shade you¡¯re working with in this crypt chamber here. Oh! Or a nice tooth moss. That could really drape.¡±


    Bina droops. ¡°I like bryum.¡±


    ¡°Well, it doubtless only matters to weird birds like myself.¡± Saoirse sits delicately on a stone bench. ¡°Shall we peek from our Lady Inspector¡¯s eyes?¡±


    I¡¯d prefer to be looking through Caspar, as is tradition, but I¡¯ll cede perspective. His internal monologue is stressing me out right now. Plus, if we¡¯re in Jordan¡¯s brain, I get to look through her eyes, which means I¡¯ll be able to get some good ogling time in on my warlock.


    Well, at some point, I hope. Right now all we¡¯re looking at is darkness, with a soundtrack of scraping wheels and a distant, atonal hum.


    Jordan Darius remembers sleeping in a bathtub with her wrist shackled to the wall. She remembers waking up in the trunk of her car¡ªher car! Its loss strikes her all over again¡ªthe darkness, the cramped space that made her joints burn. She reflects on all the different painful contortions this Cartwright jabroni has stuffed her into.


    She shifts feeling back into her bent leg. Her knee pushes into Caspar¡¯s ribs. At least he¡¯s stuck in here with her this time. See how he likes it.


    The shipping crate was Perry¡¯s idea. Jordan was ready to join forces with her fellow warlock to rail against it, but Caspar just thinned his lips and went fine.


    Now they¡¯re trundling across the skydock on the flatbed of a luggage truck, listening to the tuneless musical stylings of Perry the mushroom man. Might be a pop single, might be a nursery rhyme; filtered through the plywood and their pilot¡¯s meager talent, it¡¯s impossible to tell.


    She nudges Capar with a foot. ¡°You reckon we¡¯re in for a fight?¡±


    ¡°Shush,¡± Caspar whispers, and then: ¡°probably.¡±


    Perry swore to them up and down on the drive over that he had the perfect airship. Nobody ever onboard, luxe furnishings, a real vanity buy that the owner only ever used to impress chicks, never even left the dry dock. Perry also swore to them up and down that elephants are capable of psychic communication through the television.


    Jordan and Caspar have been further bonding in their exasperation. He¡¯s back to being her friend. It¡¯s put her in a good mood, despite their cramped conveyance.


    Caspar carefully shifts so that his and Jordan¡¯s faces are close to one another. The noise of the engine should drown their voices out, Jordan thinks, but the man¡¯s nothing if not cautious. ¡°When I was a kid,¡± he whispers, ¡°I wanted to be a pilot so bad. I used to go to the arcades after seminary and play the simulators for hours. Chewed through my allowance. Drew aerostats in all my notebooks.¡±


    ¡°What stopped you?¡±


    ¡°I signed up for the militia and checked the box for sky force. They saw how big I was, and they said ¡®trooper.¡¯ So a trooper I became. Turns out dreams didn¡¯t really come into it.¡±


    ¡°I hear that. And they taught you medical?¡±


    ¡°They did. I had in my head I was going to patch people up and never shoot a gun. But, y¡¯know. Dreams.¡±


    ¡°Say one thing about the warlock gig.¡± Jordan adjusts her elbow so it isn¡¯t pushing on the crate. ¡°Dreams sure come into it these days.¡±


    I¡¯m still tapped into Caspar, just a little, so I sense the question he wants to ask. He¡¯s wondering if Jordan feels the same way he does: that he prefers his sleep now to his waking hours. ¡°Uh huh,¡± he says instead.


    ¡°Have you ever done what you wanted?¡± Jordan asks. ¡°Ever been your own man?¡±


    Caspar considers the question for a few seconds before answering. ¡°Came back and wanted to patch people up. Use what I¡¯d learned. Had a good couple years of that.¡±


    ¡°Sure. But that was keeping the duty going. And now you¡¯re doing Irene¡¯s bidding.¡±


    ¡°Seminary said life on Diamante is duty. Plenty of time to address your own wishes in Heaven.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sure. Yeah, I got a whole checklist. Scream, writhe. Maybe try some melting on the weekends.¡±


    The warlocks allow themselves some near-silent laughter at that. They lapse into silence again. Perry keeps crooning.


    ¡°Never just serving ourselves.¡± Jordan breaks the quiet. ¡°Neither of us. And now we¡¯re warlocks. And we never will.¡±


    They jolt to a halt and the engine cuts off. Caspar kills whatever response he had. A mechanical whirr sounds as some piece of docking machinery engages and the warlocks brace against the side of the crate as it¡¯s lifted jerkily into the air. The minuscule light they got from the cracks in the plywood goes out, and the box sets down with a dull metallic echo. Cargo hold, Jordan reckons.


    As if from a distance, muffled through the fuselage, they hear Perry mid-conversation with someone. No clue what¡¯s being said. Come on, you wastoid, Jordan thinks. Spark those nerve endings together long enough to get this shit done. Her palm finds her gun. Nudging into Caspar¡¯s hip as it is, he surely feels the motion, but there¡¯s no reaction anymore, no reproach.


    I glance at Saoirse. She gives me a tranquil smile back.


    ¡°Is he doing okay out there?¡± I ask. ¡°Perry?¡±


    Saoirse shrugs. ¡°Who can say with these funny little mortals.¡±


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    A minute of dizzy anxiety and inaudible mwop mwop voices. Then a laugh like a chattering autogun and it¡¯s finished. Jordan lets out a breath she didn¡¯t realize she was holding.


    A few minutes of silence. Only Jordan¡¯s breath and her comrade¡¯s. Then a grinding tremor and an engine roar, and Jordan¡¯s stomach drops as the floor goes unsteady and fluid. They¡¯re in the air.


    A utilitarian beep and Perry¡¯s tinny voice warbles from outside the crate. ¡°All stowaways, this is your captain speaking. We have just completed a completely fucking sick heist that a couple of Debbie Downers thought we would fuck up, and this vessel has departed Chamchek drydock. We¡¯re looking at sunny skies and a beautiful view of the Montane ocean if you¡¯d care to leave your little box and move about the cabin. Should you require assistance, you can come kiss your captain¡¯s ass and tell me how it taste. Thank you for flying Air Perry, where we told you so.¡±


    The intercom clicks off.


    Jordan and Caspar shove the splintery lid off their hiding place and emerge into a dusky cargo hold, lit by a cherry-red emergency light. A metal grille catwalk and a tight spiral staircase later they emerge into an open, airy fuselage, surrounded by a saturated gradient of radiant blue horizon: the sky above and the Montane below. Behind them, the shining brass of Chamchek recedes into a lumpy alloy on the strip of coast, its ribbon highways secreting from it like arteries across the distant saw-grass.


    Perry sits before a bright carnival of consoles, its dials and readouts and fly-by-wire joysticks. Jordan gets half a headache just looking at all that stuff, but she¡¯s sure Caspar¡¯s probably drooling over it.


    (He is, yes. He¡¯d also like a hat like Perry¡¯s.)


    ¡°Hot damn, mushroom man.¡± Jordan pivots on her heel to take in the ambience. The place is done up in white marble and saffron drapery, colonnaded and carved to look like an old Cantosian forum. The smells of lemon oil and fresh linen press down against the usual aerodynamic tang of fuel and machinery. ¡°You weren¡¯t kidding about the digs.¡±


    ¡°You think this is fancy? Check the master suite out.¡± Perry jerks a thumb to a double-door with the gates of the Kingdom wood-burned across it. ¡°That¡¯s where the magic happens.¡±


    Jordan scoffs, but she can¡¯t deny her curiosity. She pushes down on the little cherub-wing handle and swings the door into the master bedroom and there¡¯s an ass sticking out from under the king bed. An ass and a hairy calf.


    Jordan vaults into the ornate room and seizes the leg before it can shift all the way under the bed apron. There¡¯s a high, lacy scream. With a vicious yank, the inspector pulls their stowaway out into the day. The bed thumps on its claw feet and spills one of the endtable lamps to the floor with a chiming ceramic clatter.


    Archbishop Paul Tilliam blinks up at her. Tight in his left fist, a boxy black something, with a wire trailing off it. Switched on.


    ¡°Please,¡± he stutters. ¡°Please, no.¡±


    ¡°Fuck my fucking life.¡± Jordan pulls Tilliam violently to his feet. The fluffy robe he¡¯s belted into falls open, revealing far more body hair than Jordan cared to see this afternoon and further ruining her day. ¡°Caspar,¡± she roars. ¡°In here.¡±


    ¡°Sister. Sister, please. Let¡¯s let¡¯s let¡¯s not be hasty about¡ª¡±


    She snatches the box from his hand. ¡°What the fuck is this?¡±


    Caspar is over her shoulder, his revolver trained on Tilliam. He goes rigid as he recognizes the man in his crosshairs. ¡°Oh, no.¡±


    Tilliam gives him a shaky, sickly smile. ¡°Blessings, brother. How about¡ª¡±


    ¡°Transponder.¡± Jordan drops the gadget to the floor and thumps the heel of her boot into it. Five vicious stomps and it¡¯s pulverized. ¡°That¡¯s a fucking transponder. We¡¯re made.¡±


    ¡°Perry!¡± Caspar bolts from the room. ¡°Perry, we need to change course and floor it. Full burn. Every thruster.¡±


    Jordan rounds on Tilliam. ¡°Who else is here?¡±


    He gawps. ¡°Uh. Nobody.¡±


    Jordan spins him around and hurls him against the wood-paneled suite wall. She and thrusts her .45 into the nape of his neck. ¡°I am going to paint with you, shitbird.¡±


    ¡°Do you¡ª¡± He tries to summon some of that television brimstone bluster. ¡°Do you know who I am, sister?¡±


    ¡°I fucking well do, Archbishop.¡± She clicks the hammer back. ¡°I¡¯m going to love it. Who else is here.¡±


    ¡°Corinne.¡± His voice deflates back to a squeaking whimper. ¡°Corinne, come out, please.¡±


    A hardwood closet door slides open and a pale, spindly woman in a matching robe, her eyes stained with running mascara, stumbles into the suite. Archbishop Tilliam¡¯s wife is perhaps one of the most beautiful people on the continent. This is not her.


    Jordan keeps the gun on Tilliam as she reaches into the closet the lady emerged from and pulls another robe out of it. She slides its cloth belt out and pushes it into the woman¡¯s manicured hands. ¡°Tie him up. Go.¡±


    The woman hiccups a sob. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, nonsensically. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Shut up and tie the motherfucker up.¡± Jordan pushes her further into the suite. ¡°You gonna tell me you don¡¯t have practice? Caspar!¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Steel-riveted tension in his response.


    ¡°What¡¯s it look like out there?¡±


    ¡°Radar signal. Someone on our course.¡±


    ¡°Fuck.¡± Jordan stands in the doorway while the teary woman trusses Tilliam and then storms back into the fuselage. ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.¡± She repeats it with every stomp back to the cockpit. ¡°Can we outrun them?¡±


    ¡°On a pleasure cruiser?¡± Perry shakes his head. ¡°Nah.¡±


    ¡°You dipshit.¡± Jordan knocks Perry¡¯s captain hat from his head. ¡°You stole Archbishop Tilliam¡¯s goddamn airship?¡±


    Perry scrambles for his fallen cap. ¡°I didn¡¯t think the motherfucker would be on it!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s an interceptor.¡± Caspar points at a bleeping instrument. A red diode drifts gradually from its edge. ¡°Once that¡¯s centered, they¡¯re on us. Only good news is they can¡¯t just blow us out of the sky if they want to retrieve the archbishop. They¡¯re gonna take out our engines and they¡¯re gonna board.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the flyboy. You know the crew that thing¡¯s gonna have?¡±


    ¡°Fits around two dozen droptroops.¡± Caspar¡¯s mouth is a grim, lipless line as he pulls his revolver out and checks the cylinder. ¡°Turn the autopilot on and find cover, Perry.¡±


    He herds Tilliam and his woman friend to the cockpit, then joins Jordan in the fuselage, where she¡¯s methodically piling the pewlike furnishings into place to form a long line of cover.


    We are fucked, she thinks. The ride is finished. To Caspar, she says: ¡°We wipe these guys out and take their ship if they knock this one¡¯s thrusters out. Right?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± Caspar¡¯s despair is hyperlegible on his careworn face.


    Jordan grabs his shoulder. ¡°Our goddesses are with us. Faith, all right? Faith and strength.¡±


    ¡°Faith and strength,¡± he repeats.


    My fingers have dug deep enough into Bina¡¯s bench that they¡¯ve cracked the stone. I¡¯ve fractured my knucklebones; I barely feel it.


    ¡°You¡¯re my brother, Cas.¡± She presses her forehead to his. ¡°First true brother. Wherever we go, it¡¯s together.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Caspar says, and then the rolling chatter of distant gunfire and the airship lurches.


    Tilliam¡¯s ivory pleasure yacht hovers in the air like a useless cloud. A sleek black shrike-shaped interceptor descends upon it.


    Ropes like spider filaments lash from one ship to the other. Hard men and women in tactical black shells scuttle across the surface of their paralyzed target, rigging outer hatchways with breach charges.


    A radio countdown and the doors explode inward, peeling metal and splintering wood. They come with bullets and batons, with smoke bombs and flashbangs. They come with the expectation of panicky pirates or frantic extremists.


    They come, and our warlocks cut them down.


    Caspar¡¯s out of bullets in the middle of the first wave, barely a minute into the gunfight. He waits for the closest autogun to finish its cover fire and breaks from behind a chewed-up pew like a darting shadow. A burst finds him, but his armor has grown more and more concealing and protective every time he¡¯s summoned it, and by now its segments have stretched piecemeal across his limbs. The bullets zing off his scutum; he slide-tackles his mark and nimbly severs her spine with a tearing claw.


    Then he¡¯s among the line, separating soldiers from their souls. A rifleman breaks cover; Jordan places a round between his eyes and blows a geyser of pink mist out from his molded helmet. Perry curls next to her behind the cockpit wall, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted as the air whistles and the marble craters and shatters.


    They are glorious. My warlock is glorious. Caspar and Jordan kill seven boarders before the tactics have time to adapt and the tide to turn. But they do, and it does. My throat tightens with the first bullet that splashes through Caspar¡¯s thigh. Before he¡¯s finished sealing the wound, another shot skids off his chest plate and wings his bicep, and he¡¯s sent staggering back into the fortified cockpit with Jordan and Perry and the hostages. The arm¡¯s bleeding won¡¯t stop; his system is pushing to its limit. His flesh ripples and twitches instead of sealing. The fog of fatigue curls through his brain.


    They¡¯re forced from the fuselage now, buttoned down in the cockpit. The bulwark they stacked is taken; the rolling wall of gunfire has no more gaps to exploit or blind spots to strike from. Jordan¡¯s on her last magazine. They¡¯re moving the breachers into position.


    ¡°Let me talk to them.¡± Tilliam is babbling. ¡°Let me out and I can get you out. There¡¯s still¡ª¡±


    Jordan punches the archbishop in the mouth.


    ¡°No, no no no no.¡± Bina¡¯s wings tremble. ¡°Irene. Tell me this isn¡¯t as hopeless as it looks.¡±


    Before I can reply, Saoirse stands from the gravestone. Her smile remains unflappable. ¡°Bina, darling.¡± She strokes my sister¡¯s flattened ears. ¡°It isn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Are you gonna¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Saorise says. ¡°I do believe this is my cue.¡±


    I hoped it wouldn¡¯t come to this. My warlocks are about to witness the one spell Saoirse teaches her disciples. The one they don¡¯t yet know they can cast, too. The one it¡¯s impossible to practice.


    ¡°Do it, Saoirse,¡± I say.


    Saoirse shakes the tightness (and a maggot or two) from her arms as she limbers up. ¡°Back in a tick, darlings.¡±


    Perry sits up. Jordan glances to him as another burst of autofire pushes her head down and sees him smiling huge. The vacant holes in his grin bleed anew. He rises to his feet.


    She grabs at him. ¡°Stay the fuck down!¡±


    ¡°Hail Saoirse,¡± he says. ¡°Hail the Old Ones.¡±


    A dry crunch.


    A wet squelch.


    Perry opens.


    Raw rosaceous meat, gleaming ropes of tendon and intestine. The shine of bone. A gurgling ripple as his ribcage blooms like a flower. Saoirse, queen of decay, emerges from his remains, a monarch butterfly from a carrion cocoon. Her manifestation¡¯s shimmering dragonfly coat sings a whirring chorus.


    A throat-stripping scream. The room strobes and crashes with a crackling ballistic chorus. It makes no difference.


    Fifteen seconds. One human sacrifice gives a manifestation fifteen seconds in your world. It¡¯s about five seconds longer than my sister requires.


    Pieces of Perry slough from her slender legs as she steps from the stain he¡¯s reduced to. In a buzzing flicker, she stands before the nearest gunman and lays a finger on his heart.


    He distends, then erupts into riotous, colorful life. A cloud of amanitas bursts from his throat. His innards become cocoons become moths. He folds in half; before his head hits the ground, it¡¯s cracked like an eggshell and hatched into a delicate heron, which takes panicky wing as the gunfire continues.


    A woman trying to take cover behind a pillar turns and is face-to-face with Saoirse. And then she¡¯s a chunky smear across the far window, fertilized instantly by leafy lichen that pushes through the gore to form a carpet of brilliant emerald green.


    My sister flits from one servant of the Father to the next, into the interceptor and back, leaving a trail of newborn flora and fauna as she kills them, all of them, in the time it took you to read this sentence.


    With a playful flamenco flourish of her fungal skirts, she turns from her final victim and swans over to what¡¯s left of her servant. She lifts the largest piece of him.


    ¡°Sweet child. Pretty Perry.¡± She lays a gentle kiss on the mangled meat in her hands. ¡°You have earned your place in my garden ten times over. Such beautiful things you will become.¡± Her glance turns to Caspar and Jordan as her final second ticks down. They¡¯ve stayed hunkered behind cover, frozen in terror and awe. Saoirse beams beatifically down to them. ¡°Ta-ta.¡±


    Then she¡¯s sitting before Bina and me again, watching her Diamante manifestation fray and crumble to chalk. ¡°That,¡± she says, ¡°was a fabulous workout.¡±

 18. My lips

    The warlocks and their hostages wander through the carnage. A fawn dashes from them and sends a helmet skittering and revolving along the viscera-streaked floor. Caspar¡¯s mind is numb from the system strain and the venting adrenaline and the surreal nightmare that saved them.


    They force Tilliam into his harness. He hems and haws and beseeches mercy all the way up the rope to the abandoned interceptor. His woman friend Corinne moves with the same mute acceptance Caspar has.


    The interceptor cockpit is as slick and modern as its exterior. The pilot chair has a pine sapling growing from it; they tear it out at the roots, which appear to be human fingers. There¡¯s a version of Caspar that¡¯s fanboying hard as he puts them in autopilot and deactivates the transponder and the radio.


    Jordan returns from zip tying the hostages into the armory and searching the place. ¡°Nobody here,¡± she says. ¡°Just their, uh. Remains.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s dizzy with fatigue. ¡°That¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d hear this shit sometimes. Teams of inspectors going for warlocks and then they¡¯re just gone. And we¡¯d find their bodies in all kinds of ways, but we¡¯d never find the warlock. Guess we know why.¡±


    ¡°So long, Perry,¡± murmurs Caspar.


    ¡°Yeah, so long.¡± Jordan shudders. ¡°And so long to like thirty motherfucking guys.¡±


    ¡°Worse things to end up as than a rosebush, I guess.¡±


    ¡°True that. And we¡¯re flush on gear now. Their armory is decked out.¡± Jordan indicates the plate carrier she¡¯s strapped to her chest. ¡°We¡¯re gonna show up in Pastornos loaded for bear.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s if we show up.¡± Caspar looks blearily at the cockpit. ¡°I¡¯ve turned on autopilot and pointed us at Pastornos, but I¡¯m not a pilot. We¡¯re tugging Tilliam¡¯s ship with us right now but we can¡¯t cut line because this thing is on shoestring fuel and we¡¯ll need to siphon if we want to cross the Montane. And they¡¯ll be looking for us, so we need to keep our speed¡ª¡± His jaw clicks as he yawns cavernously. ¡°Keep our speed up.¡±


    Jordan squints at her stupefied partner. ¡°Shit, Cas. You look wrecked.¡±


    Caspar gives a lethargic nod. ¡°Took a lot out of me.¡±


    ¡°I can tell. Man, you were a badass up there, Cartwright. Serious CQC shit.¡± Jordan holds her hand out. ¡°I¡¯ll keep an eye on things up here, okay?¡±


    ¡°Do you even know how?¡±


    ¡°Sure I do. Anything goes red and beep beep beep, I wake you up to fix it with your arcade sim bullshit.¡± Jordan hauls him up. ¡°Bunks are down the hall to the left. Get you a rest. You earned it.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    ¡°I meant it, Cartwright. You know that?¡± Jordan gives him a tap on the cheek. ¡°You¡¯re my brother.¡±


    ¡°Sister.¡± Caspar folds the inspector into a hug, and breaks it when he realizes he¡¯s in danger of falling asleep standing up.


    Jordan bolsters him back to his feet. ¡°All right, Cas.¡±


    ¡°All right, Jordy.¡±


    Caspar finds a scratchy canvas cot and is asleep as soon as his head hits its thin pillow.


    ???????????


    He doesn¡¯t come to find me. He wakes up and leaves his bier and finds the door to Autumn, and he just walks right on through into the forest. Leaves crunch drily below his aimless feet.


    I get a little creative with geography and space. He stumbles across me in a clearing, where the smell of sweetly caramelizing pork ambushes him with improbable suddenness.


    ¡°Hello, my warlock,¡± I call, from my position at the grill. I¡¯m in a chunky pair of hiking boots and an apron that says GET A LOOK AT MY RACK with a drawing of a plate of ribs below it.


    He thinks about just walking past me, but halts instead, shifting from foot to foot. A highway pile-up of thoughts crashing through his head. Perry¡¯s bitterness, Jordan¡¯s cynicism, the carnage and death, the high strangeness. He doesn¡¯t even know where to begin. He tries ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Tough day at the office, dear?¡±


    His laugh is full of duty and empty of humor.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say. ¡°I think let¡¯s talk.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    I indicate the grill. ¡°Do you want¡ª¡±


    ¡°Have you done that before?¡± Caspar demands. ¡°That spell Saoirse cast?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± My stomach churns as I realize what this conversation is going to be. ¡°Yes, when I knew there was no chance of witnesses or recordings. I¡¯ve done it.¡±


    ¡°Your other warlocks.¡± He puts his hands on his hips. ¡°The ones before. I want to see them.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re gone, Cas.¡± I shake my head. ¡°They were never here. Not within me. They¡¯re in Heaven. Maybe when we take over, and I¡¯ve fixed them, you can meet them.¡±


    He stares at me in furious disbelief. ¡°You let them fall down there?¡±


    ¡°I did. They come to me, Caspar. Swarms of them. Demanding my power, hateful of their humanity. It was mercantile. That¡¯s the way it usually works. Power for a price. They had no concept of Heaven and I didn¡¯t show them, because I didn¡¯t need to convince them like I did with you. They were ready to trade their supposed paradise for power on Diamante. So that¡¯s what I gave them.¡± I fold my arms. ¡°And if you think that¡¯s evil of me, well, maybe it was. But you and I are saving them, just like we¡¯re saving everyone else.¡±


    ¡°Saving them from where you put them?¡±


    I keep my voice level. ¡°That¡¯s not fair, Caspar. That¡¯s not on me. That¡¯s on your old God.¡±


    A blue twinge of guilt colors his anger as this hits, but he keeps going. ¡°Things I saw today¡ªwell, you know already, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°I been keeping track,¡± he says. ¡°Of how many people I¡¯ve killed. Yesterday it was eleven. Then thirteen at the casino. You know what happened back there? In that fight on the airship?¡± His eyes are red-rimmed. ¡°I just lost count. I¡¯ve lost fucking count.¡±


    ¡°I was watching,¡± I say. ¡°I could tell you. I¡¯ve seen all of their faces too, Caspar.¡±


    ¡°You been in my head.¡± He points at it. ¡°All my life.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± I reduce my dumb-slogan apron to sloughing skin and let it crumple to the forest floor. Meat puns are not correct for the moment.


    ¡°You know me so well. You know just what to say, how to play me like an instrument. And I don¡¯t even know what you are, really.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s for your safety,¡± I say. ¡°For your sanity.¡±


    ¡°My safety.¡± He scoffs. ¡°This is a suicide mission, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯m like Perry. I¡¯m a sacrifice.¡±


    ¡°Caspar.¡± My mouth hangs open. ¡°You are nothing like Perry. Why would you say that?¡±


    His claw fires from his forearm. He holds it up, stares dismally at it, at the blackened ring of flesh it¡¯s emerged from. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you give this to someone who wanted it?¡±


    ¡°Dude, I have. That¡¯s what I¡¯ve done for decades.¡± I throw up my hands. ¡°And it¡¯s never worked. The people who want to be warlocks make awful warlocks. Greedy, violent, avaricious. Easily distracted and small-minded. They get overconfident and sloppy and their heads get big and the inspectorate kills the shit out of them. I need a hero. And maybe it is a sacrifice, if you see it that way, but that means you¡¯re right for it. I need someone who sees this, all this, as a sacrifice to make on behalf of humanity, not a way to spit in their face. That¡¯s you, Cas. My last, best chance.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re using me.¡± His jaw is set as he shunts his claw back into his arm. ¡°I can accept that. You can use me, but stop trying to be my¡ªmy friend. Whatever we are. I¡¯ll be your tool, but I can¡¯t keep doing this nightly¡­ thing. I don¡¯t want your rewards, I don¡¯t want your food¡ª¡±


    ¡°I saved you!¡± I stomp my foot like a petulant child. ¡°You were dead. You were dead and going to the fucking torture dimension. This is for you, Caspar. This is the whole reason I convinced my sisters to besiege Heaven. I did it because I saw humanity, saw your horrible fate, and I wanted to save you. You and millions of other good, simple souls shackled to a lie.¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°I¡¯m not goddamn simple.¡±


    ¡°Yes you are,¡± I say. ¡°Not to other humans. But to compare any human to a being like me is to compare a straight, unbending stroke of a pen to a meadow. To the horizon. You are simple. You think simply and live simply.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s how you look at me.¡± He scowls.


    ¡°You think I¡¯m insulting you. I¡¯m not insulting you. You¡¯re intoxicating. Humanity. You¡¯re vibrant explosions of light and life confined to these fragile three-dimensional perspectives, these meat prisons, and you rage against your mortality and run up against your limitations over and over. They barely hold you. You spill out; you create wonders and civilizations; you grasp and you want; you want so badly to express these things your simple bodies can¡¯t.¡±


    The grill falls away. We¡¯re rising through the air. Cyclopean blocks of stone assemble beneath our feet. Leafy boughs hiss and groan out of the way as we push past them. A pyramid ascends from the ground like a tectonic mountain.


    ¡°What I make in an eyeblink would take you generations,¡± I say, as my construct climbs higher and higher. ¡°And then you go and make it anyway. Laying foundations for these futures you know you¡¯ll never see. It¡¯s fucking beautiful. You¡¯re beautiful, Caspar. Don¡¯t look away.¡±


    He¡¯s turned from me. A tendril shoots forth from my turbulent mantle and lashes around his neck, twists his face back to mine. ¡°DON¡¯T LOOK AWAY.¡± My voice comes from everywhere. The pyramid reverberates with it. His hazel eyes lock back into my golden gaze.


    ¡°Do you know how good I¡¯m being for you? You virtuous, ridiculous meathead? Do you know how hungry I am?¡± I point into the distance. The taphouse is visible from the crest of my impromptu temple, nestled at the edge of the fall foliage. ¡°Those souls I¡¯m keeping for you. Churning inside of me. I can smell them. I can taste them. It¡¯s like I¡¯m holding them on my tongue and I am so. Fucking. Hungry. I¡¯m doing it for you. All of this is for you.¡±


    ¡°Well, thank you for not eating their goddamn souls on my account.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Caspar. It¡¯s hard.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to be the servant of someone who keeps reminding me she sees my soul as a five star meal, Irene.¡±


    A burst of self-consciousness finally detaches my tendril from him. I back away. ¡°I¡¯m not fucking human, Caspar. If you need me to pretend to be human, I will. But I¡¯m not. I will not lie or trick you. I am what I am.¡± I jab a finger at him. ¡°And you want me.¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like that you¡¯re in my head.¡± His voice is low and distempered. ¡°I don¡¯t like it.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sorry, but I can¡¯t stop it,¡± I say. ¡°I can¡¯t not look. It¡¯s too late for that. We¡¯re linked. Forever. That¡¯s your choice. I can¡¯t shut it off. And even if I could, I wouldn¡¯t. Because you¡¯re afraid to say what you want. I can sense you trying to bury it. Right now.¡± I watch the vein stand out on his forehead as he tries to cover what we both know he¡¯s feeling. I take a step toward him, my third eye huge and glowing, the tendrils of my hair unraveling further, twisting and flickering like they¡¯re underwater. ¡°But you can¡¯t hide a thing from me. And I¡¯m not going to hide a thing from you. Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve hidden so much from me already. Your competition with your sisters, the shit you can make me do, the thing that happened to Perry¡­¡±


    It¡¯s my turn to feel that guilt. ¡°If I did, it¡¯s because I didn¡¯t think you were ready yet. I wanted to ease you in. I want you comfortable. Happy.¡±


    Another humorless laugh, this time colored by anger. ¡°Happy? With this?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± I hiss. ¡°Happy. You¡¯re the only mortal I¡¯ve let walk my halls. The only mortal I¡¯m willing to give anything, anything I can give. I keep telling you. The only one I¡¯ve let this close. I love all humanity. I told you that. But you. You are the only one I¡¯ve ever¡­ prized.¡±


    ¡°Why? Why me, Irene?¡±


    ¡°Cas! Come the fuck on! Is it not obvious?¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m too simple.¡± This man makes me want to tear my fucking hair out sometimes.


    ¡°Because you¡¯re compromising your peace of mind and your morals for me. Because you¡¯re brave and good.¡± I take a step toward him. Only now that I¡¯m this close and looking down do I realize that I¡¯ve unintentionally grown a foot taller than him. ¡°Because you¡¯re gorgeous,¡± I say. ¡°And I love looking at you. Because everything in your life has let you down, everything¡ªyour religion lied to you, your nation chewed you up and spat you out, your fiancee left you at the altar, your neighbors strung you up. And you¡¯re still kind. Still somehow kind. Because once you called me kind, and I¡¯m not. But I want to be. I want to be the kind of goddess Caspar Cartwright could worship. Because I want you to be mine.¡± My claws shunt from my fingers before I can stop them. ¡°Mine.¡±


    ¡°I already am.¡± And I see his fear. He is so afraid of me. He¡¯s right to be. ¡°Everything I do is to serve you.¡±


    ¡°I want more.¡± My walls are melting. Inky tendrils are curling from the flagstones below our feet. ¡°I don¡¯t just want your service. I want all of you. Your whole life, your every thought, every beat of your heart. I want you to need me like you need air. I want you to worship me. I want you on your knees for me.¡±


    My pyramid is unraveling. More tentacles shoot from below and bind his legs. He expels a shocked breath as they force him down into a kneel. I must remember to blink. No, I don¡¯t want to. I want him burned into my golden retinas.


    ¡°Every time you prayed to the Father, every time you gave him your unconditional love and placed yourself in His cold, dead hands instead of mine. I felt it like a knife. Every time. It should have been me. It must be me.¡±


    I lean down and reach out my hand. He twitches as millions of years of evolution beg him to run, an unbroken line of ancestors from protozoa to fish to primate to man, screaming at the wrong, otherworldly thing that rests its claw on his chest.


    But he doesn¡¯t pull away.


    ¡°I want to keep you forever.¡± I trace my warlock¡¯s jaw with a finger. ¡°Body and soul. I want to keep you in a warm, dark place where they can¡¯t hurt you anymore. I want your faith. I want your devotion. I want your love.¡±


    My touch descends past his Adam¡¯s apple. It quavers as he swallows.


    I finally wrestle myself back to my normal petite frame, so that we are eye-to-golden-eye. My fingers land on his collar and clutch it tight. ¡°I want your love, Caspar. I want you to love me more than you ever loved the Father.¡±


    His breath passes my cheek, hot and humid. ¡°Love me,¡± I say.


    His heart thunders. His nostrils fill with the smell of petrichor and stone fruit. ¡°Irene.¡± The rest of the sentence halts and clings to his throat in terror.


    ¡°Love me.¡± I¡¯m pleading now. ¡°Tell me how to make you love me.¡±


    His mind is on fire and all his thoughts are indecipherable smoke. His lips part, but he can¡¯t speak.


    I don¡¯t know which of us moves first. Maybe we do it at the same time. My fingers nestle in his hair and his hands cup my waist and we kiss in a desperate frenzy.


    I shove my tongue ravenously into his mouth and it isn¡¯t enough. I flatten my body against him, rub desperately with my thighs to satisfy that sweet insistent friction, and it isn¡¯t enough. I elongate my tongue to inhuman length, until it slides down his throat, and he grunts with surprise, but he doesn¡¯t stop. My Irene body can barely process this overload. His arms flex and I¡¯m pulled into him and he¡¯s warm. He¡¯s so warm that I writhe and whimper like a trapped animal. Once more, my higher mind considers whether this whole idea was an error. But Oh it does not feel like an error.


    I had no idea a kiss felt like this. The muted sensation of my ridealongs with mortals doesn¡¯t come close. It makes no sense. How is it you people aren¡¯t just constantly doing this? This is incredible.


    His grip slides up my back, firing off nerve endings the entire way, and rests on the nape of my neck and I whine. I whine like a stupid puppy. This vocalization is irregular and unseemly for a goddess, my analytical dimension notes. I may have overdone it on the sensitivity.


    The flimsy curtain of his fear is burning away and exposing a roaring bonfire of need. His hands move down and slide along the curve of my backside and even with the cushion I¡¯ve painstakingly crafted, his fingers envelop me, they¡¯re so big, and I can feel everything he feels simultaneously, the silk against his fingerpads and his grip sinking into me and the feedback loop overheats me, sets a cascade of exploding need from my crown down my spine, right to the core of my little humanoid manifestation.


    A note of sudden pressure and I¡¯m dangling. I gasp into Caspar¡¯s mouth. He has stood up and lifted me with him like I¡¯m a bag of groceries. He marvels at how light I am, at the smooth, hairless, almost aquatic flesh, at how surprisingly cool I am to the touch.


    He¡¯s hot. He¡¯s boiling against me. I¡¯m going to melt. The tendrils framing my face lash and writhe for purchase. He blows out a surprised breath as they run across his ears and neck and through his hair, and he pulls away and stares at me. I see myself staring back, my eyes huge and dilated, my shadowy lips trembling from their sudden exposure back to the stinging air. He lowers his attention to them, and his eyelashes¡ªso long for a man, so delicate and dark¡ªflicker close to my skin.


    I¡¯m not human. Not at all. I don¡¯t look human and I don¡¯t feel human. And he sees his saliva glisten on my pillowy lower lip and he doesn¡¯t give a shit.


    He leans forward and kisses me again, hard. His tongue fills my mouth, hot and wet and adamant. His strength. I feel it close tight around me, bind me to him. I shudder with exultation and throw my arms around his wide, sculpted shoulders.


    Something bright and burning is blooming in the core of me. Something desperately mortal. Something I made just for him. For the heat, the hard throbbing heat. I swivel my hips against him, squirming in his grasp, and a jolt of lust spikes his skull as he feels it, feels how ravenous he¡¯s made me. I pull a low, rumbling groan from him. His fingers clench yielding softness. His groin nestles against the gauze of my panties, the slick, pliant desire separated from him by one flimsy layer of lace. He is harder than he has ever been in his life. The final overtaxed thread of his pious self-control snaps. He¡¯s ready to claim his reward.


    My lips pull away from his as I bury my face in his neck. I inhale as though I¡¯m coming up from an abyssopelagic dive. My whole body pulses. My throat has a solid block of anticipation and joy lodged in it. It¡¯s finally happening. Our first time. My first time. Right now.


    No.


    No no no. This isn¡¯t how I was going to do this. I had an entire plan for when he¡¯d break, the things I was going to do to him. I had a whole set. I had an outfit. I had music. I was going to be dominant, controlling. I didn¡¯t realize how irresistible it would all feel, how my body would act on its own. That¡¯s not what beings like me do. In the slow millennia of my life, I have lost control like this one time only, ever. And that was when I was gnawing God¡¯s flesh from His bones.


    Reader, forgive me. I have never panicked until now. I¡¯ve never had reason to. I could make up excuses for you. I¡¯m not done teasing him, I¡¯m worried about hurting him in this overwhelmed state, I demand we do this on my terms and mine alone. But none of them explain why I do this:


    I kiss him again, and he disappears. Back to his waking Diamantan life.


    I fall to the ground, onto my big stupid butt. I scream in libidinous frustration. Reality ripples around me like a stone dropped in a stream, desaturating and softening. I put a lid on it before I turn the distant taphouse into an impressionist painting. The pyramid shakes and rumbles as it descends, row upon row of stone reducing to powdery cartilage and folding back into my superstructure.


    Irene, you fucking idiot. You had him. Why did you do that? I wish Bina were here so she could devour this ludicrous body like she promised.


    And I never fed him barbecue. Damn it all to hell.


    My knees are trembling with longing for the tree-trunk waist they were wrapped around a second ago. That tears it. I¡¯ve just done something that I can¡¯t explain. Tether this manifestation right now. Unmake this creature. Love Caspar the same as you¡¯ve loved him all the decades of his life. Perfectly and remotely. At an unfathomable remove. Love him in your alien way of loving. Surrender nothing to him.


    No.


    I need to stop pretending that¡¯s even a possibility at this point. I ache for him. I don¡¯t want the ache to stop.


    I want him to be mine.


    But I want to be his, too.


    I¡¯m in love with Caspar Cartwright.


    As I step back down to the forest floor, and Caspar awakens on his stolen airship, I make a promise right now, to him, to myself, and to you, o patient reader:


    These human anxieties will not rule me. I won¡¯t freeze up again. I won¡¯t be tongue tied or cowardly. When Caspar returns to me, I¡¯ll tell him I¡¯m in love with him, then fuck him until he can¡¯t walk.

 19. A plan

    Caspar sits bolt upright, breathing hard. His mouth hangs open. He touches his cupid¡¯s-bow philtrum, where a moment ago my lips lay on his.


    He¡¯s back. Oh, no. Oh, shoot. Should he not have done that? Am I angry? Why else would I have sent him back?


    An ineffable starspawned being from beyond his reality just got right up in his face and his response was to kiss it.


    It must have been like a dog licking my face. Or a bug landing on my skin. Obviously when I said ¡°love me¡± I didn¡¯t mean that. He¡¯s such a fool. Forget not being in my league. He¡¯s not even in my dimension.


    He didn¡¯t even ask permission. You don¡¯t just up and kiss a lady like that, without asking permission. Especially not after cussing her out and throwing her gift right back in her face. He¡¯s a damn beast. Of course I¡¯m angry.


    ¡°I¡¯m not!¡± I cry aloud. ¡°Go back to sleep and come fuck my stupid brains out!¡±


    I know he can¡¯t hear me. I hate this warlock shit. Why is it so limited?


    I vocalize an exasperated growl. I can¡¯t even be angry, not at him. This is my fault.


    Caspar climbs out of the cot. He¡¯s sweated through his shirt in his sleep.


    He thinks about how it was to kiss me, to hold me. He had been trying very hard not to imagine how my body would feel like wrapped around him, how my lips would taste.


    And then it happened. And now he knows, damn him, and he can¡¯t un-know. I feel incredible. I feel perfect. His skin tingles with just the memory of me. His fingers flex to remember my softness pressed against him, the curve of my heart-shaped ass, plush and giving beneath his touch. The enraptured, desperate little noises I made. My scent, my breath, the stone fruit taste of my plump lips. The tendrils of my hair caressing and exploring him. My tongue. How long can my tongue get?


    He needs to focus. He¡¯s on a vessel he halfway know how to steer, with the Archbishop of his entire diocese tied up in the closet. And anyway, he can never do that again, even if his body cries out for mine like a puzzle with a piece missing. He¡¯ll figure out his apology before he goes to bed tonight and faces the music.


    I gotta rebuild that pyramid so I can throw myself off it.


    Can¡¯t you fix this? You¡¯re human, right? Go get on an aerodyne and fly over there and tell him Irene wants to suck his cock. Pass him a note or something. Sorry. You¡¯re busy. Sorry. Forget I asked. I¡¯m just quite frustrated.


    The steely blue matte of early morning punches through the windows like slate pavement. In the cockpit he finds Jordan, snoring gently, her boots up on the dashboard and her .45 in her lap underneath a crinkled and folded Relic City drama comic. He wonders what she¡¯s up to in Bina¡¯s demesne.


    I admit to a certain curiosity myself; I send a subvocal query to Bina for access and she cheerfully allows me a manifestation.


    My Irene body has become too precious to me. Its senses are too heightened, its emotions too complex. Its frame too small and soft. I don¡¯t really want to send it out into other demesnes. I don¡¯t want to share it anymore, with anyone but Caspar. I decide to craft a new one.


    The replacement is similar, just streamlined. Nothing under the dress but shadowy insubstantiality, nothing behind the eyes but my usual, unaffected self. No plumbing, no hormones. Nice and simple.


    I check back in on Caspar while I build my mini-Irene. He¡¯s carrying the sleeping inspector in his arms to the dormitory. Her head rests on his upper arm, tilted back and issuing a gentle snore. A cocktail of illogical and confusing emotions flush through me.


    Caspar deposits Jordan in the bunk across from his own and returns to the cockpit. He checks on the hostages in the storeroom. Both asleep, their arms above their heads and ziptied to the steadyholds on the walls.


    Caspar looks at their loose, insubstantial robes in this high-altitude chill. He finds some thermal blankets amid the supplies and swaddles the archbishop and his lady companion up as well as he can. Tilliam groans and shifts in his sleep. Caspar remembers how often he gazed at that face, the passage of time marked by the graceful aging of it¡ªgray temples, crow¡¯s feet. How secure he felt in the mercy and enthusiasm of his Archbishop. How befriended and beloved.


    In the flesh, without the lighting and the makeup, Tilliam looks older. Slighter.


    Caspar finds a protein ration and tears the blister pack open. There¡¯s a trading card in it: Saint Drusus of the Sword battling a many-headed demon. The inverse has a prayer for protection on it. If he recalls right he had about a half dozen of the many-headed demon cards. A pretty common pull. He had a member in his unit who managed to collect the whole 200-card set. She took a bullet in the head in Tabarka and can¡¯t eat solid foods anymore.


    Miss Irene, he thinks. I know we aren¡¯t in great shape right now, me and you. But I am grateful that when I pray, there is someone listening.


    Come back to me, Caspar. I love you. Maybe if I think it hard enough he¡¯ll be able to feel it, somehow. A little inkling of it. I love you, I love you, I love you.


    Caspar chews on the sawdusty energy bar as he returns to the cockpit. It¡¯s a comfort, in a way, knowing the special forces flyboys eat the same processed crud as the militia troopers.


    He sits at the controls, and becomes aware, more than ever, that an arcade game is not representative of a real airship. The misspent days of his youth have prepared him, but not sufficiently.


    He knows enough to see that the numbers on the propellant and hydrogen gauges are dire. Once Jordan¡¯s awake again, the two of them will get started siphoning and storing additional propellant from Tilliam¡¯s blown-out engines, and tap into the envelope to max out their hydro PSI. Then they¡¯ll cut the yacht loose and get a good amount of efficiency back. Even with that top-up, a transmontane crossing will push the interceptor to its limits. He reckons Perry could pull it off. But the fella had to go and explode.


    Add it to the list of shit that¡¯s gonna get them killed. Oh, well.


    ???????????


    I stake a slice of myself into the perspective of my warlock and pour the majority behind the eyes of my public manifestation. It spins into being at the lip of a grotto, tunneled into a chalky cliff face. Bina sits with her legs danging in the water. Her manifestation still has its wings and pseudopods and lupine head, but it feels like every time I see her she¡¯s a little less chaotic, a little more humanoid.


    Today she¡¯s positively legible. She¡¯s wearing a one-piece swimsuit with a little frill along the hip.


    I scoot onto the rocks next to her. ¡°Beany. Is that an hourglass I see?¡±


    ¡°Well I don¡¯t know!¡± Bina¡¯s tendrils rise defensively. ¡°You always look so pretty and you seem like you¡¯re having so much fun waving your butt in Caspar¡¯s face.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re copycatting me now. Getting a warlock, a teasing nickname, seducing the warlock¡­¡±


    ¡°I am not.¡±


    ¡°Are too.¡±


    ¡°Am not.¡±


    ¡°Are too.¡±


    ¡°Yo, Bina.¡± Jordan¡¯s call echoes out of the grotto¡¯s mouth. ¡°You coming in or what?¡±


    ¡°One second,¡± Bina singsongs. She stares daggers at me. ¡°Don¡¯t be weird about it, okay? I¡¯m not being weird about your thing.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Sure.¡±


    ¡°Pinky swear,¡± Bina demands. Once that¡¯s extracted from me, we slip into the water and emerge deeper into the grotto, which is lit in soft orange by a battalion of pillar candles. An open chute in the cave ceiling spears a warming pool of day into the depths and highlights Jordan, drifting lazily atop the pool on a bright blue float recliner. Her finger taps the edge of her cocktail glass along to the smooth shaker music emanating from some unseen corner of the cavern. ¡°Howdy, Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°Hi, Jordan. What you got there?¡±


    She stirs it with a pink plastic straw. ¡°Jungle Bird. Bina sure knows her cocktails.¡±


    ¡°I studied.¡± Bina puffs herself up a little. ¡°Wanna show us what Caspar¡¯s doing?¡±


    I surreptitiously ensure there¡¯s nothing scandalous to show, then rest a finger in Bina¡¯s pool and transform it into a window to Diamante¡¯s reality.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Jordan, your butt¡¯s in the way,¡± Bina says.


    Jordan stretches a calf out and pushes herself out of the center of the pool. She rests her head halfway into the water, eyes shut in restful meditation, while Bina and I watch Caspar.


    The light of morning streaks golden strips across the still and sterile interceptor cabin. In the cockpit, Caspar has found a SAUR thirty-aught-six, and is occupying himself by stripping and reassembling it. This was the gun he carried in his trooper unit back in the militia, thanks to his bulky frame. There were some nights, after he came back from the front, that he¡¯d wake up at two in the morning, to some time-traveling noise, a car engine like a divebomber. He¡¯d do this over and over, tiring himself out enough to get back to sleep. Put it together, take it apart. Stock, receiver, barrel.


    Vesta never liked that he still had his old service weapon, even without a single bullet in the house. Asked him why he had to cling to it like this. Prayed for him over it, she said. It¡¯s been a few years since then. He¡¯s surprised he still knows how to strip a Saur.


    As he screws the barrel into the receiver, he hears the rustling of fabric. He pauses for a ten-count, then cautiously returns to assembly. Another crinkle noise and he¡¯s on his feet, the autogun slung from his shoulder and tight in his grip.


    He circles wide as he sweeps his sights along the armory entrance. Tilliam is still snoring. His lady friend, however, has awakened, and is now trying very hard to pretend she hasn¡¯t.


    ¡°You,¡± Caspar whispers. ¡°Camilla. Up.¡±


    A twitch in her. And she stands, the ziptie dropping away as she does so. It¡¯s been cut neatly. ¡°Corinne,¡± she says. Tilliam grunts and fidgets.


    ¡°Hands on your head, ma¡¯am. Step out of the armory.¡± Caspar backs away as the woman trudges out into the fuselage. ¡°How did you get free of that tie?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Would you believe a lady had a sharp nail and some determination?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    She tsks. ¡°Well, I suppose the cat¡¯s stayed in the bag long enough. I¡¯m taking my right hand off my head. Just for a moment.¡± She holds out her forearm. A scythe-blade claw scissors out from her forearm like a utility knife. Caspar takes a stutter-step back.


    ¡°You¡¯re a warlock,¡± he says.


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± With a flick of her forearm the blade sheathes back into her body. She returns her hand to its place on her platinum bob. ¡°And not Camilla. Or Corinne.¡±


    ¡°So you are¡­?¡±


    ¡°Adaire,¡± says Adaire. ¡°I¡¯m Salome¡¯s warlock. Charmed.¡±


    Caspar keeps the gun steady. ¡°Likewise.¡±


    ¡°Oh, gosh!¡± Bina looks excitedly toward me. ¡°That¡¯s good, right? Bargaining chip.¡±


    I just nod, chewing a knuckle intently as I observe.


    Adaire¡¯s fingers fidget. ¡°May I take my hands off my head, sir?¡±


    Caspar shakes no. ¡°Had a run-in with a hostile warlock in Pastornos, tried to stab my eyes out.¡±


    ¡°Well, that warlock didn¡¯t know which way their bread was buttered. I¡¯ve seen you in action. I¡¯m not nearly so martial.¡± Adaire clears her throat. Her voice has evened out into a silken alto monotone. ¡°If I may speak directly to your patron for a moment, sir?¡±


    ¡°She can hear you.¡±


    ¡°May I have the honor of knowing the Old One I address?¡±


    ¡°Irene.¡±


    ¡°Ahh.¡± Adaire nods. ¡°Golden-eyed Irene. Good. Hail, Irene.¡± She bows at the waist. ¡°My mistress Salome requests a council. Perhaps an arrangement can be made. One that spares this humble warlock¡¯s life and brings mutual benefit. You¡¯re taking this airship to Pastornos, we imagine?¡±


    Caspar doesn¡¯t answer. Good boy. Salome is our second-eldest sister after Eight. She¡¯s clever. Slippery.


    ¡°And you have a plan to gain access to the Suzerain?¡± The uncertain twinge I feel from Caspar must reflect in him somehow, because Adaire smirks. ¡°Perhaps not. Perhaps you¡¯re in the market for some collaboration.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d have to ask Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°Exactly our intention.¡± Adaire lifts her slim hands off her head and rests her palms on her hips. Something about the action¡ªthe gesture, the attitude, the cock of their hip¡ªtransmogrifies her. The runny makeup and the flimsy robe suddenly seem like fashionable affectations, like she¡¯s a picture starlet doing a promo shoot. ¡°You brought Bina and Saoirse onboard. Nearly half of the willful family. Milady is impressed. She¡¯s prepared to discuss a contribution to your cause. So long as your warlocks keep her servant¡ªthat would be me¡ªalive and in comfort.¡±


    ¡°Interesting offer,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Interestingly invested in your comfort.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m paraphrasing.¡± She gives a catty shrug. ¡°Next time you have the chance to rest your head, perhaps your mistress will give you her decision. Until then, it¡¯s in your best interest to keep Tilliam and I alive. If you want the Suzerain, you need a plan. Old boy isn¡¯t exactly taking appointments.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve got one?¡±


    ¡°No. I was just schtupping a gross old archbishop for the love of the game.¡± Adaire laughs a twinkling laugh. ¡°Of course we had a plan. You¡¯ve blown it open. Fair play you. The advantage is yours. But I think you need me, mister¡­ it was Cas, yes?¡±


    ¡°Caspar.¡±


    ¡°Caspar.¡± She favors him with a gorgeous smile. ¡°If we work together, we can patch it up. You seem¡­ well, we can blame the oopsie-daisy abduction on the dead guy. You seem competent enough.¡±


    I fall into rumbling subvocal conference with Bina. Of course, she¡¯s a yes from the jump. My youngest sister is always eager to trust. Jordan twists in the water to see what we¡¯re doing; when it¡¯s clear we¡¯re being secretive, she returns, unbothered, to her relaxation.


    ¡°Now, I¡¯m just about freezing my tits off in this robe,¡± Adaire says. ¡°With your permission, I¡¯d like to excuse myself briefly back into the armory to find myself a change of clothes.¡±


    ¡°Afraid I can¡¯t just let you out of these sights.¡± Caspar indicates the gun. ¡°Learned a couple hard lessons.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself, sir warlock.¡± Adaire shrugs. ¡°Not my first peep show.¡±


    Caspar follows them past the still-slumbering Tilliam and stands guard as she slips from her robe and into a uniform of black-and-gray fatigues. As she buttons and adjust the jacket, she rolls their shoulders and her entire mien changes again like quicksilver, just as Caspar witnessed before. When she turns back around, her ramrod back and wide stance has totally erased the starlet of before. Now she looks like a handsome young soldier right out of a recruitment tract.


    ¡°Goodness, that¡¯s impressive,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Had me wondering who you were a second. That a spell?¡±


    ¡°A blonde wig and some chutzpah are their own kind of spell.¡± Adaire pulls the bob from her head and runs her fingers through her cropped ginger hair to fluff it out. ¡°I¡¯ve leaned on the eldritch, now and then, for my more daring transformations, but I consider it a professional challenge to do without.¡± Even her voice is different, masculine and clipped.


    The archbishop grunts in his sleep and shifts under the blanket. Adaire speaks sotto voce. ¡°Let¡¯s move this conversation to the cabin before we wake Tilly, shall we? He¡¯ll be more useful if we keep him thinking I¡¯m his fellow hostage a while longer.¡±


    ¡°So quick to presume you¡¯re not.¡±


    Adaire cracks a grin that melts her soldier-boy face back into dazzling glamor. ¡°You see right through me.¡±


    Caspar gestures with the gun. ¡°After you.¡±


    ¡°The blanket was clever, you know.¡± Adaire strolls past him back into the cabin. ¡°You wanted to keep us warm. But you also know how loud a military thermal blanket rustles. I could have freed myself and found a weapon without it. One part pragmatism, one part charity. Sharp. I see you.¡±


    Jordan sips her Jungle Bird. ¡°I oughta tell the newbie buttering the dude up didn¡¯t work for me.¡±


    I hum acknowledgement. ¡°It may be about time for you to wake up.¡±


    ¡°Before I¡¯m done with my drink?¡± Jordan clicks her tongue. ¡°Protect me, O Goddess.¡±


    Bina giggles. ¡°Hold on. I¡¯ll dilate us.¡± My chronological cerebellum itches and tingles as Bina stretches the passage of time in her demesne to a thin, crowded strand. The firehose of seconds becomes a trickle and our view flickers as it adopts a snail¡¯s pace. ¡°There we go. Take your time, Jordy. Then go back up Caspar. And tell the new warlock that the meeting¡¯s on.¡±


    ¡°Hot damn. I should have become a devil worshipper a long-ass time ago¡± Jordan puts the straw back between her dark lips and tips her head back into the water. Her eyes drift shut again. ¡°Thankf, Bean,¡± she says around her straw.


    Bina beams. She certainly doesn¡¯t seem to have a problem when Jordan calls her that.


    ¡°Oh! Jordan!¡± I snap my fingers in excited recall. ¡°I need you to pass a message on to Caspar. When you wake up.¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡± Jordan lifts her head out of the water. Her braids glisten. I can¡¯t blame Bina. She¡¯s quite striking. ¡°Sure.¡±


    I think about what to say to Caspar and observe a curious phenomenon. Despite the total absence of interference in this manifestation of human sexual hormones, that little lighter-than-air feeling when I picture his face returns, unprompted.


    With a scientific caution I imagine him again: and with the imagining, the flutter repeats. Fascination and concern take up uneasy cohabitation within me.


    It was much easier to pin my Caspar fixation on the hormonal realities of the manifestation I was using. That his face gives my larger mainframe an echo of that same giddiness, that is hazardous. I wasn¡¯t counting on it going this far beyond my humanoid biology. My yearning for Caspar appears to have spread through my entire manifold. I¡¯ve been contaminated.


    I ought to be very upset. This could seriously impair my logical functioning. How strange that instead I feel something akin to satisfaction.


    ¡°Can you tell him¡­¡± I consider how open I want to be with the inspector. ¡°That I¡¯m not angry with him. And that I¡¯d like to continue from where we left off.¡±


    Jordan smacks her lips. ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±


    ¡°Never mind what it means. Just pass it along, please.¡±


    Jordan shrugs and takes another sip of her Jungle Bird. ¡°You got it.¡±


    ???????????


    Bina¡¯s ease with allowing me into her warlock¡¯s mind is something I might need to school her about if she¡¯s interested in getting closer to the mortal. I¡¯ve shared Caspar¡¯s point of view, using the man like a camera, but I¡¯ve kept his thoughts private from everyone else as a courtesy; it surprises me, sometimes, the value you humans place on even your silliest and least consequential secrets.


    Jordan awakens with the phantom taste of Campari fading on her tongue, the warm water replaced by chilly air and dried sweat. She sighs unhappily and sits up.


    She belts her gun on and slouches into the cabin. ¡°Morning, Cas. Morning, hostage. Why don¡¯t they have tea on this dumb balloon, I wanna know.¡±


    ¡°We can steal some from the yacht before we sink it.¡± Caspar gestures to the newest warlock. ¡°This is Adaire.¡±


    Adaire bows. ¡°Madame Inspector.¡±


    ¡°All right, Adaire.¡± Jordan puts her chilly hands in her pockets. ¡°Our mistresses say you got your meeting. But until then, you¡¯re going back in those zip cuffs.¡±


    ¡°If it would put you at ease, we could pretend.¡± Adaire extends her scythe claw again. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid they wouldn¡¯t do you any good.¡±


    Jordan frowns. ¡°Either way, we can¡¯t just let you wander around.¡±


    Caspar nods. ¡°We take turns, yeah? Got to get everything we can off Tilliam¡¯s ship if we want to reach mainland. You take the fuel. Red cap in the engine room and you siphon it just like you would a car, more or less. I¡¯ll do the hydro once you¡¯re done. So someone¡¯s always got an eye on them.¡±


    ¡°Solid.¡± Jordan yawns. ¡°Guess I¡¯d better go get the sky harnesses. By the way, Cas. Got a message for you from Irene.¡±


    Caspar braces as though for a punch.


    ¡°She says she¡¯s not upset,¡± Jordan says. ¡°And she¡¯d like to keep going from where you left off.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Caspar¡¯s heart does a somersault. ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean, anyway?¡± Jordan squints at him. ¡°What¡¯re you two doing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. Uh, planning.¡± Caspar¡¯s face is hot.


    Jordan¡¯s mouth drops open. ¡°Oh, my God.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Her expression snaps back to neutrality, though a held-in laugh flickers at the edge of it. ¡°I hope you two have a wonderful plan.¡±


    ¡°Jordan,¡± Caspar warns. Adaire¡¯s brow raises.


    ¡°I¡¯m rooting for the plan, Caspar. Get on in there and plan the shit out of her.¡±


    Caspar rests his face in his hands. He is so cute when he¡¯s flustered that it makes me want to scream.


    ¡°You gotta report back on what it¡¯s like, planning an Old One.¡± Jordan loses control of her shit-eating grin. I¡¯d like to scream at her, too, for other reasons.


    ¡°Jordan, piss off and get the harnesses, please.¡±

 20. A fawn

    Adaire sits down on a barrack bench across from Caspar, her legs wide and slouchy like a cock-of-the-walk trooper. ¡°So, Mr. Caspar. How long have you been at the warlock game?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s gun rests on his lap, pointed broadly in her direction. He and Jordan have found a two-way radio, but he trusts that she¡¯ll figure it out, gearhead that she is. ¡°Bout a week,¡± he says, ¡°give or take.¡±


    ¡°Just a week.¡± Adaire seems genuinely impressed. I¡¯d ascertain how true her reaction is, but a warlock¡¯s mind is walled off from intrusion without their patron¡¯s permission. ¡°I¡¯d have guessed longer, the way you were slinging those evocations. Were you a hedge mage or something?¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Let¡¯s keep the ma¡¯am out when I¡¯m in boymode, if you please,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I¡¯d prefer to immerse.¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± Caspar says. ¡°How long have you been at it?¡±


    ¡°A hair over a year.¡± Adaire slices a sliver of nail from her thumb and drops it to the deck. ¡°I¡¯ve been Corinne all month, trying to make Tilly an asset. I believe I¡¯m close. And this¡­ kerfuffle doesn¡¯t have to be the end. In fact, it might be a unique blessing. My suggestion is we keep at it. Make him think I¡¯m cooperating out of fear and let him feel like the gallant keeping me alive. If it seems like he¡¯s a flight risk, I¡¯ll warn you.¡±


    ¡°Should we be talking so loud?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re fine. The man¡¯s a log.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s back into the wig when he wakes up?¡±


    ¡°Yes indeed. Just seizing the opportunity to masc out for a while before I¡¯m back to the weepy mistress. Manspread, pick my nose, et cetera.¡± Adaire scratches her groin. ¡°Not that Corinne isn¡¯t fun. Fear is a satisfying emotion to portray. But it¡¯s been a long performance. Normally I have more opportunity to flow, if you will. One must have one¡¯s breaks. I wonder how you more dedicated character actors don¡¯t lose your minds.¡±


    ¡°I never was much of an actor,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Made getting to Chamchek a nightmare, tell you the truth.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be so down on yourself. You¡¯re simply specialized. In fact, my good warlock, your demurring is proof of how fantastic a conservatory the seminary is. Your training is so sublime as to be completely naturalistic. I admit, at times, to envy.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you know I went to seminary?¡±


    Adaire titters, then morphs. Her shoulders raise, her lips draw, her posture softens, and Caspar¡¯s nearly twice Adair¡¯s weight but he has the uncanny feeling he¡¯s looking in a mirror. ¡°This is how,¡± she says.


    She snaps back into soldiery. Caspar isn¡¯t sure whether he should clap. He settles on ¡°Well, how about that.¡±


    ¡°Once we¡¯re in Pastornos, well. I can¡¯t do the things you and Mme. Darius did, but I like to think my uses are obvious. And I do still have swords in my arms. If need strictly be.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be glad to have you.¡± He adjusts the gun on his lap. ¡°Uh, if we have you.¡±


    ¡°And if not? Do you presume Irene will want me executed?¡± Adaire leans forward. ¡°Will you do it, or will you defer to Darius and squeeze shut your eyes?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll work out.¡± Caspar¡¯s firm. He truly believes this. ¡°She¡¯s kind.¡±


    My dorsal buoyancy chamber vents in happy exhalation. Now I have to find some kind of Adaire-sparing deal with Salome.


    ¡°Women pick their nose, too, y¡¯know,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Women, sure.¡± Adaire locates her blonde bob. ¡°Corinne is a lady.¡±


    ???????????


    Salome refuses to be hosted. Wary of a trap, I suppose. She insists repeatedly we find her in her crystalline home: the skeleton of one of the Father¡¯s warbeasts, its guts petrified to gemstones by her magic. I threaten her warlock¡¯s execution using one of our language¡¯s more chummy tenses (we have a couple hundred of those).


    She just as chummily calls my bluff. The Irene of last month would have shrugged and had Adaire killed. The Irene of today, though, really wants Caspar to fall in love with her. And, to be fair, my sister and her warlock would be quite useful on our side.


    I send a pulse of inquiry to Saoirse: will she make an appearance with us? My baleens flicker with apprehension at her response; her genteel avariciousness is still fresh in my mind, and it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if we were a now-finished marriage of convenience.


    It¡¯s a pleasant surprise when she happily tags along.


    The three of us wend our way through the jeweled ventricles of our second-eldest sister¡¯s home. She¡¯s laid vicious, mangling traps here and there that swat our scout forms from the air, necessitating a patient wait for her to disarm. One of them catches Bina and shears off a house-sized claw. She huffs in annoyance and begins the process of regrowth. ¡°That¡¯s a dozen tons of good biomass,¡± her manifestation grumbles from its beanbag bed next to my lounger. ¡°I coulda made a ziggurat with that.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want a ziggurat,¡± I say. ¡°It goes against your whole tomb yard aesthetic. Maybe an obelisk.¡±


    A few dozen more scoutforms flamb¨¦d and dismembered, and we arrive in the beast¡¯s skull, its two massive eyeholes girded with great panes of colored glass that reduce the ruins of heaven to blobby shapes and cast crawling colors across my sister¡¯s floor.


    Salome¡¯s symmetrical mandala form turns like a slow ornament in the center of the cranium, refracting the light off its jagged geometries. She bristles with tessellations and spikes, like a massive malevolent snowflake or a disturbed child¡¯s drawing of a star. She welcomes us with a diplomat¡¯s formality and an apology to Bina for the severed limb, couched in just a touch of big sister superiority.


    We manifest in her chrome halls. Infinity mirrors catch our reflections and hurl them outward into the indistinct dark. Her manifestation awaits us at the lip of a cylindrical pit, from which glows a pale-white fire. Hanging octagonal fresnels amplify its light into thin beams that fret the air, colliding with prisms that dazzle them into rainbow lasers. Salome has always been fascinated by light and dark, heat and cold.


    ¡°Welcome, sisters.¡± Salome approaches with measured step, her shadow thrown by the white flame. The baking heat casts a shimmer through the air. ¡°How honored I am to be hosting this¡­ faction? Coven?¡±


    I glance at my sisters. Bina has her big black-and-pink tongue out, panting to relieve some of the igneous heat. Saoirse is humming a little song to a worm she just birthed, flexing her fingers as it crawls across them.


    ¡°Alliance,¡± I say.


    ¡°Just so.¡± Salome¡¯s manifestation smiles, with a silvery hiss of metal-on-metal. Her body is a single sheet of chrome, folded with mathematical precision and artful insight into a broadly human shape. Her gown is ruffled and faceted. Her limbs end in razor points. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you true. Adaire was the one who proposed the meeting. Without my consultation.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Bina¡¯s ears stand up. ¡°What the hell.¡±


    My shadow stuff flickers taller. ¡°And yet you¡¯ve agreed to meet.¡±


    ¡°I have. And I can¡¯t even be upset with her, the little fox.¡± Salome chuckles ruefully and shakes her head. ¡°The survival drive these mortals all have. It impresses me.¡±


    ¡°I hate to interject.¡± Saoirse raises a disintegrating finger. ¡°Can we lower the temperature a little?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Salome flicks a hand at the cylindrical pit. The flames turn black and plunge the room into a darkness beyond the human perception of light. We take a moment to adjust our visions to the new infrared spectrum. It has gone from sweltering to freezing. Saoirse looks more amused than upset at Salome¡¯s ribbing.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re willing to join us?¡± I ask. My breath puffs out in a little cloud.


    Salome reconfigures her shoulders in the origami equivalent of a shrug. ¡°Possibly.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to belabor the point or come off as threatening, but If you don¡¯t, I¡¯m going to have to shoot your warlock and toss her into the Montane Ocean.¡±


    ¡°Look, Irene.¡± Salome pivots on the end of her razor-thin leg and paces in a slow orbit around us. ¡°You get me, you¡¯ve got half of us lined up with you. That¡¯s really something, right? And I know my worth and my warlock¡¯s worth. Kill her if you must, but you don¡¯t have a plan in Pastornos. And by the time you¡¯ve formulated one, I¡¯ll have a new agent. I¡¯d miss Adaire, and I¡¯d regret the loss of our potential alliance, but I can¡¯t just surrender.¡± She lifts a limb to the closest ray of photonegativity and bounces it off the far wall in a beautiful splash of vantablack. ¡°I have my pride, you see. And I have an ideal extraction of terms. One that will help both of us. One condition.¡±


    ¡°I had two,¡± Saoirse serenely notes.


    ¡°Hush,¡± I say.


    ¡°Can I guess?¡± Bina¡¯s vestigial wings twitch and dislodge a glittering curtain of frost. ¡°Does it have to do with Ganea?¡±


    ¡°It does,¡± Salome says.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    I roll all three eyes. ¡°This thing again.¡±


    ¡°Why do you hate Ganea so much?¡± Bina asks.


    ¡°You know well why,¡± Salome says. ¡°She has never once apologized to me for Gliese 682 Scorpii.¡±


    ¡°Ganea¡¯s Ganea,¡± I say. ¡°Violence is her love language.¡±


    ¡°You are all far too accepting of her brutality.¡± Salome¡¯s voice is clipped. ¡°It¡¯s enabled her. I want Ganea laid low. I want her apology. All four of us, we can extract that from her.¡±


    ¡°Salome¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know, Irene. I know. Sisterly solidarity. I love Ganea, of course I do. I love all of you. I just also want to kick her dumb fucking teeth in.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s stronger than any of us,¡± I say. ¡°Than all of us except Eight. Even if I was willing to attack her, she¡¯d rip us apart. It might take years to reconstitute ourselves. Years we don¡¯t have.¡±


    ¡°Ah. But I have a plan.¡± Salome¡¯s excited. Her body emits a low vibrational hum like a played wineglass rim. ¡°I know where her warlock is. In Pastornos. Her little peerless warrior. If we can get him cornered, get his life threatened, we¡¯ll have her.¡±


    ¡°Oh, my,¡± murmurs Saoirse.


    Bina¡¯s eyes bug. ¡°You want our warlocks to go after the Iron Butcher?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯d need double the manpower. And can your warlock even fight?¡±


    ¡°We have to do it eventually, sister,¡± Salome says. ¡°If they don¡¯t come to him, he¡¯s going to come to them. And if he has the initiative, he slaughters all three of them. No.¡± Salome stops her pacing in front of me. ¡°There¡¯s a way we give our warlocks a shot. And that¡¯s by attacking Ganea. Here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re asking me to raise a hand against a sister,¡± I say. ¡°I swore to you all I¡¯d never do that.¡±


    ¡°That was in another time. That was when Eight wasn¡¯t Eight and we still had Milinoe. This has to be done.¡± Salome¡¯s turned beseeching. ¡°I¡¯m not proposing we brutalize her or eat her. I doubt we even can. But four against one is enough at least to distract her, force her to turn her power on us. She¡¯ll have none to spare for her killing machine on Diamante. Caspar and Jordan will have a shot. If they can capture him, Ganea will fold. She adores the Iron Butcher.¡±


    ¡°Caspar and Jordan.¡± I cross my arms. ¡°Not Adaire?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll only get herself killed,¡± Salome says. ¡°I don¡¯t select for lethality like you and Bina.¡±


    I look at Bina. She looks back, her face anxious but hopeful.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I say. ¡°Takes a sizeable piece off the table. But you¡¯re in charge of the plan.¡±


    ¡°Leave it to me, dearest Irene.¡± Salome sparkles. ¡°I¡¯ve waited a long time for this.¡±


    ¡°Saoirse?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t anyone in Pastornos who fits the bill,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Nobody in bloom for a sacrifice. But I¡¯ll join you in our little Gan-Gan visit. We¡¯ve all racked up a certain debt of pain to extract from her.¡± She chuckles. ¡°She ripped a few of my heads off last month.¡±


    ¡°All right. Deal¡¯s a deal, Salome.¡± I extend a shadowy hand. ¡°We go for Ganea. Maybe she¡¯ll finally see reason once she¡¯s humbled. And then we¡¯re five.¡±


    Salome¡¯s creases sharpen. ¡°You want to bring her in?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s our sister. Why wouldn¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°For one thing, they don¡¯t make leashes big enough for an Old One. She¡¯s a brute.¡±


    ¡°When we knocked the Father¡¯s house down, you remember what we said?¡± I pull my hand back and lay it on my chest. ¡°What I said when I signed on? We do this together. Eight sisters, one pantheon.¡±


    ¡°Surely that¡¯s out the window. Even Eight? After what she did to Milly?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not holding my breath on Eight, but if it¡¯s possible, yes. Even her. And I think we can get Milly back, for the record.¡±


    Bina ooohs. She and Milinoe were quite close.


    ¡°I hate this competition shit, Salome,¡± I say. ¡°You know that. We did such incredible things when we were together. We conquered worlds. We could do that again. We could be the best fucking gods for these mortals. We could show them the way.¡±


    Salome¡¯s lips purse. ¡°Are you implying what I think you¡¯re implying?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am. With guidance. It could work.¡±


    ¡°The Father gave up on them. And he was powerful.¡±


    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Oh, my,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize this was your intent with the little things, Reenie.¡±


    I flinch at the nickname. She¡¯s spent too much time with Bina. ¡°It could work, Saoirse. They could be more than just fertilizer. Eventually.¡±


    Doubt is written all over Salome¡¯s knife of a body. ¡°Have you seen what they inflict on each other? The atrocities and petty little evils? They¡¯re severely limited.¡±


    ¡°Everyone has to start somewhere,¡± I say.


    ¡°What about the hunger, Irene?¡± Salome points to my stomach. ¡°You have it too.¡±


    ¡°Of course I do. We all do. But we can all control it. You weren¡¯t going to start eating them, were you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Salome hesitates. ¡°Not very many of them. But their faith, Irene. You¡¯ve felt it, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    I have. The warmth. The satiating warmth.


    ¡°It slakes, Irene. It satisfies. That¡¯s what the Father was doing. All those worshippers. They fed Him. That¡¯s what we ought to do with them, the humans. Reprogram them, take their worship. Harvest it. Sate ourselves.¡±


    I think about it. I think about ruling the way the Father ruled. Caspar¡¯s belief is so intoxicating. What would billions of you feel like?


    I clear my throat. ¡°We can hash this out later, Salome. Once we¡¯re actually in charge. I¡¯m ready to get to work.¡±


    Salome nods her allowance. ¡°One more thing.¡±


    ¡°Argh, one more thing.¡± I point at Saoirse. ¡°I blame you for planting this seed.¡±


    ¡°Likely of me.¡± Saoirse wears a languid smile.


    ¡°If I¡¯m brought on, I want to be the second voice,¡± Salome says. ¡°Second-in-command, co-leader, whatever you want to call it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how we work.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is. It must be.¡± Salome encompasses the three of us with a sweep of her silvery arm. ¡°Pretend all you like. Irene¡¯s called every shot so far. And all the better¡ªwartime requires a firm hand at the rudder. But I want an equal say.¡±


    Salome, for all I insist otherwise, isn¡¯t wrong. I reconsider my strategy. ¡°Bina¡¯s already co-leader,¡± I say.


    Bina¡¯s muzzle jerks in my direction. ¡°I am?¡±


    ¡°You are.¡± And I smile at her. ¡°Salome, when I came to you for alliance, you told me to kick rocks. I forgive you, but cooperation wasn¡¯t your first impulse.¡± I take one of Bina¡¯s pseudopods. ¡°Bina believed first, she¡¯s put in the most work besides me, and her big gamble to bring Jordan on has paid off. She¡¯s co-leader.¡±


    Salome¡¯s still as a statue. ¡°Perhaps we ought to adjourn, then.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re forgetting who has the leverage. She¡¯s a talented warlock, Salome. I¡¯d hate to have her shot in the head.¡±


    Her icy gaze falls on me. I need to preserve her pride.


    ¡°How about this?¡± I try. ¡°Once we¡¯re all back together as a pantheon, you¡¯re the tiebreaker. We¡¯re ever deadlocked four-to-four, your voice carries it. I trust your instincts.¡±


    ¡°Four-to-four.¡± Salome grimaces. ¡°You really want us all back. You think it¡¯s possible.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. All of us. The Sisters of the Void, united again.¡± I extend my hand. Salome¡¯s sigh is like a wind chime. She shakes it.


    ???????????


    The last tank of fuel winches back across the waving line, followed by Jordan Darius hand-over-handing herself back into the interceptor. She lugs the canister into the cabin, then collapses onto a bench. ¡°Fuck my life,¡± she gasps as she tugs her mask off. ¡°My head¡¯s burning.¡±


    Caspar chances to take his full attention off his captured warlock to look at his comrade-in-arms. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Had a headache since yesterday.¡± Jordan removes her helmet and shakes her braids out. ¡°Shit¡¯s not getting better. I tried putting some of Bina¡¯s magic to it, but it ain¡¯t working.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll be the altitude, I think. Pressure change.¡±


    ¡°No shit?¡±


    ¡°Yep. Happens to some recruits. We called it Balloon Fever.¡± Caspar refocuses on Adaire and waves Jordan over. ¡°Come here and take the gun.¡± She retrieves the rifle and they change positions. Caspar places his hands on either side of Jordan¡¯s cranium.


    Her mouth twists. ¡°Cas, what are you doing? This some kind of foofy massage thing?¡±


    ¡°This is hedge magic,¡± Caspar says. ¡°I reckon our warlock powers are for the big and fancy stuff. But for a headache, that¡¯s pounding a casing nail with a sledgehammer. Wrong tool.¡±


    He bites his tongue and focuses. The heat rises in his palms. His fingers twitch as he feels the first flicker of Jordan¡¯s aura. Find the pain. The hot little barb in her electrochemistry. There. He closes his will around it, teases it out. A sudden pinching pain as he takes the hurt into himself, then a sharp exhale as he vents it away.


    ¡°Good God damn.¡± Jordan lightly touches her forehead. ¡°And you could always do this?¡±


    ¡°Guy in my regiment taught me. He¡¯d use it when we ran outta morphine. I brought it home with me.¡± Caspar smirks. ¡°You were on your way to Rogarth to ferret me out and kill me over it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah well. My perspective¡¯s been expanded.¡± Jordan squeezes Caspar¡¯s wrist. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t nothing.¡± Caspar steps into his harness. ¡°You two sit tight. I¡¯m gonna get that hydro. You get everything you needed out of that yacht, Jordy?¡±


    Jordan rattles a tin of loose-leaf black tea. ¡°Yessir.¡±


    ¡°All right. Farewell to that ride, then.¡±


    Caspar coils the massive hose around his midsection and clips himself to the balloon line. Then he clambers out the hatchway to the thin, chilly air.


    The hose winches from Tilliam¡¯s yacht to the intake on the interceptor, and Caspar flattens out against the frame, the wind whistling and whipping past him as he watches the PSI climb. He lets the needle tick to the upper edge of the green zone, shuts the valve, then fills their backups for good measure.


    Tilliam¡¯s yacht begins its slow-motion descent. It¡¯ll take the rest of the day to sink all the way to the Montane. Caspar observes its shadow filter across the distant water and prepares to sever the connection between the airships.


    He hesitates.


    ¡°Shit,¡± he mutters, and clips onto the line.


    Caspar returns to the interceptor with a trussed-up fawn under his arm. Jordan¡¯s bemused stare follows him as he wrestles the panicky animal into the cabin. ¡°What the fuck is that.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t just let the poor thing drown.¡± Caspar lowers it to the floor, where it thrashes.


    ¡°Please do not untie the wild animal in the blimp,¡± Adaire says.


    Caspar wrangles the fawn back into his grip and opens the hatch door to the armory. The ziptied Archbishop is awake and immediately launches into a prepared statement. ¡°Sir, I may not know you personally but I see in you a love for the Father that¡ªis that a deer?¡±


    Caspar ties a rope around the fawn¡¯s middle and tethers it to a gun locker. ¡°You hungry?¡± he asks Tilliam.


    ¡°Uh.¡± Tilliam stares at the fawn as it strains on its leash. ¡°Yes.¡±


    Caspar unwraps a protein bar and sticks it into Tilliam¡¯s mouth like a cigar. He twists the cap off a canteen and places it in Tilliam¡¯s raised palm. ¡°You can tilt that?¡±


    Tilliam wiggles his wrist and a few drops of water cascade onto his chest. ¡°Somewhat. Er, sir. I must insist¡ª¡±


    ¡°Aim better,¡± Caspar advises.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Corinne?¡± Tilliam demands, as he moves to the door. ¡°What have you done with her?¡±


    My warlock pauses on the threshold. ¡°She¡¯s cooperating,¡± he says. ¡°You cooperate too and you¡¯ll live.¡± He shuts the hatch and drowns out the tap-tap-tap of the fawn¡¯s little hooves and whatever complaint Tilliam was preparing.


    Back to the cabin. Jordan and Adaire are talking about a television serial. ¡°Team Calvin til the day I die,¡± Jordan says. ¡°I like a bad boy.¡±


    ¡°You told me you did die,¡± Adaire says, ¡°and you don¡¯t like boys.¡±


    ¡°How the hell do you know that?¡±


    ¡°I read people,¡± Adaire says. ¡°If it¡¯s any consolation, you¡¯re a tough nut. It was an educated guess.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± Jordan sits back. ¡°Even as a girl-liker it¡¯s obvious. Calvin over Tucker.¡±


    ¡°I enjoy the concept of Calvin but the actor is rotten.¡±


    ¡°How dare you.¡±


    ¡°He is! During the dramatic scenes his mouth always goes¡ª¡± Adaire thins her lips and twists her mouth, forming dimples that Caspar could swear she didn¡¯t have before. ¡°That¡¯s his sole expression.¡±


    ¡°Tilliam¡¯s up.¡± Caspar brushes past them on his way to the cockpit.


    ¡°All right.¡± Adaire pulls her wig back on. ¡°Is he getting on with your deer?¡±


    ¡°Yup. House on fire.¡± Caspar eases the clutch back now that their engine isn¡¯t hauling a yacht.


    ¡°What are you even going to do with that thing?¡± asks Jordan.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Let it out at Pastornos, maybe.¡± Caspar flips the rear booster into standby. ¡°I¡¯m gonna get some shut-eye and check in with the bosses, see if we can stop pointing that gun at Adaire. You hear a four-blast buzz from this dashboard, you come wake me.¡±


    ¡°And interrupt your check-in?¡± Jordan¡¯s eyebrow bounces.


    ¡°Just listen for the goddamn buzz, please.¡± Caspar ignores Jordan¡¯s shit-eating grin and heads for the bunks.


    He¡¯s been up a while, and he¡¯s been working his ass off. But as he lays down and gazes at the rivets and ribs of the vessel ceiling, sleep eludes him. He can feel his pulse pounding in his ears.


    He recalls the methods they taught him in boot camp, to sleep wherever he lays his head. He relaxes his jaw and counts his breaths.


    I watch and I wait as his racing mind slows and his brow unknits. My heartbeat quickens as his slows. That¡¯s right. Slip away, my warlock. Leave your waking worries behind.


    Come back to me.

 21. My warlock [18+]

    Caspar turns over and creaks the four-poster bed he¡¯s awakened in. A breeze drifts across him from a window open to a scarlet sunset.


    It drifts across me, too, where I¡¯m curled on an overstuffed loveseat. It casts eddies across the gauzy lilac fabric that drapes me, what little of it there is.


    I sit up. My anklets jingle. ¡°Hello, Mr. Cartwright.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s eyes trace my neckline. They have to go much lower than he¡¯s used to. If I had a bellybutton, it would threaten an appearance. ¡°Hi, Miss Irene,¡± he says.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to have a conversation about last time we spoke. And about our future.¡±


    He¡¯s wearing a set of silk pajamas. He fidgets with the bow-tied waistband. ¡°You decide about Adaire and Salome?¡±


    ¡°Adaire and Salome,¡± I say, crossing my legs, ¡°can wait their turn.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s focus strays across the newly exposed curve of my thigh. ¡°Suppose they can.¡±


    I indicate the wiry cafe table between us. Steam curls from the twinned teacups on its surface. ¡°Rooibos?¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Caspar sits on the edge of the bed and takes a fortifying drink. ¡°First thing is I¡¯m sorry. I said a lot of things out of anger and out of turn. And I didn¡¯t mean to¡­¡± He clears his throat as he sets the cup back down. ¡°And I hope I didn¡¯t take liberties.¡±


    ¡°Dude.¡± I sigh. ¡°Don¡¯t be sorry, okay?¡± I pluck my own teacup from the table. ¡°You did nothing wrong. Not a thing. If anything, I should be apologizing. I couldn¡¯t handle how spontaneous we were. That¡¯s all. I¡¯m a planner, and I¡¯m used to mastery over myself. This¡ª¡± I run a hand across my immodest outfit, shifting its complicated wrapping and widening the window it provides to my hip. ¡°This I¡¯ve been planning for quite a long time. And you¡ª¡± My finger snaps magnetically to his face. ¡°You make it difficult to control myself. That¡¯s what I¡¯d like to discuss with you.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he says.


    ¡°You like me, Caspar,¡± I say. ¡°You like me so much. I see through your eyes when you look at my body. I hear what you want to do to me.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t reply. Just runs his thumb along the rim of his teacup.


    ¡°You were taught to suppress sinful thought. And you were taught that I¡¯m the embodiment of wickedness. You know what I am. But you want me anyway.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± It¡¯s barely above a whisper. But it lands like a gravity bomb.


    ¡°Say it. Say it aloud for me.¡±


    I lean forward. He watches the crescent-moon curve my breasts form as they meet.


    ¡°I want you,¡± he says.


    ¡°Good boy.¡± I raise the tea to my lips and take my time to savor it. I successfully hide the anticipatory tremor of my hand as I lower it to the table. ¡°It just so happens that I want you, too.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± he says. His throat is dry.


    ¡°All the feelings you¡¯re ashamed of. The things you¡¯re afraid to ask for.¡± I fold my legs underneath me. His attention is drawn to the soft deformation of my thighs as they press together. ¡°I hear them and they don¡¯t scare me. I¡¯d like to give them to you.¡±


    ¡°Can we?¡± he asks. ¡°Physically, I mean. Are you¡­ uh¡­¡±


    ¡°Are you asking if I have a pussy, Mr. Cartwright?¡± I relish the cute little flinch the word causes.


    He nods.


    ¡°I do.¡± I rise onto my knees, my hands folded in my lap. ¡°I designed this body for you. I¡¯ve been waiting for you to decide you deserve it. And I¡¯m sorry, but I can¡¯t wait anymore, Caspar.¡± My delicate fingers nestle into the fabric between my legs. ¡°I need an answer.¡±


    ¡°What would you do,¡± Caspar says, ¡°if I said no? If I couldn¡¯t let myself?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d recycle it,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯d unstitch it top to toe, and reuse the biomass somewhere else, because I can¡¯t keep it. Not if it can¡¯t be yours. I¡¯m driving myself crazy with it.¡± My grip tightens on my dress. ¡°I look at you and it¡¯s like I¡¯m burning and freezing at the same time. I could make it go away in an instant. I¡¯d manifest something a little less¡­ flirtatious. And we could stop torturing each other.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not torturing me,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Miss Irene, you¡¯re being kinder to me than anyone¡¯s ever been.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re torturing yourself, then, because of me. You¡¯ve buttoned yourself so tight. I¡¯ve been teasing and teasing, trying to open you up. And as soon as you let me in, I panicked and zapped you away. I¡¯d be pissed if I were you.¡±


    ¡°Gods test mortals,¡± Caspar says. ¡°At seminary we¡¯d say all sorts of things were the Father testing us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired of testing you.¡± I crawl across the loveseat, leaning across the table until my face is inches from him. ¡°I¡¯d like to skip to the final exam.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind that.¡± I can hear Caspar¡¯s shallow inhale. ¡°Been studying.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a yes, then,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re saying yes.¡±


    He closes his eyes and tries to get his breathing under control. He reopens them and I watch his irises dilate as his gaze fixes on mine.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says.


    I take the teacup from his hand and lower it to the floor.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to fuck you until you can¡¯t walk,¡± I say.


    ¡°Okay,¡± he says.


    I vault the table and tackle Caspar into the bed.


    Beloved reader, stop here if you have delicate sensibilities. I give you permission. Skip the rest and check back in at chapter 22. I''m serious. I have worked too hard and waited too long to fade to black or use pretty, concealing metaphors. I don¡¯t want to consume the heat of my warlock¡¯s desire. I want my warlock¡¯s cock in my pussy. That¡¯s the level we¡¯re operating on here. Let me have this.


    I land on top of Caspar, straddling him in a heap of silk bedsheets. I pick up our exploration of each other¡¯s throats from where we left it last night. That same ferocity. When he¡¯s red-faced and we¡¯re both struggling to draw breath, I detach with a pop of suction and sit across him. My claws have come out. I will them back into my fingers.


    I arch my spine, and the chiffon stretches taut across my stomach. A tied ribbon cinches it around my midsection. ¡°Go on, little human.¡± I lay one of its long edges across my palm and hold it out. ¡°Claim your virtue¡¯s reward.¡±


    His hand moves with reverent slowness. He takes hold of the ribbon and seeks to freeze this moment, this person he is, in his mind. To compare it with who he is about to become, after his first night with a goddess.


    He pulls. The bow comes undone. It takes my dress with it. The silk slips from my shoulders and gathers in a pooling violet cascade around my thighs. I wriggle free from it. A purple lace thong is the only scrap of fabric left on me.


    I¡¯ve made myself entirely comprehensible. My skin may be black as ink, my body may be hairless and slick, but in shape I am an elegant humanoid, callipygian and curvaceous. No alien geometries, strictly three dimensions. It pulls a giddy giggle from me when his brain shorts out anyway.


    ¡°I could make myself more human.¡± My voice is breathy and thin as I undo his shirt, button by button. I spread it open and the sight of my brand on him makes my throat clench. ¡°I could be more like the women you¡¯ve known. Would you like that?¡±


    His fingers drift along my spine, to my balletic waist. ¡°No, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Are you afraid?¡± I whisper.


    His palms rest on the flared hips I made to be his handholds. ¡°You know what I am.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± I bend down. My tongue darts out, and out. Thrice the length of a human¡¯s, before I stop myself. It drags across his collarbone. ¡°Mine.¡±


    His hand flattens across my back and pulls me closer, pressing our stomachs together. His scratchy breath into my ear: ¡°Yours.¡±


    ¡°Show me.¡± My hands ball the silk by his head, and I slide from his grasp, up his torso, aided by my smooth, hairless skin. I straddle his chest. His heart pounds between my legs. ¡°Worship your goddess.¡±


    He kisses my belly, right below the cursive divot where my navel would be, if I had one. He kisses the soft crease where my thigh meets my hip. Then he keeps kissing, lower and lower, until he comes up against violet gossamer. He hooks a finger into this final barrier and pulls it aside. With his lips, with his tongue, he discovers me.


    I¡¯ve never touched myself. Not like how Caspar touches me now. I haven¡¯t had the prerequisite equipment for long enough. I¡¯ve kept it clean and tidy and ready, but I¡¯ve never sampled the goods. Not once. I don¡¯t want to find these things out on my own. I want it with Caspar.


    Of course, I¡¯ve made a few modifications. His hum of surprise as he discovers the first makes me shiver and bite my lip.


    Caspar has just found out that my pussy tastes like a ripe peach.


    I peer between my thighs. ¡°Something the matter, Cas?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just, uh. It¡¯s sweeter than I¡¯m used to.¡±


    ¡°Is that okay?¡±


    ¡°More than okay.¡± His tongue traces his lip. ¡°Peaches, that¡¯s my favorite.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± My nails scratch along his scalp. ¡°Deep breath, my warlock.¡±


    He obeys. I join him on a deep inhale. And then I sit on Caspar Cartwright¡¯s face. He receives me like the answer to a prayer.


    My mouth hangs open. My tongue protrudes. I¡¯ve only felt this through the distant connection. To have it before me, to feel the ministrations of my first and only worshiper between my legs, this is new. This is overwhelming.


    I squirm. I make noises my vocal cords have never made. I lace my fingers into his short hair. This is just the appetizer, I remind myself. I have no intention of my having first climax anywhere but on my warlock¡¯s cock.


    But oh, Caspar. Caspar is good at this. He¡¯s always enjoyed this, the pressure, the warmth, the moans he can summon with his thick, broad tongue. He enjoys this even when it doesn¡¯t taste like his favorite fruit. Tonight, he¡¯s ravenous.


    He devours every fold. Every inch. He sucks and kisses and nuzzles. He shoves his tongue as far as it will go¡ªand though he doesn¡¯t have my preternatural control of morphology, that¡¯s pretty fucking far. I¡¯m so sweet. So cute. A big bad Old One and he¡¯s making her mewl like a kitten. With every sound I make, he grows bolder. It¡¯s a secret pride in him, his talent in bed. Not the sorta thing a Father-fearing fellow brags about.


    His goddess is powerful and immortal and so far beyond human as to drive him mad with the contemplation of it. But tonight, here and now, she¡¯s a woman. And Caspar knows what to do with a beautiful woman and a nice big bed.


    His pajama pants are untying themselves. The silk sheets twist into tendrils that pull them off him and down his body. His rumbling grunt of surprise vibrates me. I grin even as I gasp. That¡¯s right, Caspar. I¡¯m a woman. But I¡¯m also the bed. And the walls. And the window and the sun. I am all around you. You¡¯re already inside me.


    It¡¯s time I make that true in more ways than one.


    I straighten, and playfully slap away the hand that quests to keep my hips in place. I touch his chest as he begins to sit up, and push him back onto the bed. ¡°Relax.¡± I nestle his head into the pillows. ¡°Let me make you feel good.¡±


    I lay a kiss on him. Deep and loving and languid. I ease myself down his thick, strong body. When the hard length of his cock (that¡¯s right, reader. His COCK) brushes the cleft of my behind, I break from his panting lips. With a careless slice of my claw, I cut myself free of my sodden thong.


    ¡°You¡¯re about to pop an eldritch void beast¡¯s cherry, Caspar.¡± I slide my pussy across his length, coating it in sweet arousal, trapping it against his stomach. ¡°Something to brag about at the taphouse.¡±


    He coughs out a laugh. ¡°Think they can stay in the dark, actually.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    His cock nests between my thighs. Holy shit, it¡¯s hot. It¡¯s like an ember. I stare at it. I am not afraid. Of course I¡¯m not. I¡¯m a fucking Sister of the Void.


    Do I have a certain apprehension? Sure. I was ambitious with how petite I made myself. This is going to be a snug fit.


    His hand lands on my thigh, a light squeeze and a caress. ¡°You want me to¡ª¡±


    I slap his hand away again. ¡°What I want,¡± I say, ¡°is this.¡±


    I used to think cocks were hilarious, before I became Irene. Ridiculous, goofy little appendages. And okay¡ªthey are, kind of. I giggle nervously as I run a finger along it, making my warlock quaver and grit his teeth. ¡°It¡¯s so hard,¡± I say. ¡°So different like this.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh,¡± he manages, voice pinched and rasping.


    ¡°Poor little warlock.¡± I hitch my hips up. ¡°Saintly little warlock.¡± He groans as my velvet skin caresses him. ¡°Do you seek your goddess¡¯s mercy?¡±


    ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°Then pray, and I¡¯ll grant it,¡± I croon. ¡°Pray to me, Caspar.¡±


    ¡°Miss Irene. Please.¡±


    I sway back and forth like a predator, teasing him, feeling him. ¡°Tell me what you want.¡±


    ¡°I want you.¡±


    ¡°Is that all? Well, here I am.¡± My touch is light as I position him at my dripping entrance. ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°Fuck me.¡± He gasps it like a doomed man¡¯s final orison. ¡°Please. Please fuck me.¡±


    ¡°From your mouth.¡± I execute a belly dancer swivel. ¡°To My ears.¡±


    All talk of cherries aside, I built this body sturdy and I built it for this express purpose. This is not a blushing-virgin situation. I don¡¯t need to ease myself into this. I shift and his head slips between my labia. I inhale.


    I slam my hips down, engulfing him completely with one greedy motion and


    oh


    oh it¡¯s


    big.


    A hissing gasp from Caspar at the tight, wet suddenness of me, the twitching grip. He marvels again at how cool to the touch my insides are. But already, they¡¯re warming up. His heat is suffusing me.


    It burns. It aches. It¡¯s perfect.


    I tilt and swivel. I huff a shocked breath out. I feel every bit of him, every vein and contour. There¡¯s no break to be found, no position where he isn¡¯t impaling me with this new, foreign pleasure.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    His flushed face is full of concern. I realize that I¡¯m shaking like a leaf.


    ¡°Yes. Yes. It¡¯s¡ªit¡¯s good.¡± I try to find the words this revelation deserves, but my brain is battling through a humid fog. ¡°It¡¯s really fucking good. I just¡ªI¡¯m exploring.¡±


    ¡°Can I sit up?¡±


    I hold my arms out in invitation. My breasts smush together with the motion and draw his overheated attention. I pant out a giggle between my strained breaths. ¡°C¡¯mere, Cas.¡±


    His core hardens as he sits up, folding me into an embrace, and now I¡¯m undulating in his lap, whining as I stir myself around him. He lets me explore this for a snug, stretching minute, these sensations, this stab of marvelous heat buried inside of me. I ease myself up, slow this time, and screw my hips back down his length, letting out little gasps with every new inch of him, until he¡¯s hilted in my quivering body.


    He rearranges my guts. That¡¯s not a turn of phrase. I mold myself around my warlock. I told him this body is for him and only him, and I meant it. Caspar shudders at the sensation of my manifestation shifting and coiling. I become his perfect fit.


    I¡¯m ready.


    I tip him onto his back. ¡°Stay.¡± I pat his head. ¡°Good boy.¡± Then I plant my feet on either side of his hips, stabilize myself with a grip on the bedframe, and screw his brains out.


    I know what he likes. This is his favorite. His lover on top of him, riding him like a colt. I¡¯ve paid a lot of attention. I know how to make it feel good.


    ¡°Slower,¡± he gasps. ¡°Irene. Wait wait wait.¡± But I don¡¯t want to wait. He jerks. The build. His climax is coming. The heat. It¡¯s going to paint my insides. My third eye flares like a star. My claws jut out and perforate the bedspread. His hands close around my waist. He laughs a breathless laugh. ¡°Wait, dammit.¡±


    My bouncing falters at his insistent grasp. ¡°You gonna come? That¡¯s okay.¡± I swivel my hips into a grinding gyration instead. I make his nostrils flare. ¡°Come in me. I want you to come in me. We¡¯ll go again. All night.¡±


    ¡°Just. Wait, Irene. Please. Not yet.¡±


    I let out a frustrated whimper. I can¡¯t be still with his cock in me. It sends little shocks through my nervous system with every minuscule movement. I need friction.


    ¡°Come down here a second,¡± he says. ¡°Let me hold you.¡±


    I lean down and he groans as my pussy throbs and slides along him. ¡°Do I not feel good?¡±


    ¡°You feel incredible. You feel like God. I need a second. That¡¯s all.¡± He cups my cheek. ¡°And I want to make love to you.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    His smile makes my breath catch. His thumb traces the adductor line of my inner thigh. ¡°Can I show you?¡±


    I hesitate. I had a way this would go. But I am willing, I realize. If it¡¯s Caspar, I¡¯m willing to let go of my control. Only for him. Only for his faith in me and mine in him. And the idea of making love has me curious. ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± He taps my hip. ¡°Switch with me.¡±


    I let out a whine as his cock slides the rest of the way out. My body squeezes down on the vacancy it¡¯s left. I¡¯m so empty. I¡¯ve been empty for thousands of years. I want to be full again. ¡°You¡¯ve had your second, Mr. Cartwright,¡± I say.


    Another smile, another twitching squeeze. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    He lays me down. My thighs tremble below the caress of his coarse fingerpads as he draws my legs open. His body nestles against mine. Like a hearth. A warm, inviting fireplace. Like a home for me.


    My voice goes hoarse as his palm rests on my heart. ¡°This is different.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get back to the rough stuff. I like the rough stuff. I just...¡± His sandpaper touch glides down my body, across the gentle outward curve of my lower stomach. ¡°I just want a good look at you.¡±


    My soft thighs squish against his firm quads as he shifts. He hovers over me, propped up on one of those beautiful, calloused hands. His hazel eyes shine so brightly in my sunset that they look entirely green.


    He¡¯s taking in every inch of me. And I¡¯m proud of this body, of my perky breasts and my tapered waist and my thick, pillowy thighs, proud of what I spent so long getting just right in anticipation of this exact moment, but self-consciousness still slithers through me. Like I¡¯m passing him a story I wrote, or playing him a song.


    His focus slips down my curves and catches on the outward prow of my pelvis, where my leg joins my hip. On the mark there, the one my panties covered when I was riding his face.


    Two overlapping letters in cursive gold. C.C.


    His mouth drifts open. I squirm as his finger caresses it, stretches the skin where the mark lays. His voice scratchy and gentle: ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    ¡°I. Um.¡± I felt so sexy when I came up with this. Now, bare before him, my face burns. I follow a juvenile impulse to hide it in my hands. ¡°I just thought. I¡¯ve marked you. To show you¡¯re mine. I thought¡­ maybe it should go the other way, too. To show I¡¯m yours.¡±


    He gazes into the abyss. The abyss gazes back between its fingers, blinking and flushed. His solid, sturdy chest, the broad curves of powerful muscle beneath a thin layer of soft, squeezable flesh. The statuesque line of his smooth-shaven jaw. The look of rapt adoration etched deep into his emerald stare.


    ¡°You are so fucking beautiful,¡± he says.


    ¡°I love you.¡± My shaking hand raises and brushes the angular brand I laid over his heart. ¡°I¡¯m in love with you, Caspar.¡± The head of his cock slides up and past the sensitive bud of my sex. His face lowers. I whine and strain. ¡°Love me back. However you want. Your girlfriend. Your goddess. Your mistress. Your wife.¡± The muscles in my abdomen flex. My body pleads for him. ¡°Love me and I¡¯ll be anything. I¡¯ll do anything.¡±


    ¡°What I want,¡± he says, as his big fever-hot palm cradles my neck, ¡°is this.¡±


    I let him draw me up and into the kiss. His teeth close with infinite gentleness around my lip and draw a sigh from me. Then his tongue presses against me, and simultaneously with its molten entrance into my mouth, I feel him below, shifting me, parting me, as slow and tender and relentless as the sunrise. And then he pushes it home, and his hips connect with mine, and my world is light.


    I squeak out a ¡°Cas¡± as he splits me open. My toes curl. He pushes deeper, crushing me to him.


    He draws back with such exaggerated care that I want to cling to him, to trap this vast new completeness in me, and I¡¯m on the verge of pulling out of our kiss and pleading to that effect when he pushes it back in, all of it, all at once, and my head falls back onto the bed.


    The insensate moan I make is supposed to be ¡°Caspar,¡± but my mouth isn¡¯t obeying me enough to form it. Another push fills me, even faster, even deeper. I spasm and clutch and with my warlock atop me, in control of me, there is nowhere to hide from the sensation. Not even with the closing of my eyes, because then my vision from him magnifies, his hypnotized gaze on the pebbled peaks of my onyx breasts as they jiggle lasciviously in time with another burning, stretching thrust.


    Faster again. Deeper again. His hand cups my neck and lifts my head up into another gasping kiss and all his weight is on me, he¡¯s folding me in half, my legs up and wide to open me for him. Air breaks sharply through his nostrils as he takes me. Me, writhing in his vise grip. He¡¯s taking me. A damp, warm sheen of sweat and desire coats my thighs, trickles down the cleft of my ass. Someone is making this keening, desperate ah, ah, ah noise in time to Caspar¡¯s movement, louder and louder, and I realize with a jolt that it¡¯s me.


    Finally. Finally, it all makes sense. All this nervous energy, all this tension that has constricted me. Finally, I know what it¡¯s for. Finally, it¡¯s melting under my lover¡¯s touch into liquid gold. The tight fist of anxiety around my throat finally loosening so I can whimper his name. The tight clench of my chest finally punctured by his kiss against my hammering heart. Bursting forth into¡ªsomething. Something new is happening to me. Thousands of years of life and something new.


    The corners of the room are melting. The curtains drip like candle wax. The bed is softening. Its legs give out and bow the mattress to the floor. Every thrust ripples me, every reassertion of that divine weight spreads me further open, my animal instinct bracing to receive him, and as his tongue laps mine there¡¯s this urgent pinch and then another, and I yelp and arch and impale myself further onto his throbbing warmth. The folds of my pussy quiver as his stubbled hilt kisses them again. I¡¯m about to come for the first time.


    I¡¯m an Old One, an eldritch leviathan of the void, and I¡¯m about to come with my anklets jangling by my head and a big gentle Templegoer¡¯s tongue in my mouth, in missionary. Like I¡¯m being bred.


    No way. Nuh-uh. This is not how Irene, millennia-old daughter of the darkness beyond the stars, has her first climax. My claws extend. If Caspar wants it from an Old One, it¡¯s gonna get weird.


    My legs lock him in. A tendril curls below me and boosts my hips up into a bridge. The bed is dissolving. The posts waver and curl, shedding their wooden camouflage. One of them descends and lays across Caspar¡¯s back. He gasps and falters. Another tentacle wraps around his waist and pulls him back against me, buries him in me.


    ¡°Little mortal.¡± My talon traces his jaw. ¡°Now I show you how I love.¡±


    The floor falls away, strip by hardwood strip. The bed is suspended in a sunless void. The melted and deformed window blinks and reopens, wide and glowing. A massive eye, casting its golden light upon us.


    My tendrils course and glide across him, tasting every inch of his sun-bronze skin. They tighten on his limbs and draw him down onto the bed. They prop my humanoid form up with him, so that I¡¯m astride him again.


    He¡¯s taught me lovemaking. I want to fuck.


    This time I take him with all the infatuated indulgence of our intimacy. I lean back to show him everything; my undulating body, my jangling anklets, the tendons standing out in my thighs as I figure-eight up and down him. I lean forward to envelop him in another serpent-tongue kiss. The supple feelers of my hair curl around his neck and give just a whisper of pressure. My tentacles multiply, until there¡¯s barely any bed left, and he¡¯s bound in a forest of sucking, seeking tendrils.


    ¡°My arms,¡± he rasps, and his biceps harden under the oscillating coils. ¡°Let me touch you.¡±


    I release the tentacles that keep his grip from me. They leave little red suction circles on his skin. Immediately his hands are on me, those beautiful rough hands, and I cry out with the joy of it.


    And I sense it, like a flare fired into twilight: I sense the exact moment he realizes he¡¯s in love with me. It¡¯s a little thing that does it. A breathy oh! from my open lips when his fingers knead my breast. The straw that breaks it. The dam bursts and he knows, with the clarity of a witness to a miracle. I feel his euphoric relief as he gives himself away, completely, to my keeping.


    Caspar Cartwright falls in love with me.


    A hot tear drifts down my cheek. I will reward him. I¡¯ll find an equivalent gift for the priceless heart he¡¯s given me. I don¡¯t care if it takes me forever. Forever is what we have.


    His hands rake across my oil-slick back. ¡°Oh, God.¡±


    ¡°God?¡± I flatten out atop him, my hips pumping and churning. My curling tongue telescopes forth and drags across his face, chin to forehead. ¡°Try again,¡± I purr.


    ¡°Irene,¡± he gasps. He finally finds purchase on my shoulders and pulls me to him. My face smushes into his broad chest and I fill my nostrils with his scent. Another sweet spark tweaks my hips, curls my back into an arch. There¡¯s that pinch again and this time I welcome it. I race towards it with jackhammer determination. The air pulls at our bodies where our sweat binds them together. The movement of our hips and the nectar of our lovemaking fill the void with a symphony of wet, lecherous sound. His grip squishes into my behind, the night-sky flesh swelling between his fingers.


    A sharp slap and the air is driven from my lungs. My gentle, pious warlock has spanked his goddess¡¯s ass. I want to ask for another, but all that comes out between my moaning exhalations are dumb syllables, the wordless noises of a rutting animal. Somehow, he gets the message. I yelp as the next palm lands, casting quakes across my torrid body. A pool of my drool is forming between his pectorals. Another sharp pinch and my cunt tightens and it¡¯s happening. It¡¯s here. My face glistens with sudor and saliva and joyful tears. The man I love is going to make me come.


    ¡°Cas. I¡¯m cuh. I¡¯m gonna. Caspar. Oh, fuck.¡± I force my burning brain to a kind of clarity. ¡°Cas. Come inside me, lover.¡± My whisper is urgent in his ear. ¡°Fill me full. Your heat. Every drop.¡± I flex and buck. My rhythm is lost. I¡¯m milking him, scraping his cock across every ridge and nerve inside me. ¡°Come with your goddess.¡±


    ¡°I love you,¡± he says, breath hot and humid on my face. ¡°Irene. I fucking love you.¡± I¡¯m too far gone now for my response to be anything but a throaty moan. He gets the message, I think.


    One of his hands latches to the back of my head and mashes my face to his. His tongue plunders my keening throat as he tilts over the edge. His sharp, gritty gasp breaks into my name, howled into the surrounding void, as every muscle locks up, stands out against his burnished skin, and he seizes me, bear-hugs me tight, crushing and massive and primal and male, all gentleness all hesitation all gone, I¡¯m trapped against him and I thrash in his grasp just to feel his strength holding me fast, and he¡¯s gonna come in me I¡¯m making him come he¡¯s coming and and


    A thick throbbing pulse and a flowering explosion of heat and I scream, I scream I love you because I love him, he¡¯s mine forever, and Caspar Cartwright is filling my little body to the brim and I¡¯m coming I¡¯m coming I¡¯M COMING and I scream again, no words this time, there are no words for this sacred holy thing, this thing I never never never dared to dream would be this perfect, never, his body his cum his breath, his prayer of Irene, Irene pouring into my skull, his calluses across my spine, and I¡¯ve given him my first time, my first time is with Caspar, my Caspar, Caspar Cartwright my good boy my worthy handsome strong warlock his smile his voice his devotion his touch his cock his cock, tight hot convulsing emptying itself in me, and I hear his frenzied thoughts, hear he¡¯s never felt this with anyone, not any human, never before and never again, never another but Irene, and I¡¯m so beautiful, I feel like Heaven like worship like love, eros, agape, mania, and there¡¯s no going back, I have changed him forever, I will love him forever, and I sob into his chest and I am still coming, another clenching exploding wave of it, and this is my eternity, this is my new existence, wrapped around Caspar, complete for the first time, his big arms, his big hands, he¡¯s in love with me, and another thrust of his hips and another pulse of heat, and an exhausted giggle tears from me, Caspar, Caspar, Caspar, my big himbo, my mortal, my warlock, my first time, all the empty millennia of my life without him are over, are done and now he is mine, mine and I will never let him go, never, never, mine, mine mine mine I love him I love him I love Caspar I love him I love himilovehimilovehim


    Deep in the autumn forest, the ground rumbles, felling trees and sending a flock of scout-forms into panicky flight.


    In the taphouse, Degmar is telling everyone a story about his Platinum days while he pulls a hefeweizen. The tap flies off and the beer bursts into a geyser, overflowing the stein.


    In the gutted ruin of heaven, my prime form falters in its flight and lists to one side. Bina sends me a worried subvocal pulse and I have to reassure her I¡¯m fine.


    Apologies, dear reader. I, uh¡ª


    Tell you what. I¡¯ll put one of those squiggly things right here and check back in with you when my humanoid perspective can form complete sentences.


    ???????????


    I return to myself in bits and pieces. Caspar and I drift in a tender, unending dark. My tentacles wilt across us like a living blanket.


    My warlock is warm. My warlock is kind and strong. My warlock is in love with me.


    ¡°Can you.¡± I heave a breath into my flagging lungs. My chest expands into the pool of sweat we¡¯ve trapped between our bodies. ¡°Can you walk, do you think?¡±


    His toned quadriceps twitch. ¡°No, ma¡¯am.¡±


    I flop my face against his neck. ¡°Yesssss.¡±

 22. An eternity

    Hello again, reader. Thank you for bearing with me. If you¡¯ve skipped to this chapter, welcome back. The abridged version is that Caspar and I admitted our love for each other and then went at it like rabbits. Humanity has really struck gold on this whole lovemaking thing. That was just fabulous. All the dimensions I''ve visited, and yours is the first where orgasms feel like that. I totally get it now, your preoccupation with sex. Kudos to you for having the restraint to take long enough breaks to discover math, et cetera.


    My warlock''s hand lays possessively on the nape of my neck. I draw little circles on his chest with the tip of a claw.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be my consort, Caspar,¡± I say. ¡°When my sisters and I rule creation. You¡¯ll stay by my side. You¡¯ll have my power, and you¡¯ll keep me good. You¡¯ll be my kindness. And we¡¯ll spend every day rebuilding Heaven. And every night like this.¡±


    ¡°I never had much use as a carpenter,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Mostly just held the heavy stuff up.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna be a demigod, doofus.¡± I blow into his ear. ¡°We¡¯re not gonna need carpentry.¡±


    ¡°Beg pardon, Miss Irene, but it can¡¯t be heaven without a barn raising party or two.¡±


    ¡°Oh, the barn raisings.¡± I giggle. ¡°I remember watching those. What a hoot.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± His eyes shine at the memory. ¡°Sweat and shirtsleeves and getting a tough old thing done with your neighbors and friends. And then when it¡¯s up and smelling like fresh pine and you all hustle inside for the dancing and the drinking and the¡­¡± He gazes out into the dusky dark. ¡°The community.¡±


    There¡¯s that sorrow that returns whenever he remembers his outcast life. How the neighbors he loved so much turned on him.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have it back,¡± I murmur. ¡°All those people you lost. The brotherhood. I promise in our heaven you¡¯ll have it back.¡±


    ¡°I know I will.¡± His fingers play with my hair tendrils. They play back. ¡°Once they find out the real you, they¡¯ll love you like I do.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Cartwright.¡± I clap my hand to his chest. ¡°I don¡¯t think either of us would prefer them to love me quite like you do.¡±


    He grins. ¡°True. I mean¡­¡± His head turns. His profile gleams in the sunset. ¡°I hope it¡¯s not too much to ask. I know you¡¯re not¡ªthere¡¯s a lot going on up there.¡± He kisses my forehead. ¡°A lot I can¡¯t understand. And we could have that conversation if that¡¯s not how Old Ones do it, if monogamy ain¡¯t a thing in this dimension¡­¡±


    ¡°Caspar Cartwright. Are you accusing me of being a loose woman?¡±


    ¡°I just¡ª¡± He pales. ¡°I just didn¡¯t want to assume. How you are.¡±


    He¡¯s so distraught I can¡¯t help but crack up and lose the faux outrage. ¡°I¡¯m fucking with you, my warlock. That was a thoughtfully put question.¡± I snuggle further into his warmth as he relaxes. ¡°And the answer is no. You¡¯re mine and I¡¯m yours and that¡¯s all.¡± I bend my leg. His initials on my thigh glitter in the light. ¡°Remember this?¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re a lot more than just this body, right?¡± He strokes the mark in question. ¡°You¡¯re all of this. The whole autumn landscape out there is you.¡±


    Clever warlock. I¡¯ve never outright told him.


    ¡°Even so,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve found my lover. I don¡¯t need another. More worshippers? Sure. Love that. I¡¯ll take ¡®em. But none of them can give me what you have. None have believed in me like you do. Maybe some day they will, but to them I say: too slow, suckers. Consort Caspar got dibs.¡± My claws slide down his back and stray across the curve of his rear. ¡°And I bet none of them¡¯ll have an ass like this.¡±


    ¡°All of humanity? That¡¯s a lot of contenders, ass-wise.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°None of them.¡±


    His rumbling chuckle is heavenly manna.


    ¡°I¡¯ve carved you off this bit because you¡¯re the sort of guy who¡¯s happy with one little wifey,¡± I say. ¡°But if I¡¯m getting all of you, you¡¯re entitled to just as much of me. If you¡¯re ever looking for something different, maybe a few extra Irenes to play with, you let me know.¡±


    Whenever Caspar blushes, his ears turn red. I only found that out once I got out from behind his eyes and saw him in person. I treasure it. ¡°I really am happy with just you,¡± he says.


    ¡°You say that now, but we¡¯ve got forever, boy.¡± I poke his nose. ¡°And it¡¯s all me. I don¡¯t imagine you¡¯re trying to wander into my woods and stick your pecker in an oak tree¡ª¡±


    ¡°Baby you are so damn weird sometimes.¡±


    ¡°¡ªyou have options. That¡¯s all I¡¯m saying.¡± I blink. ¡°Baby?¡±


    His touch tenses on me. ¡°Is that okay?¡±


    There¡¯s a pressure behind my eyes. He called me baby. ¡°That¡¯s okay,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s really, really okay. I mean, I¡¯m like ten thousand times your age. But uh.¡± A sweet ache gathers at my tear ducts. ¡°I like baby.¡±


    He caresses the small of my back. ¡°Okay, baby.¡±


    I fall upon him like the starving beast I am.


    Let¡¯s fast forward. I don¡¯t imagine you need round two described. Caspar is wrung out in its wake, vigor spent, ears ringing, vision fuzzy, lungs blown beyond the point of pillow talk. All he can do is pant like a billows, and hold me.


    Mere days ago, bumping in the trunk of his executioners¡¯ car, he thought of himself as the most damned and unfortunate soul on Diamante. Now he holds a goddess in his arms and a contentment in his heart so complete he can¡¯t imagine its equal. His spirit is full to bursting. He wants to say that to me, but¡ªwell, he doesn¡¯t have to, does he? I can hear him. Hi there, Miss Irene, he thinks, tranquil and love-drunk.


    ¡°Hi, Caspar,¡± I whisper.


    His returning gaze is open and loving. I examine those eyes and think about how much he¡¯s been changing me as I¡¯ve been changing him. I tally up the scorecard. He¡¯s grown chitin and claws and he spits acid and shrugs off bullets. And I¡¯ve fallen in love with him and had my first (and second and third) orgasm. The exchange doesn¡¯t cast me in a sympathetic light, does it?


    Whatever. I like where we¡¯re headed. We¡¯re meeting somewhere in the middle.


    ¡°Do you know how cold the void between the stars is?¡± My tentacles curl around him as I wait for him to find his breath. ¡°Do you know how long I¡¯ve craved a warmth like yours, without even realizing what was missing?¡±


    He wraps an arm around my back and draws me in, his big, calloused hand encompassing the span of my shoulder blades. His touch a hosanna. His faith a fireplace. His eyes a silent petition I answer with a kiss.


    I really don¡¯t know how you mortals get anything done when a kiss feels like this. I¡¯d waste centuries on this.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°You are mine forever, Caspar Cartwright.¡± I trace his cheekbone with an errant tendril of hair. My mouth is busy; this voice issues from the dark all around us. ¡°Forever. You think you know what that word means, but you don¡¯t. Not yet. Nothing will free you from me. Not death. Not infinity. Your time as a being apart from me is finished. You will never be alone again. In immeasurable eons, when time congeals into frozen amber, and your world is dust, you will still be mine. The stars will flicker out and you¡¯ll still be mine. In the infinite dark, in the graveyard of dead galaxies. I¡¯ll keep you close and you¡¯ll be mine and you¡¯ll warm me. Like this.¡± I pull out of our kiss to stroke a claw along his chest and feel the tremulous thunder of his heart. ¡°You¡¯ll be my little light when all the others have gone out. And I¡¯ll steal you from this empty dimension and into the void with me. Still mine. You will never escape me.¡± I cup his face and whisper into his ear: ¡°Never.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± he whispers back, and kisses me again. With a sigh and a shift, he begins to ease himself out of me.


    ¡°Nuh-uh.¡± My legs and tentacles bind him in place. ¡°That¡¯s staying right where it is, Mr. Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°I gotta be up and at ¡®em at some point, Miss Irene. And we have to talk about Adaire. Shoot, what time is it?¡± He shifts onto his elbows. ¡°This was supposed to be a quick nap.¡±


    I give him a light whack on the pec. ¡°Cas, c¡¯mon. Did I or did I not just give you the whole never escape me speech? I told you. Time works differently here. In the span of a Diamante catnap, you could spend whole nights in my demesne.¡± I ease him onto his back again, savoring the taste of his skin. ¡°And from now on, you will.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± A rising tide of relief in his reply. ¡°How¡¯s a fellow supposed to turn that down?¡± His hands engulf me again. It¡¯s all I can do not to purr like a kitten. Baby. He called me baby.


    There will be time to discuss the Adaire thing and the Salome thing and the Ganea thing. To forge in him the next terrible task. But here, now, I press my lips to the firm line of his clavicle. ¡°Take the rest you deserve, lover. Take it in your goddess. She¡¯ll stay right here.¡±


    Soon I feel his breathing turn slow and deep as he slips into the strange phantasmagorical colors of his dream within a dream. And in the midst of his slumber, when he stirs and hardens inside me, I rock myself to another fascinating climax around him. He groans and half-awakens to his goddess shaking and whimpering through the pleasure she¡¯s taken from him. His hand settles on my arching back. I kiss him to sleep again.


    I don¡¯t sleep. That¡¯s okay. I don¡¯t need to. Secreted away the lightless hollow of my goliath form, drifting silently through his broken afterlife, Caspar slumbers. I lie on his chest as it rises and falls, watching him, and holding him, as I will for the vast, still eternities to come.


    ???????????


    ¡°You can go ahead and put that away.¡± Caspar shrugs into his flight jacket as he returns to the cabin. ¡°Got word from upstairs. Adaire is part of the team.¡±


    ¡°Okey-doke.¡± Jordan Darius flips the safety and lowers the autogun across her lap. ¡°Welcome aboard, Adaire. Even if you¡¯re a dirty Tucker liker.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like Tucker.¡± Adaire sits up, legs tightly crossed. Both her blonde bob and her slinky mistress mien are re-affixed. ¡°I just take him over Calvin.¡±


    ¡°Hey now.¡± Jordan stands up and stretches a kink out of her back. ¡°They said spare you. They said nothing about winging you.¡±


    Adaire takes a look at her reflection in a window to the tempered-steel evening and adjusts her wig. ¡°Shall we reintroduce me to Tilly? I¡¯d like some setup time with the man before we land.¡±


    ¡°And now that we don¡¯t need that thick-ass door, let¡¯s get him outta that armory and into the bunks,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Half day till we land and I don¡¯t want him near them knives and guns anymore.¡±


    Adaire gives this a silky laugh. ¡°I hardly think we need to worry about the fellow. But I suppose we might move him just to keep him from soiling himself.¡±


    Caspar opens the door out of the cabin and stands aside. ¡°After you, Miss Corinne.¡±


    ¡°Such a gentleman.¡± Adaire gives him a tap on the shoulder as she passes. ¡°I really am looking forward to working with you two. How refreshing to have colleagues.¡±


    Jordan follows the two of them, her safetied rifle leveled at Adaire. ¡°Sorry about this,¡± she says.


    ¡°Oh, no. Think nothing of it.¡± Adaire strolls down the corridor toward the armory. ¡°Jab that barrel into my back a couple times, if you please. Get me into the mindset.¡±


    Caspar feels like a serial villain as Jordan complies. Adaire¡¯s shoulders hunch. By the time they¡¯re at the armory door her face is blotchy with tears. She takes a tremulous sniffling inhale. ¡°Okay. Action.¡±


    Caspar swings the armory hatch in and shoves Adaire inside. ¡°Please,¡± she wails. ¡°Please, I don¡¯t know anything. I¡¯m nobody.¡±


    ¡°Shut the fuck up.¡± Jordan points the gun past her. ¡°You. We¡¯re moving you. Any fast shit and her blood is on your hands.¡±


    ¡°Tilly.¡± Adaire turns her weeping face to the Archbishop. ¡°Tell them. Tell them I¡¯m nobody. I want to go home.¡±


    ¡°This is an innocent woman.¡± Tilliam¡¯s face is dark with rage. ¡°A daughter of the Father. I insist you let her go. You may have some quarrel with me, sir, but you have no reason to mistreat her.¡±


    ¡°True enough, long as you do what you¡¯re told.¡± Caspar cuts Tilliam free from the armory shelf.


    ¡°Keeping her here won¡¯t make me more cooperative,¡± Tilliam snarls, rubbing his wrists. ¡°I¡¯m already doing what I¡¯m told. You¡¯re causing needless suffering. You¡¯re furthering the machinations of the Adversary. And your deer keeps shitting.¡± The aforementioned fawn strains against her tether.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s your turn to hit the head, Archbishop.¡± Caspar¡¯s handgun presses into Tilliam¡¯s side as they escort him from the armory and over to the bathroom at the rear of the interceptor. ¡°In. Take more than five minutes and I break this door open.¡±


    Tilliam scowls. ¡°Do you have any idea how long I¡¯ve been holding it?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t care.¡± Caspar opens the bathroom door and shoves Tilliam inside.


    They move the Archbishop and his warlock paramour to the bunk room and return to the cabin. Caspar takes a seat in the squeaky black leather of the pilot¡¯s chair and takes a moment to feel like a flyboy. He imagines the life he never ended up living. Caspar the Aeronaut. His hands rest on the flight stick. His thumb brushes the .50 cal trigger. Pshew, he mouths to himself.


    He checks over his shoulder to make sure Jordan isn¡¯t watching. Then he remembers I am. Fine by him. Anyone who can make him feel how I did is allowed to laugh all they want at him. The spectre of my attention has been a nagging anxiety to him, a recurrent intrusive thought that straightened his back and bounded his thoughts. Now it feels like a lover, padding up behind him and embracing him unexpectedly. A honeyed breath tousling the hairs on the back of his neck.


    A sly grin pulls at his lips. He wonders if he can fluster me. He takes a minute to remember my body, remember how I looked under his hands, the sounds I made. He remembers the adorable way I covered my face with my claws when he called me beautiful, and wonders if I¡¯m doing it again (yes).


    It¡¯s a good thing I keep my Irene manifestation to myself these days. If Bina saw the way I¡¯m kicking my little feet right now, I¡¯d never hear the end of it.


    ¡°So how was it?¡± Jordan¡¯s voice calling from the cabin snaps him from his reverie. ¡°Your planning session.¡±


    ¡°Jordy, I swear to the Sisters.¡± Caspar swivels his seat around. ¡°Give it a rest. You ain¡¯t an inquisitor anymore.¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay. Damn.¡± Jordan chuckles. ¡°Blame a girl for asking a simple question. But you reckon you¡¯re going steady?


    Caspar heaves a sigh and throws her a bone. ¡°Yes,¡± he says. ¡°I reckon we are.¡±


    ¡°Caspar Cartwright screwed an Old One! Holy shit!¡± Jordan punches the air. ¡°Proud of you, man.¡±


    Caspar lays his head on the dashboard. ¡°How about you say it into the intercom so we know everyone heard?¡±


    ¡°Was she normal down there?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not having this conversation.¡± Caspar points out the window into the gathering evening. ¡°Check it out. Eleven o¡¯clock low.¡±


    Jordan leans forward. ¡°What am I looking for?¡±


    ¡°Seagulls,¡± Caspar says. ¡°We¡¯re near land.¡±


    Jordan¡¯s mouth tightens. ¡°Can you land this thing outside a dock?¡±


    ¡°Think so,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Not smooth and not in a way that¡¯ll get it airborn again, but I reckon I can get us touched down without breaking our necks.¡±


    ¡°All right then. Good deal, brother.¡± Jordan slaps his back. ¡°No bringing the stolen interceptor into Relic City. With any luck, it¡¯s dark by the time we¡¯re over land. We fly until we see some exurb lights and set down a few klicks from them. Let your guilt-trip pet deer out into the woods, hike to civilization, and I boost us a ride for the rest of the way. And then¡­¡± She shrugs. ¡°Adaire¡¯s in charge of and then. What do you think?¡±


    ¡°Think that¡¯s about right.¡± Caspar looks back toward the bunkroom. ¡°Wish we could hear from her.¡±


    ¡°Safest thing is to meet her in the dream dimension,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Make our plans there. Actual plans, not the innuendo kind.¡± She nudges Caspar in the ribs. ¡°If your goddess will let you outta her freaky tentacle love nest for long enough.¡±


    Caspar shakes his head in exasperation as his partner chuckles and returns to the cabin, taking up her rifle. As he checks the altimeter and adjusts their heading, he remembers what awaits him next time he lays down for the night. Though I can only feel and not see it from his perspective, I can readily picture the sunrise smile that breaks across his face.


    He resigns himself to Inspector Darius¡¯s continued needling. On reflection, it¡¯s a small price to pay.


    Out in the approaching night awaits Pastornos, the Relic City. Its apex peak is the Basilica Pastornica, the home of the Suzerain and the Key to Heaven. Within its golden shadow dwell five million souls. Somewhere among them is Ganea¡¯s warlock, his passage carved with such razor sharpness that the pain isn¡¯t registered until the blood can¡¯t be stopped. The Iron Butcher. The deadliest mortal in creation. Caspar and Jordan¡¯s next target, God help them.


    No, not God. God can''t help him anymore. But I can.

 23. A little pet

    Bina plows into Saoirse, bowls her to the ground, and with a vicious spring trap bite, tears her head from her shoulders.


    The rotten flesh in her lupine mouth flowers explosively, and spreads filaments of fungus across her muzzle. They crack wide into blackened canyons of decomposition. In a moment like a carrion time-lapse, her head is stripped to bone; she collapses onto her elder sister¡¯s corpse.


    ¡°Shall we call that one a tie?¡± Saoirse calls from her seat in the stands.


    ¡°That is so cheating,¡± Bina protests. ¡°That should be a win for Bina.¡±


    I survey her ruined manifestation. ¡°I do think it¡¯s a tie, actually. Sorry, Bean.¡±


    Bina huffs and crosses her arms. ¡°My next war-form is gonna be metal or something.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t actually have to Saoirse-proof your design,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re gonna be taking on Ganea in the field, not each other.¡±


    ¡°Still worthwhile to practice rapid adaptation.¡± Salome stands with a shimmery scraping noise. ¡°Ganea¡¯s sure to be adjusting on the fly. I¡¯ve seen it done before.¡±


    ¡°How many times have you fought her, anyway?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Five hundred fifteen,¡± she says. ¡°And ninety-four little skirmishes I¡¯d barely count.¡±


    ¡°And how many of those have you won?¡±


    ¡°Oh, who can remember. You ready to take a turn, Irene?¡±


    I stretch my power down from the bleachers into the arena¡¯s pitted sands. My war-form twists into being from fibrous tendrils, dripping photonegative ichor in rivulets onto the ground. The trick with these things is you have to make them quick and numerous. Like our scout-forms, we field scores of them at once. We¡¯re starting with a few one-on-ones to work out the initial designs; I haven¡¯t manifested one of these in decades.


    My current design is a bigger, nastier version of my humanoid manifestation. My limbs are ropy and tentacular, my teeth and claws sharp as scimitars, my hair barbed and hooked.


    ¡°Irene.¡± Bina giggles. ¡°It has lady hips.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m used to them by now, all right? Lower center of gravity. Better explosivity.¡± And if I enjoy being sexy, so what. Bina has those totally vestigial moth wings on hers.


    Salome reaches out a pointed hand and her war-form manifests like a crack in reality¡¯s windowpane. It forms a ferrofluid blob, reflective and rippling.


    ¡°Very creepy-minimalist, Salami,¡± I say. ¡°Very you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, babe.¡± Salome twists her wrist, and the blob crystallizes into an enneagonal prism, twirling on its tip like a top. ¡°I¡¯ve been working on a new one.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it do?¡±


    Her wink carries across the arena like a bell chime. ¡°Come at me and find out. If I win, you never call me Salami again.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always the food names with her,¡± Bina says. ¡°She¡¯s a monster.¡±


    I pour my focus into my war-form, up to her limited capacity. Kill. Tear. Destroy.


    I crouch back on my haunches and snap forward into a charge. Prism-Salome gives a tensile tremble; one of her panes extrudes with bullet force. I barely twist out of the way in time to prevent it from blasting my head off my shoulders.


    The prism whirls. The pistoned-out facet, still tied to the main mass by a ribbon of glistening flesh, slaps into the floor of the arena and anchors in place. The rest of Salome¡¯s mass whips outward like a wrecking ball. She carves a fountain of sand from the floor, then whistles into me and carries me off my feet, cracking half my ribs.


    I snarl and choke ichor out from my toothy maw. My limbs wrap around Salome in a bear hug and scythe the anchoring pseudopod from her in mid-air. We go tumbling across the arena. I pry at the panels of my sister¡¯s war-form; she smooths and spikes to deter me.


    I rip her open and eviscerate her crystal entrails. She sea-urchins outward and perforates me in a dozen places. We die locked together, our intermingled blood befouling the sand.


    Salome claps. ¡°Another tie, then?¡±


    I loosen the tension from my shoulders. Truth be told, reader, I¡¯d assumed I was going to lose. Salome has more practice at this than I do. Perhaps Cas has rubbed off on me. ¡°Looks like we¡¯re all pretty evenly matched.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s time we move on to the group stage, don¡¯t you? That¡¯s what we really need to practice.¡± Salome melts her war-form¡¯s corpse into quicksilver. ¡°Bina, would you do the honors?¡±


    ¡°You got it.¡± Bina limbers up. ¡°Don¡¯t cheat this time, Sersh.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to cheat, dear.¡±


    Bina harrumphs as she dilates her arena like a telescoping iris. I cling to a banister to keep my footing. Whipping tendons form scar-tissue floor. Sand churns up between their lattice. When she¡¯s finished, the tight arena has become the size of a football field.


    ¡°Two dozen each to start, yes?¡± I holler to be heard over the new gulf.


    ¡°Two dozen,¡± Salome confirms. ¡°All four of us. Last sister standing.¡±


    Shadow and sinew erupt before me and form a small army of war-forms. My third eye flares with effort. Come on, Irene. Get back in lethal shape. You¡¯ve fielded a hundred of these things before.


    But that was against the Father. Now I¡¯m sending them charging toward my sisters, something I swore I wouldn¡¯t do. I picture Caspar and all the sacrifices he¡¯s made in his code for me. It¡¯s my turn to sacrifice for him.


    My foremost war-form lets loose a ululating roar as it meets one of Bina¡¯s slavering maws.


    ???????????


    ¡°What you wanna do is tip the nose down, actually, riiight before it hits.¡± Williams demonstrates with his hands. ¡°Get it on about a thirty-degree angle. And extend the boarding ram. It¡¯s designed to absorb shock. You hit it just right, let that take first impact, ride the bounce, and then ya pull waaay way up to level out. That¡¯s how they taught us in basic.¡±


    Caspar taps his chin. ¡°Huh. You ever practice it?¡±


    ¡°Just on simulation. They wasn¡¯t itching to let us crash real aerostats. Anyway, you¡¯re still walking, so it must¡¯ve gone fine enough.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Bumpy landing, big skid, but we¡¯ve all got our heads screwed on, still.¡± Caspar lines his nail up with the joist. ¡°Gonna miss that bird, though.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. A real dream to fly.¡± Williams sighs. ¡°You think the Kingdom¡¯ll have airships?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll put the word in with Miss Irene, see if she¡¯d allow it,¡± Caspar says.


    Lieutenant Davis points at the deceased pilot from her spot on a tree stump, where she¡¯s parked her useless self ever since she arrived. ¡°You¡¯re fraternizing with the enemy, soldier.¡±


    ¡°Blow it out your ass, LT.¡± Williams has been waiting a very long time to say that.


    ¡°Is the Archbishop still alive, Cas?¡± Aaron is keen to know.


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Caspar lays a hand on Aaron¡¯s shoulder and considers whether to huck a brick labeled infidelity through his comrade¡¯s perfect glass image of their religious leader. He decides on the gentle route. ¡°Little shook up, but he¡¯s still kicking. I¡¯ll treat him kindly.¡±


    His promise helpfully elides the conduct of Jordan Darius.


    They¡¯ve all agreed that tents are well and good for a camping trip with the boys, but with their number only going up and some ladies entering the mix, it¡¯s time they constructed sturdier lodging.


    Degmar is doing what he always does, which is jawing off with Alys, the security guard whose throat Caspar slit. His attempts to get in her pants she receives with warm dismissal; she figures she¡¯ll give him another half-dozen cold shoulders and then plant one on him. They¡¯re both quite curious what sex is like in the afterlife.


    ¡°And what do you think Gabor says?¡± Degmar asks. ¡°While I¡¯m actively cleaning his puke off the roulette?¡±


    ¡°Lemme guess,¡± she says. ¡°Smiles for miles, buckets of ducats.¡±


    ¡°Buckets of fuckin¡¯ ducats. That¡¯s right. And then get your ass back to work. Like I¡¯m the drunk one.¡± Degmar chuckles. ¡°Father above, did I hate that slogan. Reckon he came up with that?¡±


    ¡°Probably. Fucking Gabor.¡± Alys nails a crossbeam into place. ¡°The worst supervisor.¡±


    ¡°Oh, by far. Little toad man.¡±


    ¡°Warlocks shoulda killed his ass.¡±


    Caspar returns to the furthest-along scaffold, which is already free-standing. This is the one he and his Rogarth neighbors are tackling, and he feels a ludicrous civic pride at their efficiency.


    ¡°We¡¯re beating the airship folks, Ed,¡± he calls up to his old teacher, who¡¯s high on a ladder framing the roof.


    Edgar shifts a nail to the edge of his mouth. ¡°Go a lot faster if you just got your goddess to magic this stuff up.¡±


    ¡°She did.¡± Caspar gets to work on an interior wall. ¡°We just have to put it together.¡±


    A brassy bong issues from the grandfather clock inside the taphouse. Sam the bricklayer squints up from the log he¡¯s debarking. ¡°That thing always been there?¡±


    ¡°Reckon that¡¯s my cue, fellas. Warlock business.¡± Caspar turns his hammer so the handle¡¯s sticking out. ¡°Who¡¯m I giving this to?¡±


    Caspar hands his work off to Florin¡ªwho¡¯s been a space case lately, for some reason¡ªand heads into the treeline. He has no particular destination in mind; I¡¯ll take him where he needs to go. As he wanders the brakes and beeches, he unhurriedly scans the golden foliage. Stephen, the truck driver, ran off into the woods the first day he wound up here, and nobody¡¯s sure where he¡¯s ended up.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    (I know, of course, and I¡¯ve been intermittently summoning hyperlocal rainstorms on his pathetic little shelter. Stephen¡¯s a total twit, and he hit my man with a truck. He can come out of the woods whenever he damn well pleases, but I¡¯m in no hurry to guide any search parties to him. Vindictive, sure, but I didn¡¯t eat his soul, so I¡¯d say I¡¯m being a good girl.)


    Crispy leaves crunch under his aimless feet. He steps over a low stream, burbling and clear. It¡¯s all so pretty out here. He wonders if lightning bugs will come out when the sun¡¯s finally down. Suppose that¡¯s all Irene¡¯s decision, he thinks.


    ¡°Seven o¡¯clock! Think fast!¡±


    Caspar spins around and I careen from the underbrush, leaping into his chest and latching like a diving hawk. He grunts with the impact and snaps his arms around me before I fall.


    ¡°Hi, Mr. Cartwright.¡± I wrap my legs around his waist. Being picked up, it turns out, is addictive.


    ¡°Hi, Miss Irene.¡± Caspar¡¯s hands support the bottoms of my thighs.


    ¡°How was work, dear?¡±


    ¡°Not so bad. Crashed a blimp, hot-wired a truck, let the little deer out in the woods.¡±


    ¡°You rescuing that deer is the most Caspar thing I¡¯ve ever seen.¡± I titter. ¡°I heard you talking to Williams about the airship, by the way. ¡®Uhhhh I¡¯ll put in the word with Miss Irene.¡¯¡± I do my best imitation of his deep, twangy voice. ¡°Like I¡¯d ever tell you no. Big goof. Do you know how cute you were, getting all excited about flying?¡±


    Caspar kisses my forehead, right next to my blinking third eye. ¡°The others are trying to have a meeting, y¡¯know.¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm.¡± I rub my face against the side of his jaw like a cat. Prickly.


    ¡°So maybe we oughta get our butts in gear and meet up with them.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± I lick his ear.


    Caspar chuckles. His knee comes up from below to boost me further into the air and he solidifies his grip on me. ¡°Something¡¯s telling me you¡¯re okay with making ¡®em wait.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll live with it.¡± I wrap my forearms around his trapezius. ¡°We each decide how fast your perception of time passes in our own demesnes.¡± I nip his earlobe. His flinch bounces me in his grasp. ¡°Mine is going nice and slow.¡±


    ¡°Does that mean you want us to go nice and slow?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm.¡± I rake my nails along his neck. ¡°Maybe.¡±


    An insistent bump against the back of his calves and he loses his balance, falling backward onto the king bed that just slid into him like a bumper car. My hands and knees cage him. ¡°Maybe not,¡± he observes.


    My forefinger claw extends into a sickle blade. With a jagged tearing hiss, I liberate my warlock from his clothing. ¡°Maybe not.¡±


    ???????????


    The meeting¡¯s set in Bina¡¯s demesne. Caspar¡¯s never seen the place and professes his curiosity. Good enough for me. Salome offers her spawning room, but Bina, Salome and I are unanimous in our polite decline. I can¡¯t imagine my warlock would love the ambience, and I¡¯m not trying to dig parasitic spores out of his skin.


    I create another tumorous winged limo for us, prudently tinting the windows out to Heaven as I lead Caspar by the hand into its plush interior.


    ¡°Do you think I¡¯ll ever be able to handle seeing you?¡± he asks, as we lurch and detach from my prime form. ¡°The whole you?¡±


    ¡°Some day,¡± I say. ¡°After you die. About a century to get your eldritch sea-legs. And once I know you won¡¯t get the ick when you see it. Old Ones can be something of an¡­ acquired taste.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah?¡± He lays his hand on my thigh. ¡°You think I¡¯m acquiring it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± I slide my calf between his. ¡°You wanna taste and find out?¡±


    Our limo docks at Bina with a puckering squish. Its wings spread and anchor against the keratin mesh of Bina¡¯s hide. I give my warlock an urgent pat on the top of the head. ¡°Babe we¡¯re here. We¡¯re here.¡±


    ¡°Mm. Shoot.¡± He sits back and wipes his mouth. ¡°Can¡¯t slow time again?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re in Bina¡¯s demesne. It¡¯s all her now. Hold still a second.¡± I brush my fingers through the knot of his tie and tug it back into tidiness. ¡°Sorry, love. Oh, hell. You smell like peaches.¡±


    ¡°Reckon anyone who¡¯d care¡¯ll just think I was eating peaches, Miss Irene.¡± He kisses my knee and stands up.


    ¡°Oh. Right. Duh.¡± I shake the haze out of my head and accept his offered arm. I step back into my panties as he opens the limo door for me. ¡°You are such a gentleman, you know that?¡±


    ¡°I do my best.¡± Caspar follows me into Bina¡¯s demesne, examining its crumbling masonry and its decaying grandeur as we pass. Standing in an ivy-draped archway is Jordan Darius, sunglasses on, decked out in the same smart suit and black riding boots she was wearing when Caspar killed her.


    ¡°Welcome to Bina, lovebirds,¡± she says. ¡°Boss wants to know what cocktails you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°Howdy, Madame Inspector,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Whiskey sour, please.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have what he¡¯s having,¡± I say, and a stalactite drops from Bina¡¯s cavernous roof, transmogrifying into an old-fashioned glass as it lands in my palm. I take a sip. ¡°Is that a double?¡±


    ¡°My mistress has a heavy pour.¡± Jordan lowers her sunglasses. ¡°Perk of the gig.¡±


    We follow Jordan out of the crypt onto a windswept highland cairn, upon which a slab of granite sits, crowded by wooden stools. Bina waves at us from her perch upon one. ¡°Hi, Irene! Hi, Caspar Cartwright! Do you like your drinks?¡±


    ¡°Delicious, Miss Bina. Thank you.¡± Caspar takes a seat. I stand behind him and lay my hands on his shoulders, my fingers straying to his chest. Jordan pulls up the stool next to my man, casting him a needling grin. He awkwardly ignores it.


    Saoirse is already here, occupying herself by growing little spotted amanitas out of the mossy slab of stone. Salome and Adaire take up the lithic table¡¯s far end. My origami sister gives me a look. I return it. ¡°Hi, Sal.¡±


    She indicates my handsiness with a glance. ¡°You and your warlock seem cozy.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re very cozy.¡± I squeeze Caspar¡¯s arm. ¡°Something to mention, actually. Caspar recently became my lover and consort. Which affords him a measure of respect.¡±


    Salome frowns. ¡°According to what?¡±


    ¡°According to Irene,¡± I say.


    Salome and I have a tendency to butt heads. It¡¯s because of how similar we are. We share a certain confidence.


    She provides an illustrative example of what I mean. ¡°And you¡¯re not concerned that fraternizing with your mortal might influence your judgment?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think so?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do. I¡¯m just not concerned about it. I want his influence. His and Jordan¡¯s. You should, too. They may not have our capacity¡ªno offense, Cas¡ª¡±


    ¡°None taken, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°¡ªBut they know Diamante and they¡¯re far cleverer than you give them credit for. Caspar and Jordan¡¯s plans have gotten us this far.¡±


    Salome gives Caspar a probative look. ¡°As have their mistakes.¡±


    ¡°Hey.¡± I tap a claw against the table. ¡°Whose warlock captured whose? Humans are good at rolling with mistakes. They¡¯re a flexible species.¡±


    ¡°What does your rationality cluster think of these arguments?¡± Salome asks.


    ¡°Even if I wasn¡¯t convinced, the Caspar manifold has a supermajority,¡± I say. ¡°And can we please not talk about my rationality cluster in front of my boyfriend.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t afford to put this kind of stock in them, Irene. Mission¡¯s always first. Warlocks are disposable. They have to be.¡±


    Adaire ahems.


    Salome turns to her. ¡°I¡¯ve been perfectly clear on that with you, Daire.¡±


    ¡°True enough. And yet, mistress, here we sit.¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s tactically advantageous.¡± Salome furrows her quicksilver brow at Adaire¡¯s responding shrug. ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s our old way of doing things.¡± I trail a talon across Caspar¡¯s lower back as I sit next to him. ¡°And it hasn¡¯t worked. We mistakenly thought that because there¡¯s always more, we can treat them interchangeably. But we can¡¯t just keep picking the biggest and scariest-looking cultist and giving them acid breath. We need to select for quality. We get transparent about the situation and provide a virtuous alternative, and we can expand our selection to talented candidates who wouldn¡¯t normally give warlockery a chance. That¡¯s what Bina and I did, and it¡¯s paid off in cooperation and competency.¡± My hand strays into Caspar¡¯s and my fingers intertwine with his. ¡°Humanity can save itself if we work with it. Give them something to believe in, not just obey.¡±


    ¡°So what. The new way of doing things is screwing them? Is that your proposed strategy?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d call it strategy,¡± I say. ¡°But it¡¯s a great time.¡±


    Saoirse chuckles. Bina crosses her legs.


    Salome casts a look at our sisters. ¡°If I¡¯m really the only one concerned by this, I¡¯ll drop it.¡±


    ¡°Really, Sal,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Irene seems sober enough to me. I think it¡¯s rather darling. Like having a little pet.¡±


    ¡°At first, I didn¡¯t understand what was with the saving souls thing, but that¡¯s the reason I ended up with Jordy here. So I¡¯m supportive.¡± Bina reaches across the table with a pseudopod and pats his head. ¡°Good job, Mr. Caspar.¡±


    He flinches a little. ¡°My pleasure.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine.¡± Salome screws up her mouth, flashing facets of light across the table. ¡°I¡¯m outvoted. Keep sleeping with your warlock.¡± She nods to Bina. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about Ganea and her little mortal monster.¡±


    Bina twitches her wings. A granite statuette rises from the slab at which we sit. A figure in spiky full plate, a beetle-like crest protruding from his grilled helm. ¡°This is the Iron Butcher. Ganea¡¯s warlock and total freaky bastard. The deadliest warlock, uhhhh, probably ever. Do you guys think?¡± she asks the Sisters.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say.


    ¡°Oh, certainly,¡± Saoirse says.


    ¡°He¡¯s deadly enough, I suppose,¡± Salome says.


    Adaire¡¯s lips thin. ¡°He and I are familiar.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve met him? And lived?¡± I whistle. ¡°How¡¯d you pull that off?¡±


    ¡°Desperate, abject retreat,¡± Adaire says. ¡°While he ripped through the dozen men I¡¯d brought like tissue paper.¡±


    ¡°And how do we mean to not get tissue papered?¡± Jordan wants to know.


    ¡°We have a plan,¡± I say. And then I tell her what we¡¯re going to do in this dimension, and where the Iron Butcher is, and the way our warlocks will have to draw him out, and the place they¡¯ll need to fight him.


    ¡°Ah.¡± She sips her Jungle Bird. ¡°We¡¯re fucked.¡±


    ???????????


    ¡°For the record, I don¡¯t think we¡¯re fucked,¡± I tell Caspar, as our ride cuts back through Heaven¡¯s corpse to my demesne. ¡°The Butcher is deadly because of Ganea¡¯s power. He¡¯s reliant on it. You and Jordan are greener, but that means your combat training is untainted by our magic. Without his mistress in his corner, the gap between you won¡¯t be nearly so large.¡±


    ¡°Will you be able to be in our corner?¡± Caspar asks. ¡°Won¡¯t your magic be tied up with the Ganea fight?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s four against one.¡± I broadcast the confidence I don¡¯t feel. ¡°And we¡¯ve had plenty of run-ins with Gan. I might cut in and out depending on how it goes, but I have a better feeling about your evocations staying steady than his.¡±


    Caspar runs his thumb across my wrist. He studies my eyes. ¡°I¡¯m worried about you. Not really used to worrying about you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m extremely used to worrying about you. It¡¯s time I got some skin in the game on your behalf.¡± I raise his hand to my lips. ¡°I can¡¯t promise I won¡¯t get hurt, lover. But I promise I¡¯m strong. Let me use my strength for you.¡±


    He cushions my cheek in his workman palm. Nothing more needs to be said. I hear it all. We put our mouths to better use.


    Back home, we sit on a bluff overlooking the rising village at the forest¡¯s edge, wiling away the time before Caspar needs to awake in gentle procrastination.


    I¡¯m finding out how the other half of the head/lap equation feels. It has its merits. Caspar shifts his leg to give my neck some more cushion. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you¡¯d be so¡­ transparent,¡± he says. ¡°About us.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± I open my eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not embarrassing you, am I?¡±


    ¡°Never. Tell the truth, I was concerned about the other way around. Old One with a human and all.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, Cas. I¡¯m gonna show you off every chance I get.¡±


    He strokes my mantle. ¡°Oh yeah?¡±


    ¡°Of course I am. You¡¯re a talented warlock. And a hunk.¡±


    ¡°I suppose I thought of myself as beneath you.¡±


    ¡°Dude, you¡¯re a mortal,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m not a worthwhile metric to judge yourself on. I¡¯m an Old One and you¡¯re a warlock. We¡¯re in different categories. You¡¯re not beneath me. Well, only when you want to be.¡±


    He snorts. ¡°Knew you¡¯d say that.¡±


    ¡°You set me up for it, mister.¡± I pick a few blades of grass and start arranging them on his thigh. ¡°You¡¯re beside me. That¡¯s how warlocks and their mistresses work.¡±


    ¡°Still.¡± He clicks his tongue. ¡°Little pet?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Sersh being Sersh.¡±


    ¡°Seems to me they think it¡¯s undignified.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I imagine they do. Not Bina, but Salome and maybe Saoirse. But they¡¯re wrong. And they¡¯d better get with the program.¡± I cross my ankles. ¡°An Old One and a warlock should be a package deal. We need mortals we can be proud of.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re proud of me, huh?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m achingly proud of you, Caspar Cartwright. Of course I am. You know that.¡± I tap a finger on his forehead. ¡°And I know you know that, by the way, dingus. You just like to hear me say it.¡±


    He breaks into a grin. ¡°I like to hear you say just about anything, Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to be even prouder of you when you kick the Iron Butcher¡¯s ass.¡± I sigh and sit up. ¡°Okay. Time to go, I think. The gals and I need to get into fighting trim if we¡¯re going to screen Ganea for you.¡±


    Caspar takes a moment to himself. A deep inhale and a bracing of his muscles. I watch him shed the softness and the warmth of his time in my dimension, and it knocks a hairline fracture into my heart. He opens his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡±


    ¡°My brave man.¡± I sit across from him and cup his chin. ¡°You¡¯ll be back soon. You¡¯ll get this done and be right back with me.¡±


    He nods.


    ¡°And someday soon. Someday really, really soon.¡± I stroke a thumb across his lips. ¡°Someday we¡¯ll be like this forever. Okay?¡±


    He tries to keep his grim facade up against the gale-force longing I¡¯ve blown through him. ¡°Okay.¡±


    I lean forward and kiss him. And I kiss him, and kiss him, and if I don¡¯t stop kissing him soon, I¡¯m going to end up keeping him. It¡¯s only going to get harder. Forcing myself to banish him back to Diamante is like leaping into a frigid lake. I take the plunge.


    I open my eyes, and Caspar is gone.


    ???????????


    My warlock is the first one awake, jerking back to consciousness in the passenger seat of their hot-wired van. Archbishop Tilliam is in back, head laying on Adaire¡¯s shoulder, snoring like a rotary saw.


    And there¡¯s a continuous clack, clack, clack noise from outside.


    Caspar cranks his window open and pokes his head into the chill of the forest. He looks down. The fawn he caught and released is tapping its hoof against the side of the van. It looks up at him with big, dewy eyes. Caspar raises his eyebrows. ¡°What are you doing here, little guy?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m asking, motherfucker,¡± the fawn says.

 24. A name

    ¡°We can¡¯t just leave him in the woods.¡± Caspar presses his steepled fingers to his lips. ¡°He¡¯s a person. He¡¯s a child, even.¡±


    ¡°We have a missing fuckin¡¯ archbishop in the van, Cas,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Staying low is already gonna be a son of a bitch. We can¡¯t bring a baby deer into the capital. That¡¯s not where deers live.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a capital?¡± the fawn asks.


    ¡°You can¡¯t keep asking this about every concept, man,¡± Jordan says. ¡°You know what a motherfucker is. You don¡¯t know what a capital is?¡±


    ¡°Deers have mothers and we fuck,¡± the fawn says. ¡°All I got to fuckin¡¯ work with is deer stuff, lady. I¡¯m two days old.¡±


    ¡°Who taught you language, then?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s language?¡±


    Caspar glances back at the van. Adaire is peering out the rear window, a look of perplexity on her face. ¡°Do you have a name?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Should I?¡±


    ¡°If we took you with us, you¡¯d need one.¡±


    ¡°Which we haven¡¯t determined yet,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°So if I come up with a name, you have to take me.¡± The fawn nods. ¡°I get it.¡±


    Jordan wipes her hand down her face. ¡°That ain¡¯t what I¡¯m saying.¡±


    ¡°I wanna be called Peat Moss,¡± the fawn says. ¡°That¡¯s my favorite thing. Tasty as hell.¡±


    ¡°Can we just go Pete?¡± Caspar asks.


    ¡°I am not Pete. I am Peat Moss,¡± says Peat Moss. ¡°Why don¡¯t they let deers in the capital?¡±


    ¡°Cause they¡¯re wild animals,¡± Jordan says. ¡°And they don¡¯t normally talk.¡±


    ¡°Well, I talk,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°And I wanna come with you. You saved my life. I wanna help.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s, uh, very neighborly of you, Peat Moss.¡± Caspar crouches. ¡°But Pastornos¡ªthat¡¯s the capital¡ªwe need to keep a low profile there or we¡¯re in hot water. Best way you can help us is by staying here and being a deer for a while. Maybe after we do our business, we can find you.¡±


    A mournful noise rises from the fawn¡¯s cream-colored throat. ¡°You can¡¯t just make me then abandon me. I found other deer and said hi and they ran off.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t make shit,¡± Jordan says. ¡°You can blame Saoirse for this.¡±


    ¡°We could¡­ pretend he¡¯s just a dog, maybe.¡± Caspar turns to Jordan, scratching his scruff. ¡°Like a greyhound. Put one of them rich people sweaters on it.¡±


    ¡°The thing doesn¡¯t look like a¡ª¡± Jordan¡¯s sentence trails into a pinching aaaah. The deer¡¯s head has become a skinny greyhound¡¯s.


    ¡°A greyhound¡¯s one of these, right?¡± Peat Moss says.


    ¡°How the fuck,¡± Jordan says, ¡°are you doing that.¡±


    ¡°What, you can¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Fuck me. He¡¯s evoking.¡± Caspar crouches to examine Peat Moss. ¡°You¡¯re casting a spell. Aren¡¯t you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, man. Course I am.¡± Peat Moss sniffs through his newly canine snout. ¡°Faces don¡¯t just do this on their own. I know that one.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a warlock.¡± Caspar stands up. ¡°Jordan, we have a warlock deer. Are you Saoirse¡¯s warlock, Peat Moss?¡±


    ¡°Dunno.¡± Peat Moss licks his nose. ¡°Guess so.¡±


    ¡°Fucking hell.¡± Jordan takes Peat Moss¡¯s little head in her hand and tilts it. He blinks patiently up at her.


    ¡°Stay right here, Peat Moss.¡± Caspar jerks his head deeper into the woods. ¡°Jordy, c¡¯mon. Huddle.¡±


    ¡°Bye,¡± Peat Moss calls after them.


    Jordan joins Caspar in a copse of trees just in view of the van. ¡°This is a massive risk, Cas. You remember how I feel about massive risks.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Caspar says. ¡°But here¡¯s why I think we should do it anyway.¡±


    Jordan sighs.


    ¡°One: If he¡¯s Saoirse¡¯s warlock, that means we¡¯ve got representation from every Sister in the alliance. So her skin¡¯s in the game and her power¡¯s accessible. And you saw what it could do on that yacht.¡±


    ¡°Saoirse didn¡¯t seem like she knew about him,¡± Jordan says. ¡°At the meeting.¡±


    ¡°Sure, but he¡¯s casting. So she clearly knows now. And she¡¯s letting him use her magic. Two: he¡¯s right that we oughta take responsibility for him. That¡¯s a person over there. He don¡¯t look like one, but he is. And he¡¯s lost and confused and there¡¯s nowhere for him.¡±


    ¡°Ethics shit don¡¯t work on me, Cas. I¡¯m an inspector.¡±


    ¡°But he¡¯s so cute, Jordy. Look at him. Little guy.¡±


    ¡°I want you to know,¡± Jordan says, ¡°that I am agreeing to this entirely based on One, and I am a mean evil asshole who doesn¡¯t care about two.¡±


    Caspar slaps her on the back. ¡°Heard, Madame Inspector.¡±


    They load back into the van. Caspar slides the rear door open. ¡°Peat Moss. You¡¯re in.¡±


    ¡°Sweet.¡± The fawn bounds into the back.


    Paul Tilliam¡¯s scowl is born from memories of sharing the armory with this throughly undomesticated beast. ¡°I thought we were getting rid of it.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡± Jordan turns the key in the ignition. ¡°It¡¯s not an it. He¡¯s Peat Moss.¡±


    ¡°You named it?¡± Tilliam shakes his head. ¡°I saw that thing come out of a man¡¯s rib cage and you named it.¡±


    ¡°Silence, prisoner,¡± Peat Moss says.


    Tilliam yelps and scrambles to the other end of the van. He hides behind Adaire, who shoots Caspar and Jordan a perplexed look and mouths what the fuck?


    Back out of the trees and onto the long ribbon of road. Typical of a Pastornos diocese highway, there are a preposterous amount of lanes here. About twice as many as the traffic needs, in the off-season stretch between the pilgrimage holidays. On top of that it¡¯s a war year, this year¡ªthe young gallants of Pastornos who¡¯d be weaving their speedsters across the wide dividers are overseas somewhere, in Nothosia or Tabarka. Spreading the good word like spilled blood.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    There are no rest stops in the Pastornos diocese; none this close to the city. The number of cozy villages and exurbs render them useless. Time and again they crest a valley¡¯s idyl and descend past a middle distant skyline full of grand old buildings and ornate steeples. It¡¯s almost cloying, the old-world beauty crowding every exit.


    Caspar and Jordan pick one at random, more or less, and find parking in a converted stable outside a taphouse.


    ¡°First warlock assignment for you, Peat Moss.¡± Jordan kills the engine.


    ¡°An assignment?¡± Peat¡¯s ears perk up.


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Jordan points at Tilliam and Adaire. ¡°Either of them make a run for it, kill ¡®em.¡±


    Peat nods earnestly. ¡°Okay. Yes. How?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a warlock.¡± Caspar gives him a scritch on his velvety head. ¡°Just ask Saoirse in your head and she¡¯ll help.¡±


    ¡°Right. Ask in my head.¡± Peat sniffs the stodgy garage air. ¡°Is she my mother, would you say? Saoirse?¡±


    Jordan and Caspar share a glance. ¡°Sure,¡± the inspector decides. ¡°C¡¯mon, Cas. Need a smoke.¡±


    They split a slice of bee-sting cake under the awning of a saccharine bakery, its garden full of hand-carved icons and prayer scrolls.


    ¡°Me and Adaire are the only ones with identities that work,¡± Caspar says. ¡°So we¡¯re the license-getters.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Jordan fishes a cigarette out of her cargo pants and lights it. ¡°Just some pilgrimage papers oughta do. Make like you¡¯re looking to get hitched in Pastornos proper, maybe.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯ll the rest of you do? When we¡¯re getting into the city?¡±


    ¡°Suppose the archbishop and I will hide,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Same place we¡¯re hiding all the armory autoguns and grenades.¡±


    ¡°And where¡¯s that gonna be?¡±


    Jordan rubs her temples. ¡°I¡¯m working on it, brother. Okay? You just worry about getting us those pilgrimage licenses.¡±


    They return to the van, bellies full and minds racing.


    Caspar opens the back door and points at Adaire. ¡°You. Come with me.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Her teary eyes flutter. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°No questions. Up.¡± He takes her roughly by the forearm and pulls her from the van.


    ¡°Be brave, Corinne,¡± Tilliam calls. ¡°Do what they say and be brave.¡±


    Caspar removes his grip as soon as they¡¯re out of view of the van. ¡°You holding up all right with the prisoner?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Adaire shakes her shoulders out. ¡°I was expecting a great deal of sniveling, but he¡¯s being rather gallant. Wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    ¡°You play a good damsel-in-distress.¡± Caspar pulls a rumpled dress from his knapsack and tosses it to her. ¡°We need a pilgrimage license. It¡¯s how we¡¯ll get into and around Pastornos.¡±


    Adaire unfolds the dress. ¡°Really, Caspar. Are we traveling beggars or something?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re using what we got, all right? It¡¯s silk.¡±


    Adaire tilts her head as she examines the dress. ¡°Rayon. But it¡¯ll do. Do you need that belt to keep your pants up, or may I have it?¡±


    He pulls it from his waist and hands it to her. She removes herself and her accoutrements behind a concrete pylon at the garage¡¯s edge, and emerges the other side transformed. The billow of the cheap dress, cinched around her waist, drapes her like it¡¯s designer. Something about the straightness of her neck, the prow of her chin, makes her look younger, brighter.


    A bubbly giggle from her. She clears her throat and tries another¡ªit¡¯s even bubblier. She tosses her head. ¡°Let¡¯s get us that license, darling.¡±


    As they pass the concrete divider into the parking lot, Adaire wraps her arm around Caspar¡¯s waist and leans close to him. His face heats. ¡°Do you have to?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re engaged, Mr. Cartwright.¡± Adaire¡¯s fingers tighten on his hip. ¡°The small things make a difference.¡±


    They pass the charming red brick and painted wooden slats of the tchotchke shops and beer garden, toward the unadorned back road where the altarkeep dormitory and the licensing station wait.


    ¡°So.¡± Adaire steps onto the pebbled footpath. ¡°You¡¯re sleeping with your patron, eh?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s immediate impulse is to retreat from the question, to clam up or change the subject. Then he remembers the meeting at the stone table, and my hand so defiantly on his. And how I told him I was proud of him. He¡¯s a consort to a goddess. A beautiful, immortal leviathan, her tentacles wrapped tight around his eternity. How foolish not to be proud, too. ¡°Yes,¡± he says. ¡°We¡¯re, uh¡ª¡±


    We¡¯re what? We¡¯re dating? His soul is mine and his initials are engraved on my thigh. His every sleeping moment is spent with me, warming my bed and feasting at my table. His every waking moment is devoted to granting me the power to conquer Heaven, that I might make him my eternal plaything in the paradise I¡¯ve sworn to grant him. Does that count as dating?


    ¡°We¡¯re dating,¡± he concludes.


    ¡°Now that, that¡¯s novel.¡± Adaire has a small, strange smile. ¡°The import the two of you place on it. I¡¯ve certainly dallied with Salome¡¯s manifestations now and again.¡±


    ¡°You have?¡±


    ¡°Of course. If I¡¯m going to be her servant in exchange for power and a cushy seat in her demesne, I intend to reap the benefits. Indulgent feasts, fancy suits. Drinking champagne out of beautiful navels, et cetera. I¡¯ve never thought of them as her. Not in the way Irene has induced in you. It¡¯s interesting¡ªSalome described a very different treatment for your mistress¡¯s warlocks.¡±


    ¡°What did Salome say?¡±


    ¡°That Irene disdained them. Kept her distance. I¡¯d understood that she never appeared to them as anything but a disembodied voice and powers granted. It made me rather grateful that Salome¡¯s the one who chose me.¡±


    ¡°She told me something like that,¡± Caspar says. ¡°She also told me I was different. First one she let in.¡±


    The words, once they leave his mouth, become a floating soap bubble, delicate and juvenile. He braces for Adaire to puncture it, to brand him na?ve or foolish. Instead, she shrugs. ¡°Well, then. Good for the two of you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°You know we¡¯re servants, yes? They own us. Body and soul. You¡¯re her captive, Caspar. She can kill you with a thought. She will always be above you. Inherently. You can never be equal to a goddess, even if you both wished it.¡±


    Caspar remembers a time she¡¯d have knocked him into a proper spiral with these words. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s a good thing that I don¡¯t wish it, then.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve settled for servility?¡±


    Not just settled, he thinks. Longed for. Faith rewarded. Belief confirmed. Falling backward into the dark and knowing that colossal, divine hands will catch him. All he ever wanted, wanted with feverish, sleepless desperation, was a god worthy of his obedience. He told himself over and over that he had one in the Father, turned his eyes from the injustices and brutalities of Pastornism, battled his unending, squirming doubt, convinced himself that it was simply the challenge of faith, that it was inescapable. Now he has me, and he¡¯s escaped it. A life spent before a bare, flickering candle, ushered into the blinding sun.


    ¡°Yep,¡± he says.


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I need a field notebook for you, Caspar. Quite a specimen.¡±


    ¡°How about you?¡± Caspar¡¯s eager to get out from under the magnifying glass. ¡°What made you quit Pastornism and go warlock?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t quit what you never were,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I¡¯m not Pastornist. I¡¯m Tabarkan. I was born on the other side of the world.¡±


    Caspar swallows his shock. Adaire doesn¡¯t have the barest hint of the Tabarkan lilt about her voice. But of course she wouldn¡¯t, would she, unless she wanted it there.


    ¡°Served a tour in Tabarka,¡± he says. ¡°It was beautiful.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Adaire says. ¡°It was.¡±


    She pauses at the edge of the parking lot. Considering her words, he thinks.


    ¡°I was born in a town that doesn¡¯t exist anymore. On your maps, the ground upon which it stood is called Camp Tarry now, if it has a name at all. I became a warlock to dismantle your civilization and pull your Temples down. To make you hurt the way I hurt.¡± Her eyes are unmoored from the village street. What she sees, Caspar can¡¯t guess. ¡°Hurt. So interesting that in your language there¡¯s no hurted. Hurt is past and present. Perpetrator and victim. If I say I hurt, do I hurt now? Was I hurt then? Do I do the hurting? Where, when, who. Perhaps it doesn¡¯t matter here.¡±


    Caspar doesn¡¯t reply. He doesn¡¯t have one to give. Just looks at her.


    ¡°Does it discomfit you to know I¡¯m a wicked person, Mr. Cartwright?¡±


    ¡°I could call you wicked,¡± he says. ¡°If you¡¯d prefer it.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re only the help, Caspar. It¡¯s not about what we prefer. You know that.¡± They stop before the dreary box of the licensing station and Adaire checks her wig in the reflective glass. ¡°Although for the good of the mission, it may behoove you to call me honey.¡±


    ???????????


    As soon as the deer talked, Bina and I were scrambling to get a Saoirse manifestation in my demesne. Now she arrives in a cloud of scintillating flies, laughing her moldering head off.


    ¡°Saoirse. What the hell, girl.¡± I thrust a finger at my viewing pool, where Caspar is currently attempting to keep a curious Peat Moss from scrambling into the passenger seat. ¡°What is this deer situation?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s funny!¡± Saoirse wipes a coagulated tear from her eye socket. ¡°Isn¡¯t it funny? I think it¡¯s so funny.¡±


    ¡°Your first warlock in how long and it¡¯s a baby deer? When we¡¯re about to take on the Iron Butcher?¡±


    ¡°He was running around in such a panic in the woods. Poor thing. Quite non-native on this continent. I thought I¡¯d give him a chance.¡±


    ¡°Do you intend for him to fight alongside Caspar and Jordan?¡± I ask.


    ¡°If it would be easier, I¡¯d let them eat him,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Little venison pick-me-up.¡±


    ¡°Oh, they can¡¯t,¡± gasps Bina. ¡°He¡¯s just a little gentleman.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡± Saoirse shifts her mycorrhizal skirts. ¡°Then he¡¯s my warlock.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Can he spit acid, at least?¡±


    ¡°Really, Irene, dear.¡± Saoirse chuckles. ¡°Why would I make a baby deer that couldn¡¯t spit acid?¡±

 25. A tail

    The warlocks are used to taking their bathroom breaks without a bathroom at this point (and Peat Moss never learned). Despite the complaints of their hostages, they avoid civilization once they¡¯ve secured their pilgrimage papers. These will let them avoid much of the trouble they¡¯d face as undocumented travelers, but they still don¡¯t have a clear answer on how Jordan and Tilliam ought to avoid attention, and every checkpoint remains a nail-biter even with ¡°Abraham¡± at the wheel.


    Adaire was the perfect giggly, blushing fiancee, in a way that made both Caspar and I somewhat uncomfortable. She cheerfully bulldozed every question and bump on the road in the licensing station, dizzying the clerk with flattening flattery; he stamped their forms within minutes. I have to admit: the speed with which she skidded back into teary hostage impressed even me. So galled are her protests at having to rough it in order to pee that Caspar doubts she¡¯s faking.


    It¡¯s chilly in the Pastornos diocese. They see their breath when they leave the van and hike into the woods. They take these trips in shifts; Caspar escorts Tilliam and Jordan brings Adaire. Peat Moss hops out and ambles into the woods. Doing deer things, I guess.


    Caspar generally returns first with Paul Tilliam. The first few stops, they sit in silence, just looking at anything but one another.


    This time, he scrutinizes the archbishop, shivering in the dawn in grubby secondhands. Outside of that silk robe, he looks even more worn and small than he did on the airship.


    ¡°You met me.¡± Caspar surprises himself with his own words. ¡°Don¡¯t think you¡¯d remember.¡±


    Tilliam glances up. ¡°I did?¡±


    ¡°I was a Cartwright kid.¡±


    ¡°Cartwright. Cartwright.¡± Tilliam whistles through his front teeth. ¡°That¡¯s a seminary, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yessir. I was about ten. You were still just a bishop, on the campaign trail. Had that big hot rod up on stage with you all the time.¡± Caspar loved that car. That red coupe.


    ¡°Ah, yes. One of the restoration rodeos. Quite the hootenannies, eh?¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. Stuffed on funnel cakes, dancing to the worship swing. And then you stepped out with your new wife. You¡¯d just married Rebecca.¡± Caspar watches the stormcloud roll in across Tilliam¡¯s face. ¡°You told us about hunger. How it was the Father telling us to strive for Him. How it would make us better.¡±


    Tilliam closes off. ¡°I see where you¡¯re steering this.¡±


    ¡°This is for me, not for you. Ain¡¯t gonna pretend like I have anything to say you¡¯d care to hear. The wife and the car and the airship and the mistress, and I was ten years old sewing soles onto fancy shoes to earn a twin bed and a scoop of mashed potatoes. Only thing to my name was my father¡¯s old service suit and a copy of the Precepts. And you.¡± He scratches his stubble pensively. ¡°You smiled and it made me smile, too. So I suppose you have my gratitude for that.¡±


    Tilliam¡¯s eyes turn from him, back out the window.


    ¡°Hunger didn¡¯t make me better,¡± Caspar says, ¡°and it didn¡¯t make me pious. It just made me hungry.¡±


    This detaches Tilliam¡¯s view from the pasture. ¡°You think to lecture me? Servant of the Adversary? With the blood of dozens of your brothers and sisters on your hands.¡± He sneers. ¡°No, goodman. Hunger didn¡¯t make you better at all. You need space in your heart for that. Space for the Father.¡±


    Those words don¡¯t touch Caspar. This man can¡¯t touch him anymore. The woman he loves ate the Father. ¡°Oh, well,¡± he says. ¡°Guess I¡¯m damned, huh?¡±


    ¡°You make light of it,¡± Tilliam says. ¡°I wonder how you¡¯ll feel when the Adversary takes your soul from you.¡±


    This gets a chuckle to escape from Caspar before he can bite it back. ¡°Y¡¯know, archbishop,¡± he says, ¡°I think you¡¯d be surprised, how it feels.¡±


    Tilliam¡¯s face darkens further.


    Peat Moss taps a hoof against the side of the van. Caspar slides the door and lets him back in. The fawn gets a load of Tilliam¡¯s scowl. ¡°What were you guys talking about?¡±


    Caspar buckles him into his seat. ¡°Tell you when you¡¯re older, Peat.¡±


    Back on the road and Jordan drums on the wheel to the Wayback Playback on Ninety-Six Nine. They¡¯re scorching through a block of Crispford Brothers Band. Caspar¡¯s sister-in-arms is hooting and singing through the old singles, and booing every cut from the new album. ¡°Play the damn hits, man,¡± she says.


    ¡°I thought you were faking,¡± Caspar says. ¡°First time we drove together. Like you were just pretending to love the music to get me on your side.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t pretend about rock and roll, brother,¡± Jordan says. The distorted lead of Never Far From Him crackle through the speaker and Jordan delightedly turns the volume up. ¡°Ohhhh shit.¡±


    She croons wordlessly along to the guitar¡¯s bendy riff. ¡°You know this is about the God you have turned from, right?¡± Tilliam calls. ¡°This music isn¡¯t for you.¡±


    ¡°Blow it out-your-ass,¡± Jordan sings over the choppy syncopation.


    ¡°This is music?¡± Peat Moss is tapping his hoof on Caspar¡¯s seat in time. ¡°This is nice. This existence shit is okay.¡±


    They break into the meadowlands by the afternoon. The mist has evaporated, and the views roll forth like a pastoralist¡¯s brush strokes. Caspar feels his spirit expanding to take up all that space. He looks over at Jordan, about to point out a pasture full of horses, and sees the faraway consternation on her face.


    He leans across the divider. ¡°What¡¯s going on, Jordy?¡±


    ¡°Got a hunch,¡± she murmurs. She scans the wide highway and jerks the wheel to an exit lane. ¡°We¡¯re going to, uh¡ª¡± She squints. ¡°Warhanai-on-Firanzi.¡±


    The rush of wind lessens as they turn off the thoroughfare. Their wheels make a chunky dismount from the smooth paving of the highway onto cobblestone.


    ¡°Why are we going this way?¡± Tilliam calls.


    ¡°No talking,¡± Jordan says. She coasts through a ribbon of countryside, and turns left onto a boutique-lined main street, rolling to a halt behind an honest-to-god horse-drawn buggy. She scans the upcoming street and eases righthand around the carriage. Peat Moss makes gawking eye contact with a dun draft horse.


    They cruise past a garlanded intersection and take another left down a tidy row of townhouses. Jordan hums under her breath as the van complains its way up a cobbled hill.


    ¡°Cas.¡± She angles the rearview. ¡°Blue sedan. Use the mirror, don¡¯t turn around.¡±


    Caspar locates it, two cars behind them. One of those odd oblong Pastornos plates. The driver¡¯s an indistinct silhouette behind a cozy hamlet reflection. His lips press together. ¡°Tail?¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± She flicks her turn signal on. Another left. ¡°We need an alibi. When we get back to the shops, hop out and buy something.¡±


    Caspar nods. ¡°Drop me by the cafe. You want anything?¡±


    ¡°Iced brownleaf,¡± Jordan says. ¡°And a grenade launcher if they¡¯ve got it.¡±


    Caspar slides from the van in front of the cafe and waves a greeting to the bushy-browed silver-haired fellow at the counter. He returns it with a yellowy smile. There¡¯s something you only see in the old country. A teakeeper past entry-level job age who doesn¡¯t hate his life.


    ¡°Chamchek fellow, eh?¡± The teakeeper scoops ice into a tall styrofoam cup. ¡°Here on pilgrimage, aye?¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Caspar adds a touch of new world twang to crack a smile on the teakeeper¡¯s face. ¡°Ask you something, sir?¡±


    ¡°Of course, lad.¡±


    ¡°Well we¡¯re, uh, we¡¯re Pastoralists. It¡¯s an Eastern Diocese creed. You know the Pastoralism sects?¡±


    The teakeeper strokes his chin. ¡°Have a nephew, he married into one. Flower crowns and bonfires and such, aye?¡±


    ¡°Yessir. Exactly. And I¡¯m wondering, my pilgrimage and I, we¡¯re hoping to get a bonfire going tonight. What with it being a worship friday. Only problem is, y¡¯know, we want to be far enough from any occupied real estate that nobody sees the fire, gets touchy, we end up apologizing to a village bucket brigade¡­ you see what I mean?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Sure.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m hoping, sir, us being strangers to these parts, and all these settlements every which way¡ªit sure is pretty, sir, and so many folks around compared to Chamchek.¡± The teakeeper tuts sympathetically at Caspar¡¯s yokel routine. ¡°I¡¯m hoping you might point me the way to somewhere¡­ remote. Nobody about that we might bother.¡±


    ¡°You have a map, boyo?


    Caspar hands over a trifold tourist map and the teakeeper clicks his tongue as he marks a path with a ballpoint. ¡°There, now. Just up West Grish and you¡¯re in the backmeadows. This far out of harvest, you¡¯ll have all the room you need.¡±


    He thanks the teakeeper with all the hayseed aw shucks energy he can muster, and hustles back to the van with a cardboard cupholder full of tea, plus a flaky matcha puff that he rests on the floor for Peat Moss.


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    The fawn sniffs it. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    ¡°Pastry,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You looking for a reason to exist, give that one a try.¡± He passes Jordan the brownleaf and unfolds the map across the dashboard. ¡°North on the blu-way. Local guy says there¡¯s no one around.¡±


    Tilliam frowns with alarm as Jordan hits the gas. ¡°Middle of nowhere? Why?¡±


    ¡°Killing some people, archbishop.¡± Caspar leans into the back row. ¡°Seatbelts, everyone.¡±


    Adaire whimpers pitifully as she clicks her buckle in.


    ¡°Holy shit.¡± Peat Moss talks around the matcha puff in his maw. ¡°I shoulda named myself Pastry.¡±


    ???????????


    The sunset is turning the world the colors of blood and gold as the warlocks pass the tooth-achingly cozy hamlet of West Grishani and coast past the hedgerows into its meadowlands. The old teakeeper steered them right¡ªthe gothic masonry of West Grish¡¯s steeple vanishing into the middle distance is the last visible marker of civilization.


    That and the blue sedan.


    Caspar nudges Jordan¡¯s hand on the scuzzy plastic gearshift. ¡°They¡¯re slowing down. Putting some distance.¡±


    Jordan chews her lip. ¡°Reckon they¡¯re suspicious. We speed up, we slow down, we stop, we do just about anything, I think it¡¯s begun.¡±


    Caspar kneads his thumbs into his own shoulders and neck, loosening his tension and heating his muscles. When it comes to the dispensation of violence, he¡¯s chosen deference to Jordan Darius. He lacks her decisive amorality. ¡°What¡¯s our move?¡±


    ¡°Gotta tell you, brother.¡± Jordan jerks a thumb back. ¡°I think our move¡¯s in the loading bay.¡±


    Caspar unbuckles his seatbelt and taps Jordan¡¯s arm. She scoots it out of the way to give him passage into the back seat. ¡°Down,¡± he commands, and Tilliam curls nervously forward. He clambers over the seat cushions and into the ass-end of the van. That¡¯s where they¡¯ve put the guns.


    Tilliam whimpers when he hears the clanking catch of the Saur auto in Caspar¡¯s grip. ¡°Need we resort so swiftly to violence?¡±


    Jordan snorts. ¡°What¡¯s we? You want a peashooter, Archie?¡±


    Caspar climbs back into the back row, and snaps earmuffs over the heads of the cuffed hostages and the hooved Peat Moss.


    ¡°Whoa,¡± Peat says. He makes a little braying noise. ¡°My voice is, like, on the inside.¡±


    ¡°Proper earpro before you shoot a gun, kid. Always.¡± Caspar pats his flank. ¡°Your call, Jordy. Am I shooting the air, the tires, or the people?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t risk hurting the innocent,¡± Jordan says. ¡°The air and the tires didn¡¯t lift a finger against us.¡±


    Caspar gives this a rueful laugh. He rests the Saur on the cushions, sets his jaw, and opens fire.


    Sound, smoke, flame, and flying brass. The rear window of the van becomes a puckering, punctured spiderweb. Through its mess, their pursuers¡¯ ride twists and squeals. Caspar holds the trigger until the gun clicks.


    Jordan jerks the wheel to one side. Wolf¡¯s-head armor flows across her face. ¡°No witnesses.¡± She pulls her .45 from her shoulder holster. ¡°Nobody lives, Cas.¡±


    ¡°Nobody lives,¡± Caspar echoes, and shunts the empty magazine from his Saur. He clacks another into the receiver as he knees the passenger door open.


    My warlock no longer hesitates. These people have to die for his mission to succeed and his mistress to ascend, so he¡¯s going to kill them. He has the same dutiful armor around his heart I sensed in Jordan Darius. His fear of the changes I¡¯m inflicting on him is gone. So is my nebulous guilt at them. Hesitation has fled us. We¡¯re fixed in each other¡¯s souls.


    Caspar still loves humanity. So do I. I promise.


    But we love each other more now.


    The sedan doors flip outward; from the passenger side, a black-clad figure racks a thick steel shotgun, shattering the window with the butt of the thing and taking aim. The exit from the opposite side is much less tactical. The driver doesn¡¯t so much spring as flop, rolling into the dirt. A smear of blood across the handle tells Caspar he¡¯s been hit.


    Jordan leans out her side of the van and her .45 roars, sending half a magazine toward the standing passenger with the shotgun. A bullet that should have punctured his heart sparks and kicks off instead. Another punches through his arm, blowing a chunk from his elbow and hanging it useless at his side, but Caspar can already see the tissue reforming.


    ¡°Warlocks,¡± he calls, between bursts from his Saur.


    ¡°No shit.¡± Jordan ducks back into the van to reload. ¡°Can you¡ª¡±


    A whumph as the shotgun tears through the driver-side mirror and embeds shrapnel into her chest. She hisses in angry pain and vents it from her, piecing the ragged flesh back together. ¡°Close in,¡± she cries. ¡°I¡¯ll cover you.¡±


    ¡°What do I do?¡± Peat Moss has kneaded his earmuffs off.


    ¡°Stay down.¡± Caspar tosses her the Saur; she catches it one-handed and blindfires a torrent curtain of lead from behind cover. He sprints from the van, taking a wide circle to avoid Jordan¡¯s suppressive fire as my armor sprouts from his limbs. His target is curled behind the passenger door while he racks a steaming shell from his scattergun, his own chitin plate rippling into form. He sees Caspar coming and scrambles backward into the vehicle. An errant fistful of shot whips past Caspar¡¯s head.


    Caspar reaches the door and scythes it from the car with a claw, seizing the fleeing warlock by the ankle. A punctuating crash as the next shotgun blast takes him full in the chest, but at this point his armor¡¯s solidified, and what would have ventilated him instead ablates chips of chitin from his breastplate and knocks him breathless. But his grip stays firm, and he tugs his quarry out of the car with him, bringing them both down to the ground.


    From the back of the sedan lunges a third man. The car rocks on its shocks as he emerges. Full plate, red as blood. Is that an Alexandra warlock? I ball my hands into fists. Alex, what the fuck are you doing? Are you teaming up with Eight? How is that even possible, and she hasn¡¯t just eaten and/or exploded you, girl?


    It¡¯s time I tracked my second-youngest sister down. She needs to get with the new paradigm.


    Caspar wheels in the dust, clenching his legs and forcing the gunman between himself and the red warlock. He rakes and struggles, trying to fit his claw into the close space between him and his immediate threat. A bubbling grunt from the warlock in his grip and Caspar jolts to one side as acid hisses and spatters. He aims to spear through the gap in the helmet that the spell ate open, but the claw¡¯s just too long to work as a close-up stabbing tool against a chitin-coated opponent. I didn¡¯t count on Caspar having to kill so many warlocks. I need to redesign this spell.


    A vicious sabaton¡¯d kick to Caspar¡¯s side from Alexandra¡¯s warlock sends him skidding and loosens his grip on his foe. The gunman gets up into a crouching mount and starts driving mailed fists toward his face. Caspar draws his arms into a desperate guard, grunting as a hammer blow fractures his ulna. He scrabbles his legs across the ground. He has to get purchase before the red warlock can reach him.


    A rending scream and suddenly the pressure is off Caspar. He bridges from the ground back onto his knees to see the gunman clawing at his chest, which is fizzing and softening. Something¡¯s pushing and squirming. Caspar¡¯s eyes bug. A fucking swampland cattail is growing out of the dude¡¯s sternum. Saoirse¡¯s magic. That¡¯s acid spit from Peat Moss.


    A fuzzy missile blur connects with the red warlock¡¯s crotch. The fawn has galloped full-speed from the van; his velvety little head is encased in an ugly lumpen battering ram of a helmet crowned by two curling horns.


    Caspar brings his claw slicing downward, puncturing the acidified gap Peat Moss¡¯s breath left in the gunman¡¯s breastplate. The sternum smashes like porcelain under his force and fragments into the shotgunner¡¯s lungs.


    He drowns in his blood as my warlock rises to his feet. Red is wheezing and leaning against the sedan. Peat Moss bounds off the roof and connects another cracking headbutt into the dude¡¯s chest, sending him tumbling through the passenger door with such force that it¡¯s bounced from its hinges.


    The driver, who¡¯s gotten back to a knee, shoots across the hood of the car and drills a bullet into Peat Moss¡¯s stomach. The fawn sprawls out and thrashes on the ground. Caspar lunges in front of Peat as the driver empties his pistol. Most of the bullets flatten and ping off his armor, but one finds a gap on his hip and smashes his pelvis.


    ¡°Jordy,¡± Caspar roars, as he courses my magic into his wound.


    An answering thunderstorm. Freed from her fears of friendly fire by Caspar¡¯s fall, Jordan barrages the sedan in full auto. Metal pings and glass showers. The wounded driver takes a burst to the skull; the system strain must be too much for him, because his helmet flakes and breaks, and his mind mushrooms outward from his ear.


    My spiracles flicker as I pour power into my warlock¡¯s hip. The tendons re-tie; the bone chips shiver through the raw flesh and solidify, like a rewinding tape. Caspar launches from the ground and rushes the red warlock, who kips up to his feet to receive him. They clash in a scraping, sparking flurry of claws. Caspar¡¯s automatic urge is to take the fight to the ground, but Red¡¯s got one of those punch-gauntlet things, and Caspar has a grim memory of the mismatched moment in the Chamchek intersection. His long, slicing claw disadvantages him. I know, Cas. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m working on it.


    He checks the next charge the red warlock makes, blocking a kick aimed at his healing hip, and twists the two of them round into another standing exchange. Caspar quests for distance in order to give Jordan a shot, but Red is on him. Peat is whimpering as he tries to evoke his stomach shut. Caspar searches for advantage, for anything that he can use to finish this.


    The next lunge he parries, he gets it. There¡¯s a hesitation in the red warlock. An unwillingness. This guy is new. Of course he is. Caspar killed his predecessor. He¡¯s new to hurting and healing. He¡¯s still fighting to conserve himself.


    He isn¡¯t used to pain.


    Caspar throws himself into a heedless, head-lowered charge. The blade comes up to halt him and it doesn¡¯t. He impales himself.


    Red¡¯s punching dagger slides through an articulating crack in his armor and spears him right in the stomach. He roars defiance through the agony, and slices the man¡¯s forearm off, right at the elbow joint. The arm stays skewered in him, shoved all the way through; he can feel the point scrape against the back side of his breastplate.


    The freshly one-armed fighter howls and clamps his remaining hand over the stump as dark blood geysers from it. Caspar closes his gauntlet onto the man¡¯s head, jerks him into a forward bend, and rams a claw down into the crack between helmet and gorget. Alexandra¡¯s warlock thrashes like a landed fish, and then slides slowly off Caspar¡¯s claw, a broken marionette of melting chitin and cooling meat.


    ¡°Son of a bitch,¡± Caspar snarls, and yanks the arm out of his stomach on the bitch. He sits heavily on the ground next to Peat Moss. They recline together as Saoirse and I repair them. Caspar lands a heavy hand on Peat¡¯s head. The helmet liquefies and slides from it. ¡°Good boy, Peat. You¡¯ve got it. You did great back there.¡±


    ¡°It hurts,¡± Peat Moss gasps. ¡°Caspar, it fucking hurts.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± Caspar rubs a fuzzy ear. ¡°Let your mistress fix it. She¡¯ll fix it. There now, see?¡± He reaches down and plucks the bullet from the ground where Peat¡¯s evocation spat it from his flesh. ¡°Just a teeny tiny thing. It¡¯s out. And you¡¯re better.¡±


    ¡°That was the worst thing ever. What the fuck.¡± Peat Moss exhales raggedly as he gets back to his feet (hooves?). ¡°This existence shit is awful.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes.¡± Caspar scratches his chin. ¡°It¡¯s also everything else.¡±


    He feels the fawn warlock tremble. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    Caspar hums. ¡°You weren¡¯t born knowing about ice cream, were you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Peat Moss blinks tears from his prey-animal eyes. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Next town we¡¯re in, I¡¯ll show you. Think it¡¯ll help.¡±


    ???????????


    I slip through Heaven, twirling past spires and shooting through canyons, pursuing the falling-star souls of the dead warlocks. I watch them fork apart, Alexandra¡¯s soul sluicing to her far-off demesne.


    She, I can talk to later. I don¡¯t bother chasing her people. I¡¯m chasing the other two.


    I chase too far.


    A distant shape like a planet of teeth. Two tiny lights disappear into its abyssal depths. Two souls, made oblivion in one titanic swallow.


    Its serrated mouth yawns open, each fang the size of a basilica. It¡¯s grown even larger than I remembered. Massive. Ten times my size, easily. In a seal breaking voice, a trumpet-of-doom voice, it calls to me, and the word cracks the foundations of Heaven, dozens of miles in every direction, racking and splintering the undead flesh of its suffering denizens. One word:


    Sister.


    I flee without hesitation, my tentacles whirling to slice my path through the pollution, firing off clouds of chaffing scout forms and darting through the visible spectra into dazzle-camouflage multidimensionality. Mine is a thing beyond dread, felt by my entire prime form. An emotion without a human equivalent¡ªbut it doesn¡¯t matter. My retreat is as desperate as yours would be.


    She doesn¡¯t pursue. But I feel her many eyes. I feel her love for me. Alien and monstrous, but as strong as it¡¯s ever been. I return it, on a nimbus of blackened sorrow. Oh, Eight. What are we going to do about you? Beloved sister. Hated enemy. Dreaded apocalypse.


    She¡¯s seen us. She knows us. In Pastornos, she awaits us.

 26. A pilgrimage

    ¡°Step one is hide them bullet holes, I¡¯d say.¡± Jordan puts her hands on her hips as they survey the van. ¡°Bet a tapestry would do it. Couple saintly garlands.¡±


    Caspar sticks a finger through the largest bullet hole, dented and sunken above the tail light. ¡°I like it. Cruise into West Grishani, get us some knick-knacks. And some ice cream for Peat Moss.¡±


    ¡°We ain¡¯t getting ice cream for Peat Moss.¡± Jordan folds her arms.


    Caspar sees the fawn¡¯s ears droop in the back seat. ¡°Jordy¡ª¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re getting him gelato.¡± She taps her temple. ¡°They call it gelato here. You hear that, deer? You did good. Earned it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Miss Jordan,¡± Peat Moss sing-songs.


    Caspar gives her a light punch on the arm as they climb back into the van. ¡°Gelato is a distinct thing, I think.¡±


    Jordan shakes her head. ¡°Gelato is just fancy-named ice cream. They can¡¯t fool me.¡±


    ¡°It has no eggs in it,¡± Adaire supplies from the back seat.


    ¡°No talking, prisoner.¡± Jordan turns the ignition. She fishes a cigarette out from her pocket. ¡°Got a light, Cas?¡±


    ¡°You really been going through these lately.¡± Caspar flicks his lighter open and lends his comrade a flame.


    ¡°I know. Sorry, brother.¡± Jordan leans over and takes a couple kindling puffs. ¡°Funny thing. I¡¯ve got stress in me, for some odd reason.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind it. Just observing. Is it new?¡±


    ¡°Nah, it¡¯s old. Smoked all the time back in the Chutes. I quit ¡®em once I got my inspector job.¡± Jordan takes a drag.


    ¡°You missed them?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡± She taps her ash out the window. ¡°Only stopped cause I didn¡¯t want to die young. These days? Fuck it. I¡¯m over Diamante. One foot in the afterlife.¡± She turns onto the highway. ¡°Plus, Bina says once I¡¯m over there permanently, I get to redesign the casa. Gonna rip out all the moss, get some zebra print and mirror balls in there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about that.¡± Caspar shifts in his seat. ¡°About what happens after we¡¯re done, and we¡¯ve got, what. Fifty-odd years of life left, and no idea what to do with it.¡±


    ¡°I knew you were an optimist, but seriously?¡± Jordan smirks as they pick up speed. ¡°You think we¡¯re surviving this?¡±


    Caspar watches the highway guardrail. At their velocity, its posts are invisible blurs, and its W-beam seems to levitate above the ground, a stripe of steel defiant of gravity.


    ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°I guess not.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s still time to turn from this road to ruin,¡± Tilliam says. ¡°The Father¡¯s mercy is all around you, like the air. You just have to breathe it in.¡±


    ¡°No thank you, padre.¡± Jordan takes another long drag of her cigarette. ¡°Ruin tastes too nice.¡±


    They park on the outskirts of West Grishani, by a flock of sheep that gaze with placid ungulate eyes from behind a spraypainted wooden fence. A sheepdog paces nearby, a mane of nails sprouting off his wolf collar like a barbed halo. Jordan watches the hostages; Caspar and Peat Moss dismount and walk the half-mile into town.


    ¡°Gelato. Gelato. A lot o¡¯ Gelato.¡± Peat Moss sings tunelessly to the rhythm of his hooves as he tugs Caspar along.


    Caspar chuckles. ¡°You¡¯re awful excited for someone who¡¯s never had this before.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m taking you on faith that it¡¯s tasty,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°On account of I got shot to earn it.¡±


    ¡°You earned ice cream for life, kiddo. Gotta put you on an installment plan.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s good, what I did?¡± Peat focuses hard, and his clicking hooves become padded paws. ¡°Cause at the time it felt right, but after it felt kind of¡­ weird. Bad-weird.¡±


    ¡°That is a tricky question and a lengthy discussion, Peat Moss. How about we cover it once we¡¯re through here, so I don¡¯t look like a crazy man talkin¡¯ ethics with his dog.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Short version is that if you¡¯re doing it to protect your friends or, uh¡­ serve your mistress, it¡¯s all right.¡± Caspar remembers his drill sergeants and padres when he says this. It¡¯s too familiar, teaching this lesson to a child.


    ¡°Okay. Good.¡± Peat Moss peers across the street. ¡°Which way¡¯s ice cream?¡±


    ¡°Errands first,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Getting some camouflage for the van.¡±


    ¡°Nuts.¡± Peat Moss bends his thin neck and rubs his snout at his collar. ¡°Do I have to wear the leash?¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Peaty. The less attention goes to you, the better. It¡¯s a good disguise, but it¡¯s not perfect.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter with it?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a little¡­ blobby for a dog.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m just a blobby dog. Whose owners keep feeding him pasties.¡±


    ¡°Pastries.¡± Caspar eyes a pinafored couple giggling and toting parcels down the sidewalk ahead. ¡°No talking now, kiddo.¡±


    They duck into a votary store and fill a duffel with saint-of-the-road tapestries, garlands, and prayer charms. Enough to conceal those bullet holes in the van, or at least distract with sheer garish volume.


    The man at the gelato stand is balding and hirsute, with a perpetual scowl. That¡¯s somehow a comfort to Caspar as he trades his ducats in¡ªevery other establishment they¡¯ve been to in this diocese has been toothache-sweet, like a postcard come to life. The frown he receives, when he asks for some salted caramel and a chocolate scoop for the dog, is necessary roughage. A thing belonging to a world of blood and gunpowder and broken glass.


    Caspar parks himself on a greenwood bench and slides the bowl to Peat Moss, who wiggles his shoulders briefly and then tucks in. Caspar grins as the fawn licks the ice cream from his snout.


    In this moment, he realizes the name of the thing he keeps feeling: paternal.


    Peat Moss is not his son. Peat Moss is a mutant deer monster that crawled out of an exploding rib cage. My warlock is undead and his lover is a different species, and it¡¯s never bothered him, the idea of never having a child with me. His is no longer a fate that includes a normal family. He doesn¡¯t resent it. I am enough for him.


    But a ludicrous image pops into his head, unbeckoned. His arm around my waist, my head on his shoulder, standing at the gate of a cozy little home, watching Peat Moss the talking deer trot off to his first day of school.


    Caspar decides to keep this thought to himself. Then he remembers no, he can¡¯t do that. Can we not talk about this, Miss Irene? he pleads. Pretend like you didn¡¯t hear anything.


    Okay, Caspar. I¡¯ll stay mum. But I know you know I¡¯m giggling madly about it.


    Man and fawn return to the van with their tchotchkes. Jordan steps from the car and unpacks with them. Tilliam and Adaire are left in back to whisper and conspire¡ªtheir captors give them regular ¡°accidental¡± alone-time at Adaire¡¯s suggestion.


    ¡°Never thought I¡¯d doll up another ride like this.¡± Jordan drapes a fluffy string of fake flowers across the van¡¯s remaining side mirror. ¡°Oughta be putting spikes and flames and such on it.¡±


    Peat Moss circles the wagon. ¡°It¡¯s so frilly.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Pastornism,¡± Jordan says. ¡°All frills.¡±


    ¡°You know something?¡± Caspar says. ¡°I think our Peaty here¡¯s maybe the first born-into-it Sister worshipper.¡±


    Jordan pulls a face. ¡°Sister worshipper just don¡¯t work. It¡¯s a big responsibility, naming a new religion. What about, like¡­¡± She reaches through the driver-side window and plants a saintly bobblehead on the dash. ¡°The Church of the Void.¡±


    Caspar sticks a sizable holy-balance decal on the hood. ¡°We evil knights or something?¡±


    ¡°I mean.¡± Jordan scratches her nose. ¡°Yeah, brother. We are.¡±


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Sistornism,¡± offers Peat Moss.


    Jordan lets out an amused sniff. ¡°We¡¯ll workshop it.¡±


    Peat Moss taps his front hooves onto the hood and props himself up. ¡°I wish I had hands so I could help.¡±


    ¡°Take this.¡± Jordan pops a wreath around his neck. ¡°Put it up on the roof.¡±


    With two graceful bounds, Peat Moss lights onto the hood and then the top of the van. He nudges the wreath into place around its antenna.


    Jordan whistles. ¡°Little dude gets vertical.¡±


    Caspar nudges her. ¡°Would you allow me an I told you so about him?¡±


    ¡°Potty train him.¡± She swings the van door open. ¡°Then you can told me so.¡±


    ???????????


    It¡¯s Dawson Packard¡¯s twelfth pilgrimage. Twelve long, frigid bus rides.


    His first pilgrimage, he¡¯ll never forget. Mr. Nusom calling him into the office, his heart in his throat and his argument for keeping his job ready, only for the sausage-fingered foreman to tell him Dawson, you¡¯re going to Pastornos. Long-haul trucker to pilgrim people-mover. And a 50% raise. The big Silverdart bus, the chattering joy of his passengers, and Pastornos. Beautiful Pastornos.


    By the fifth, the chants and songs and breathless tourism were starting to grate. By the eighth, it was just another damn task.


    That¡¯s the thing about a dream job. You do it long enough and it¡¯s a job.


    But there¡¯s something about this time. Something different about this flock. It¡¯s the offseason¡ªDawson always drives the offseason¡ªwhich means half the attractions are shut down and none of the pilgrims have the scratch to afford an in-season ride to Relic City. The Railyard Society is as dirt-poor as any of Dawson¡¯s clients. They raised the money to get across the Montane with extra shifts, phone-a-thons, and a packed calendar of bake sales.


    Dawson privately believes that most of his clients are wasting their damn times and their damn cash. By the time you¡¯ve taken the airship and worked out the lodging and the transportation and arrived at the diocese and realized how lonely the road is for an offseason pilgrim, you¡¯re often dispirited enough you just want to check the box, collect your brownie points with the Father, and get back home to Chamchek or Northward or wherever you came from.


    The Society has put a smile back on his face and belief back in his heart. When they got on his bus, they all insisted, one after the other, on shaking his hand. When they sing the songs, they sing rough and out-of-tune, but they sing with their whole souls. And when they come across the stranded van, with its hapless couple sitting on the roof and waving for aid, aid is what they give.


    Abraham Baker has a beautiful young fiancee and a real trash can of a van. The thing¡¯s an eyesore with a loading bay full of Pastornos souvenir tapestries and religious finery, so thickly stacked that there¡¯s barely room for the dog.


    ¡°All we need¡¯s a tow into Relic City,¡± he tells the Society, ¡°and some good company along the way.¡±


    His wife is an absolute darling, sprightly and funny. After the first mile, she¡¯s already got half the bus hypnotized. It¡¯d be easy to get jealous of Abe, but he seems a decent guy. Big, not so bright. While she swaps stories of their life cobbling in Chamchek, Abe sits up front with Dawson, watching the miles go by.


    Dawson tells him of his struggle, of late. Of how hard it¡¯s been to believe, even at the foot of belief¡¯s throne.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s my place to give advice, sir,¡± Abraham says. ¡°But what helped me was finding someone to believe in, over something.¡±


    ¡°Father¡¯s someone.¡±


    ¡°Sure. But someone you can reach out and touch.¡±


    ¡°Reckon I see what you mean.¡± Dawson downshifts. ¡°Bit heretical the way you say it, though.¡± He chuckles. Abe joins him.


    Someone¡¯s dug out an old dreadnaught acoustic and is hammering out the cowboy chords to Caravanner¡¯s Communion. Dawson¡¯s heard this road song what, fifty damn times. But there¡¯s a thread of feeling to it today that¡¯s rare. When Abe joins in with a honey-gold baritone, it¡¯s hard to keep from believing in the people he¡¯s carrying.


    A throng of rusted relict murder-angels were drawn to me by my flight from Eight. Small fry¡ªI¡¯ve destroyed a few thousand of these guys over the decades. But they provide good practice for our Ganea confrontation. Bina and I spend an amusing afternoon drawing them through a hedgerow of domed skyscrapers. We take turns being the bait and the ambush.


    Bina always eats them, which I don¡¯t understand; there¡¯s no soul within to consume, and this far out from the war for creation, the flesh tastes like sawdust.


    I catch one in my binding tentacles and pluck its razorwire feathers one by one. Within my prime form, I¡¯m sitting on a paint-peeled swing set with Bina, watching my warlock sing.


    I sigh happily. ¡°His voice is so lovely, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± Bina¡¯s swing squeaks as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.


    My sister¡¯s manifestation has undergone several subtle shifts that have added up to an unsubtle sum. She remains unmistakably monstrous, of course, her head still a collision between a bug and a wolf. But her compound eyes have grown more expressive, her lids lined and dusky. Her snout is cuter and more compact, more vulpine than lupine. The curves of her body have changed in their proportions. You need a certain amount of redistribution for bipedalism, I can tell you from experience, but her hips probably don¡¯t need to be quite as shapely as they¡¯ve become. Her pseudopods, which used to sprout from her willy-nilly, are concentrated now on her rear, and drape from her like a frilly, fanned tail.


    Bina has, to put it plainly, gotten sexy. To the point that now the average human might think so, if fur and paws don¡¯t put them off. It¡¯s happened slowly; I didn¡¯t notice it until she started wearing clothing, interestingly enough. She walks around these days in baggy salwar pants and a silky green halter. Like she has something underneath to hide.


    She looks like one of those ancient animal-headed goddesses. Or, if you want to be lower-brow, one of those less-ancient cartoon characters that give youngsters unorthodox adulthood proclivities.


    ¡°Bina,¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s Jordan doing right now?¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡± She looks up. ¡°Hiding in the van under all the stuff with a gun on Tilliam to keep his mouth shut.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s she thinking about?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s actually, well¡­¡± Bina smiles. ¡°She¡¯s telling me a story.¡±


    ¡°Is she? What about?¡±


    ¡°Just about growing up. The Chutes and this jerk they all called Cheeseface. Cheeseface!¡± She giggles. ¡°What a nickname. Makes me glad I¡¯m just Bean.¡±


    I lean my chin on my hand, trying to hide the satisfied suspicion purring in me.


    Bina sees something of it in my face. ¡°I mean, it¡¯s not like I¡¯ve been watching her since she was a kid like you and Caspar, okay? She dropped into my lap. I have to catch up.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± I push gently off from the ground and teeter back and forth. ¡°It¡¯s just that she calls you Bean too, sometimes. And I¡¯ve noticed how little it bothers you.¡±


    Bina¡¯s ear jolts like a fly landed on it.


    ¡°How serious are these feelings you¡¯re having for Jordan Darius?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I mean¡ªI¡¯m not¡ªI mean¡ªUGH, Irene.¡± Bina flops backward, her head almost dragging against the ground. ¡°This would be so much easier to say in Old One.¡±


    ¡°I know, Bean. But you have to get used to talking about it like this. Jordan¡¯s gonna want to.¡± I pause my swinging. ¡°Do you think you¡¯d enjoy sleeping with your warlock?¡±


    ¡°I, uh¡­¡± Bina wrings one of her pseudopod tails in her fists. ¡°I think yes.¡±


    I lean over and squeeze her shoulder. ¡°Well, I think it¡¯s a good idea.¡±


    She looks at me like I¡¯m a distant shore after days adrift. ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s love, then that¡¯s fabulous. If it¡¯s just a quick lay, humans like that, too.¡± I raise a finger. ¡°But one thing you don¡¯t want to do is mix them up and get her confused.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s love,¡± Bina says. ¡°I don¡¯t know how it feels to love like a human.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not an expert,¡± I say. ¡°I just have the one human. But maybe you can describe it to me and we¡¯ll figure it out.¡±


    ¡°Okay!¡± She clicks her heels together. ¡°Uh. Let¡¯s see. Every time I do something and Jordan¡¯s not there, I think about how it would be if Jordan was there doing it with me, and every time I remember something I did before, I think oh I should tell Jordan about that. And when I think about the future, sometimes I imagine Jordan not being there, for no reason at all, really, and it upsets me. And I made that statue over there of Jordan. So I can look at her when she¡¯s not looking in a mirror. And sometimes I just stare at it for twenty to thirty minutes.¡±


    She points into the tomb yard, and I notice for the first time that an impressively lifelike Jordan Darius is gazing at us with marble eyes.


    ¡°And she¡¯s started thinking these little jokes for me because she likes how much I laugh at her jokes, and even when they are really not funny at all, which is sort of often because she¡¯s got a really corny sense of humor, I laugh and laugh at them. And she can¡¯t even hear me. I just laugh. And then Jordan comes back¡­¡± Bina pauses.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°She comes back and I have to stop myself from touching her, like poking her with my tendrils or pulling her hair. And I want to do things to her. Like I want to eat her.¡±


    ¡°You want to eat her?¡±


    ¡°No. Yes. I don¡¯t know. If I could eat her without hurting her or killing her or inconveniencing her in any way. There¡¯s just this¡­ aggression. Like I want to do something drastic. It¡¯s just that she¡¯s inside me, so it¡¯s not like we can get any closer, but it¡¯s not close enough. And that is how I feel, mostly.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± I drum my fingers on the swing¡¯s chain. ¡°That¡¯s all sounding¡­ familiar, Bean.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to eat Caspar?¡±


    ¡°Kiiiind of.¡± I¡¯m not used to being so abashed when I talk to Bina. ¡°I think you¡¯re running humanoid software on your Old One hardware. I think you might be horny for Jordan.¡±


    ¡°Horny for Jordan.¡± Bina echoes me pensively. ¡°Guess I wouldn¡¯t know for sure unless I added some hormones and genitals and such.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. Do you want my advice?¡±


    ¡°Yes, please.¡±


    ¡°Untether for a while. Take this Bina, the cute one with the butt, give her some human-ish brain juices, and untether her. I¡¯ll transmit you the human systems I use. Endocrine, nervous. It¡¯s all easy enough to integrate.¡±


    She frowns. ¡°I thought you regretted untethering.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t lie. A healthy population of my logistical cortices did, and until we got into bed together I only had a very slim majority of my executive nodes in favor. But wow, have I changed my mind.¡± I kick my legs and propel myself into the air. ¡°That¡¯s love. It¡¯s this weird achy hurt-y feeling, and it gets achier and achier, and then it gets just fantastic.¡±


    Bina stays grounded. ¡°What if Jordan doesn¡¯t want it? Won¡¯t that hurt very badly?¡±


    ¡°Probably, yes. Very badly. But that¡¯s the risk. That¡¯s part of it. Letting them in means opening this piece of you up for them. Vulnerability.¡±


    She puffs an annoyed sigh. ¡°Well, that¡¯s not fair.¡±


    ¡°No it¡¯s not.¡±


    She starts swinging as well. The swing set creaks in time with us. ¡°How rotten.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°My old species would just indicate sexual readiness by turning our thoraxes yellow,¡± Bina says. ¡°Much less confusing.¡±


    ¡°Has it seemed like she wants it?¡±


    ¡°Umm.¡± Bina hops off the swing set at the apex of her jump. Her vestigial wings beat in the air and give her a few extra inches. She lands lightly. ¡°She¡¯s looking at my butt when she thinks I don¡¯t notice.¡±


    ¡°Nice.¡± I skid to a halt. ¡°Excellent. Good early indication. Caspar did that, y¡¯know.¡±


    ¡°He did?¡± She titters. ¡°That big softie?¡±


    ¡°The very same,¡± I say.


    ¡°Okay.¡± She takes a deep breath and stretches her back. ¡°Gimme the human brain juices.¡±


    "I should mention, Bina. The feelings can get strong enough to worm into the rest of you. I¡¯ve detected Caspar-love throughout my prime form.¡±


    Bina¡¯s eyes widen. ¡°And you haven¡¯t vented it?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°It feels too nice, and it''s given me additional clarity and drive. The rational tradeoff¡ªI think it¡¯s worth it. And every time another of my shoals disagrees, it¡¯s only until they get a taste of it, too. I¡¯m harmonious on this, now. It might not be so severe, with you and Jordan.¡±


    ¡°Well, now it¡¯s a competition,¡± she says. ¡°I bet I can get corrupted by love way harder than you can.¡±


    Our electrochemistry mingles for a moment as I speak your entire physiology to her in a few syllables. Don¡¯t feel too put out; they¡¯re very complicated syllables.


    She hums to herself as she interprets them and sets the pathways loose within her shifting body. ¡°I can¡¯t tell if this is a fantastic idea or a total disaster.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m wagering both,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s humanity in a nutshell.¡±

 27. A fight

    My molluscan prime form flits through the air beside Bina¡¯s hairy, cetaceous bulk. Below us, Saoirse sidewinds across the ruins of Heaven. Above us, Salome floats like a polar star. Our scout-forms and war-forms assemble around us. Shining glass, twisted metal, mossy fungus, barbed demon-flesh. A fearsome army. I wish I was confident it would be enough.


    We four sisters approach Ganea¡¯s fortress.


    This ugly, crenellated cube of cyclopean black used to be the Father¡¯s greatest war stronghold. It still bears the scars of the war to take Heaven. We laid siege to the place for many bloody years, only to find that He¡¯d never been within, that He¡¯d sealed himself further away and left His machines and relicts to fight a doomed war in his stead.


    Bugged the shit out of me, I¡¯ll tell you that. But Ganea didn¡¯t mind. Ganea lives for the fight.


    Her prime form uncoils itself from her black battlements. Massive and reptilian, like the dragons of human myth, plated in steel.


    Her red searchlight gaze lands on us.


    I don¡¯t try to communicate with her in Diamantan. We use the Old Tongue. My enmity, my love, my sympathy and my vindictiveness¡ªall of these intermingle in a whale song transmission that would take many thousands of pages to transcribe into a form safe for your ears.


    I¡¯ll summarize:


    ¡°Hello, sister. Where were we?¡±


    ???????????


    One last stop on the outskirts of Pastornos, before they¡¯re in the city proper. An improbably upscale tavern on the edge of a dusky suburb.


    The Calfsport, it¡¯s called. A fusion of old world glamor and the reflective darkness of modernity. Caspar walks with Jordan through its upstairs gastropub, where some late revelers wile away their final hours sheltered from real life, long after the kitchen¡¯s closed.


    Jordan carries Peat Moss in doggy form. That gets some looks that bounce right off her aviators. Sunglasses indoors and at night. The regulars steer clear. These two strangers are clearly guests of the Downstairs.


    They descend into the Calfsport¡¯s dark-dance basement. No show on tonight. Only chairs racked atop tables, a lone bartender cleaning up the sticky spills of the day. And, at a table still set up in the room¡¯s central cavern, the gun-dealer.


    ¡°Folks. So sorry.¡± From his station behind the chrome counter, the bartender flashes them an apologetic smile. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we¡¯re closed. You¡¯ve missed last call.¡±


    ¡°We have an appointment.¡± Caspar slips a fifty-ducat bill across the bar. ¡°With the purveyor.¡±


    The bartender¡¯s wrist flicks and the ducat note is spirited away. ¡°I see. My apologies.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all right, Harry.¡± The man at the cafe table waves them forward. ¡°They¡¯re late breakers, but they¡¯re expected. Welcome, pilgrims. Name¡¯s Carlo.¡±


    ¡°Abe.¡± Caspar offers his hand.


    Carlo shakes it. ¡°Interesting phone call you placed to me, Abe.¡±


    Caspar takes a seat across from the man. Jordan¡¯s to his left. ¡°Fellow in your occupation is used to interesting calls, no?¡±


    ¡°Not with accents like yours.¡± Carlo pulls a silvery wand lighter out and sparks his cigarette. ¡°Not so late and not so quick. But business is business and I¡¯m always looking for suppliers or clients. Here¡¯s the bad news: I didn¡¯t bring guns, and I didn¡¯t bring cash. I brought Everett.¡±


    Caspar watches carefully as the dealer¡¯s friend detaches from his unlit corner. The man is a goddamn tower. It¡¯s a credit to the modern, spacious digs of the Calfsport Tavern that exiting his lean doesn¡¯t scrape his head across the basement¡¯s crossbeams.


    Carlo takes a first drag as his muscle¡¯s shadow falls across the table. ¡°So if you¡¯re looking for a shakedown, look elsewhere.¡±


    Jordan holds both her hands up. ¡°No shakedown. Just two folks looking for a new, lucrative friend.¡±


    ¡°Harry,¡± Carlo calls. ¡°Usual, please.¡± The bartender nods his assent and starts plucking comestibles from the racks at his back. Carlo turns to Jordan. ¡°Cute dog, mate.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Jordan says. ¡°I¡¯d keep him at home, but he needs the exercise.¡±


    ¡°Will you drink?¡±


    Jordan shakes her head. Caspar, after a moment, follows suit.


    ¡°Respectfully, Abe and friend,¡± Carlo says. ¡°The business depends on trust. And trust comes from prior relationships and associations. You, here, out of the blue¡­ it does things to the hair on my neck.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± Caspar says. ¡°But respectfully, Carlo and friend.¡± He leans across the table. ¡°You aren¡¯t the man we¡¯re here to talk to.¡±


    The cocktail shaker rattles one more time and falls silent.


    ¡°Ah,¡± the bartender says. ¡°You¡¯re Irene¡¯s.¡±


    Caspar turns in his chair. ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    The bartender slices a wedge off a lime and garnishes it on the edge of the glass. ¡°Sorry, Carlo. Sorry, Everett.¡±


    The dealer looks up from his table. ¡°What¡ª¡±


    The lime-cutting petty knife sprouts from his eye.


    Everett¡¯s hand claps to his throat. There¡¯s a two-pronged olive fork sticking from it.


    The Iron Butcher pours the cocktail into the highball glass in front of him as Carlo¡¯s muscle crumples to the floor.


    ¡°He tipped excellently,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ll have to take my pound of flesh, you making me do that.¡±


    Caspar gets to his feet as Carlo¡¯s blood pools across the marble.


    Ganea¡¯s eyes flash in bitter realization as our war-forms surge forth. The stronghold gates yawn open and a sea of many-legged steel manifestations emerges.


    ¡°Before we begin.¡± The Iron Butcher places the cut lime on the counter. ¡°Would anyone like a Gin Rickey?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s upon the Butcher in two leaping strides, carapace pouring down his face and chest. Jordan brings their table crashing to the ground, skidding the water glasses across the floor. Peat Moss bounds onto Carlo¡¯s abandoned seat and launches from it into a clattering skid onto the bar.


    By the time he lands, the Butcher has already broken Caspar¡¯s collarbone. A pinioning grab and a sharp slam against the counter was all it took; the wood warps where Caspar rebounds off of it. He staggers back, his splintered bone sending sharp shocks through his spine as I repair him.


    Jordan fires a fan of .45 lead into the Butcher, but his armor¡¯s already forging across his entire body. The one bullet that was fast enough to make it under the plate tears a chunk from his lung that¡¯s already regrown in the time it takes Caspar to find his footing.


    The Butcher and Ganea are so in-sync that he barely needs to think it. Everything he does is easily twice as fast as what Caspar and I are capable of. He stands before them, shod head to foot in an ugly, pitted carapace. Brutal and functional, its contours akin to renaissance munition plate, its only adornment the dry blood and battlescars that have accumulated over violent years.


    ¡°Peat!¡± Caspar throws his hand out and stills the fawn in his tracks. The Butcher holds a knife light in his hand, his spike-shoed feet planted, his eyes hidden behind the metal grille of his faceplate.


    The four warlocks form a loose circle; the Butcher behind the bar, Peat Moss atop its edge, Jordan in cover, Caspar breathing hard as the bone finishes knitting.


    The Iron Butcher reaches forward and takes up the Gin Rickey from the bar. ¡°I¡¯ll have it, then, shall I?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s newly improved claws dagger out from his fists as he and Peat Moss pincer toward the Butcher. Peat¡¯s headbutt is ducked; Caspar¡¯s claws are deflected in a shower of sparks. The knife slides into Caspar¡¯s hip and sticks there, a barb of white-hot agony. He didn¡¯t even see the blade coming. The Butcher¡¯s head tilts back as he finishes the gin in one swallow, then hurls the glass overhand into Jordan¡¯s brandished handgun, knocking her shot wide.


    Caspar spear-tackles the Butcher, folds him in half as they both go sprawling behind the bar. My warlock ignores the screaming nerve endings in his pelvis and once more brings to bear his new claws. Stubby, cruel barbs, sharp and hooked, designed to puncture and tear rather than slice neatly. He grapples the thick talons against the Iron Butcher¡¯s breastplate, grinds two of them into the shoulder joint and tears. Armor and flesh peel.


    The Butcher clamps his elbow around Caspar¡¯s forearm and rams his knee into the knife, driving it deeper. He maintains his hold as he stands. His right hand calcifies into a scissoring gladiator-blade which sings with speed as it bites into Caspar¡¯s shielding pauldron.


    Jordan vaults the counter, pistol clubbed, and wraps all four limbs around the Butcher, bending him backward and slamming him to the floor. It¡¯s a bare second before he¡¯s returned to his feet, the inspector piggy-backed on him. The .45 roars two shots into the side of his head, but even at this range and against the thin metal of his faceplate, neither penetrates. Her third bullet pierces between the sliding plates in his spaulder and throws a fan of blood onto the bar; that¡¯s as many squeezes of the trigger as she manages before he flips her forward over his shoulders.


    Caspar catches her and rolls her across the counter; she tucks herself against the other side and ejects the mag on her .45. Her partner weaves into the place she left, focusing his jabs on the fresh patch of blood Jordan painted, but it¡¯s no use. The Butcher¡¯s already healing.


    At his full power, our warlocks are doomed. They have one chance:


    Us.


    Ganea¡¯s prime form leaps from the ramparts. She lands in the midst of her ocean of steel, crushing masonry and an errant manifestation that didn¡¯t get out of the way quickly enough.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Salome unleashes a glimmering tide of war-forms. Peat Moss¡¯s acid dissolves a cooler and spills bottles of cheap beer across the floor. Bina¡¯s teeth close around Ganea¡¯s flank. The Butcher¡¯s fist crushes a dent into Peat¡¯s faceplate. Jordan finishes reloading and sends a bullet through the Butcher¡¯s leg. Saoirse rolls a cloud of corrosive breath into Ganea¡¯s face. Caspar locks a toe hold into their foe¡¯s damaged knee. I whirl razor tendrils into my sister¡¯s side, carving flesh from her bulk. The Butcher sinks an axe-handle heel into Caspar¡¯s abdomen with his uncontrolled boot.


    Blood stains the bar. Mortal bones break and wounds open, then the gore reverses like some camera trick as they close up again.


    Ichor stains Heaven. A dozen manifestations die with each passing breath, disemboweling one another in alleyways or crashing in mid-air and spiraling to dash themselves on the frozen flagstones. Bloody claws, tearing maws, curtains of gore.


    Across two dimensions, we rip each other apart.


    Ganea hurls Bina into a tower; its upper half collapses. A cloud of rust and masonry billows forth as its pillars give way, burying Bina in titanic rubble. Jordan¡¯s armor falters at the exact wrong time. A full bottle of top shelf reserve shatters across her face. She plummets onto the glittering floor.


    Caspar¡¯s attention snaps to his sister. Bad move. Chitin squeals on chitin as the Butcher¡¯s arm and biceps scissor shut across his throat.


    Caspar¡¯s ears depressurize. There¡¯s a grinding click in his neck. This isn¡¯t a choke. The Iron Butcher is about to tear his goddamn head off.


    I¡¯m trying to slide armor across Caspar¡¯s throat, but Ganea¡¯s prioritizing me, seeing how close to a kill her Butcher is. I¡¯m swarmed with her steel beetles. Every iota of magic I send to Caspar is another defense dropped, another incision made in me. They¡¯re inside now, excavating my corridors, shredding tissue. I summon war-forms within myself; in the slowed time of my demesne, instants become minutes, and in the space of a single exterior blow, entire skirmishes and ambushes are fought.


    Ganea doesn¡¯t know about my sanctum, about the souls I¡¯m keeping. I shift the pocket dimension deeper within myself to ensure she doesn¡¯t find out.


    Saoirse twines herself around Ganea¡¯s leg and dissolves a great stripe of black mold into her flesh. The Butcher¡¯s gruesomely striated muscles lose their mistress¡¯s enhancement. He doesn¡¯t let go of Caspar¡¯s neck, but his ripping grasp becomes a typical blood choke. He frowns in perturbed disbelief at the sudden absence of power.


    Peat Moss connects with a solid slamming headbutt to the small of the Butcher¡¯s back. He drops Caspar into a heap before him.


    Jordan plants her gun against the nape of the Butcher¡¯s neck and empties her fresh magazine into it. The gleaming white of his spinal column shows through the ruinous windows she¡¯s drilled in him. His jaw¡¯s pulverized; his flapping tongue hangs out of the rented tears in his helmet. He slumps to the floor; Caspar rolls to one side to avoid his timbering drop.


    Jordan is covered in blood and whiskey. Her nose is badly broken. She flips the emptied gun in her hand and mounts the Butcher, bringing the butt down again and again into his head. Her armor reforges; Bina bursts forth from the tower she was hurled into.


    Ganea shakes Saoirse from her and refocuses. The Butcher¡¯s teeth, scattered across the floor, rocket back into the Butcher¡¯s mouth. One pings straight through Jordan¡¯s hand as it returns, punching a dime-sized hole in her palm and jittering the gun from her fingers. The momentary shock of pain is all the Iron Butcher needs.


    His hand shoots out and seizes Jordan around the busted face. He slams her armored head into the bar once, twice, three times. Her skull rattles inside her helmet like a bell clapper. Her clenching legs loosen and he rises to a knee, shifting his grip to her neck. With a chalky crunch, he breaks it.


    Her brain is severed from her body. Her breathing halts.


    Caspar¡¯s leg comes whistling toward The Butcher¡¯s head. He drops Jordan, jukes and catches Caspar around the calf without even turning around.


    Caspar detaches at the hip. The stumped leg dangles in the Butcher¡¯s arms. Caspar still feels the bone pop and punch out through his flesh as the Butcher snaps it, still groans through gritted teeth against the pain, but he¡¯s out from his foe¡¯s clutches, and from the floor he darts out a vicious sweep kick that knocks the Butcher back onto his ass.


    Ganea¡¯s warlock kips to his feet with a dancer¡¯s grace and spins out of the way of Peat Moss¡¯s charge. Swinging Caspar¡¯s leg like a heavy maul, he swats the fawn out of the air, sends him crashing into the shelves of liquor in a cascade of glass and expensive bourbon.


    A tether of flesh lashes Caspar to his leg; so hellaciously strong is the Butcher¡¯s handhold on his improvised weapon that, instead of snapping the limb back to Caspar, the spell instead slingshots Caspar up from the floor. A rare error from Ganea¡¯s warlock. The momentum slams Caspar into the Butcher knee-to-gut and ricochets the man¡¯s head off the reflective wall behind the bar.


    Lymph and blood weep from the sealing puncture as Caspar¡¯s compound fracture sucks itself back inside. The magic is sluggish and accompanied by a flood of lactic acid. He¡¯s pushing himself past his limits. He pivots on the newly fixed leg to throw a punishing combination of clawed punches into the pucker his knee knocked into the Butcher. Blood flecks out from the man¡¯s helmet. He catches Caspar¡¯s fist, unflinching even as one of my warlock¡¯s claws shunts through his wrist. He twists his grip so punishingly taut that two of Caspar¡¯s fingers pop from their knuckled housings.


    Two things happen at once:


    Peat Moss hocks a stream of acid at the Butcher¡¯s outstretched forearm.


    Salome launches a mirror ball war-form with marksman accuracy into Ganea¡¯s eye socket.


    It burrows into Ganea¡¯s skull and then whirls itself apart, sending shrapnel blurring through our sister and ventilating her frontal lobe. She loosens a tyrannosaur scream and thrashes as she¡¯s forced into emergency repairs.


    The Butcher¡¯s gauntlet loosens and crumbles at the revocation of his mistress¡¯s attention. Peat Moss¡¯s acid splashes against the exposed forearm and boils the flesh into dirty fog. It melts like mozzarella, exposing the twin-span bridge of radius and ulna.


    Caspar¡¯s fist hammers down and shatters them. The Butcher¡¯s arm falls to the floor in a shower of bone shards. Caspar¡¯s hand crackles back into position and he nearly swoons with pain and fatigue. The system strain is too much.


    A stinging snap. His healed hand shoots to his neck and for a moment he can¡¯t comprehend the jagged fragment that¡¯s stuck in it.


    The Butcher has thrown a lancet of his own broken bone like a dagger. It¡¯s slid right through the strain-widened gap between helmet and gorget and into my warlock¡¯s jugular.


    This fucking guy.


    He sweeps past my dazed, bleeding warlock and delivers a kick of such magnitude that it sends Peat Moss across the room like a football. The fawn bounces off a wall and crashes through a table.


    Finally, finally, the Butcher¡¯s healing factor seems to falter. The arm he lost is regrowing in faulty wet ribbons that hang bonelessly like gory streamers. Ganea isn¡¯t losing her fight with us¡ªfar from it¡ªbut the distraction intermingling with the system strain our warlocks have layered into the Butcher¡¯s brain. The opening is here.


    But it¡¯s no opening if none of our warlocks can take advantage. Peat just got cold cocked. Caspar¡¯s bleeding out. Jordan¡¯s seizing and thrashing as her nerve endings try to link back up.


    Ganea¡¯s beetles¡ªthose who we haven¡¯t already taken apart¡ªcourse toward Bina, trapped within my sister¡¯s serrated grip. Bina flails. Her power is too wrapped up in repairing her fractured warlock; if she stops, Jordan will die. She¡¯s helpless.


    I know what I have to do. These mortals have borne enough pain for me. It¡¯s my turn.


    I plow into Ganea with asteroid force. It wounds me much more than it wounds her, as the shockwave ripples through me, but I manage to wrap a set of tendrils around her enormous claw.


    I pull with everything in me. More war-forms spill from the cracks in Ganea¡¯s steel carapace and skitter along my limbs, biting and scything.


    A bellow sounds from Ganea and a steel-girder squeal pierces the sky as I wrench her claw open just enough to free Bina, who darts away, trailing a fountain of blood from her weeping sides. I scramble from Ganea¡¯s vengeful grasp, trying to latch onto her humped back where her claws can¡¯t reach me.


    But I¡¯m too slow. She catches a tentacle. I detach it in desperation, but not before she¡¯s yanked it hard enough to jerk me back into her grip. Grappling barbs fire from her colossus and perforate me. She turns all her strength upon me. Her steel-shod talons sink in.


    This is going to hurt.


    My favorite manifestation drops like a falling comet into the undead town square that¡¯s been built inside my prime form. I do everything I can to memorize its constructs; they won¡¯t survive this.


    ¡°Everyone inside the taphouse.¡± My voice amplifies and booms across the field. ¡°Now now now.¡±


    A hue and cry and general commotion greets these words, but to my satisfaction they are obeyed. Edgar pauses in the doorframe. ¡°We still can¡¯t find that hermit fella Stephen,¡± he says. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    I curse and yank the ground like a tablecloth. From half a mile away, the yelping recluse spills into my arms. I shove him into the taphouse, follow him inside, and slap the door shut.


    I point at the windows. The glass frosts and thickens.


    ¡°Ma¡¯am.¡± Edgar again, staid and fearful, his voice the crowning bauble of a nervous commotion. ¡°What is going on?¡±


    I surround the taphouse in a dense layer of blubber and leathery hide. Then I collapse at the bar and cling to the rack of taps to keep from seizing. ¡°Keep your heads down and your eyes closed,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m about to be breached.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s neck has sealed, but that¡¯s all I can do; the rest of my power is pouring into mitigating the horrible thing that is about to happen to me. His ribs stay broken, his head stays ringing, his contusions remain like black storm clouds across his pummeled flesh.


    Ganea heaves. I burn off as many nerve endings as I can, but there¡¯s only so quickly I can go, and I howl at the wrenching pressure. Bones crackle. Forests of tendon snap with thundering suspension-bridge twangs. A sickening, dangling lightness. I part.


    My elder sister tears me in half.


    I fail you as a narrator. I can¡¯t describe how it feels. I can¡¯t think. I¡¯m out of metaphors. I don¡¯t have words for it in your tongue. There¡¯s nothing but pain.


    I¡¯m sorry.


    Saoirse bounds through the new abyss between the two halves of me and wraps her serpentine folds around Ganea¡¯s arms. My older sister has over-committed, spent so much of her strength on me that the constriction finally holds. Salome unleashes a war cry of pitch and volume that would curdle a mortal mind to cottage cheese to hear it, as her knife-edged manifold burrows into the flesh of Ganea¡¯s vast thorax. Bina¡¯s war-forms buzz through Saoirse¡¯s fungal forest, intercepting Ganea¡¯s next wave and dismantling them.


    Still, Ganea throws my sisters from her. Still, her horde outpaces and outbattles them. She¡¯s too armored and armed. Her tower-sized lungs fill with Heaven¡¯s rotten air and convert it into another earsplitting roar.


    Furious whistling breaths billow from the Iron Butcher as he brings his single remaining elbow down over and over across Caspar¡¯s battered face. Both men are entirely disempowered now. A red darkness creeps in from the corners of my warlock¡¯s vision. His consciousness is fading.


    A splash, a sizzle, and an acrid smell jerk him back from the brink. He watches the angry red patch of skin bloom forth from the Butcher¡¯s shirt as acid eats it away.


    The Butcher turns, but the pain and the blood loss slow him down too much. Two percussive blasts open two pits in his stomach. He drops beside Caspar, shuddering on the blood-slick floor. Jordan plants her foot on his neck. One knuckle-scraped hand is holding her .45. The other is curled around Peat Moss¡¯s midsection, hefting him on her shoulder like a bazooka.


    A hand cannon and glaring baby deer point between the Butcher¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Ganea.¡± She spits my sister¡¯s name out along with a broken tooth. ¡°He evokes again, he dies.¡±


    Ganea screams. Ganea rages and roils. Ganea slams another barb through my face and pops one of my eyes like a vitreous balloon. Ganea sags to the ground, flattening a city block.


    I YIELD.


    I roll over, trailing a river of black blood from my torn-open body. One of my tentacles drapes across my floored sister.


    I hold her, what¡¯s left of me, amid the ruin and the gore.


    Caspar¡¯s wavering mind chooses this moment to pass out.


    ???????????


    Take a beached whale the size of a town and feed it to a colossal wood chipper. Hollow out a throbbing cavern in its flesh. Ensure it survives, but only just. This is where Caspar awakens. In me; in Hell.


    He staggers upright, feet unsteady on the spongy ground. I try to solidify the floor, to hide some of my bleeding biomass, and a spike of existential pain rocks me. I¡¯e been hurt this badly before,, but not in many thousands of years. It¡¯s all I can do to keep a flickering light and breathable air inside my ruined body for him.


    He creeps through me, careful to shield his eyes from where the pallid light of Heaven seeps through my mottled wounds. Broken masonry and cracked glass intermingle with the secreting flesh I can no longer conceal. Below their bending cartilaginous supports, my membranes tremor with effort as they keep tens of thousands of tons of barely alive Old One from prolapsing and crushing him.


    The bier he typically wakes up on is lodged halfway into a pile of pathetically flopping viscera. A manifestation curls nearby, shivering and malformed. Caspar crouches before it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t. No.¡± I raise skinless tendrils before my face. ¡°Don¡¯t look. Don¡¯t look.¡±


    A tear rolls down his cheek and drips off his chin. He lays his palm on me.


    I claw at his chest. ¡°I need to send you back. I need. I need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare,¡± he whispers. He sits on the bleeding floor and pulls my broken, glistening body into his lap. He gazes at me. The fused flesh, the weeping wounds, the jellified pseudopods. I¡¯m nothing. I¡¯m hideous. I¡¯m not even humanoid. Just a lump of pained meat. A deep-sea corpse washed up on the shore, helpless and alien. He was never meant to see me like this. He can¡¯t see me like this. He can¡¯t.


    ¡°Caspar,¡± I sob. Only that. Only his name. Pitch-black tears of ichor drip onto his thigh.


    ¡°Miss Irene.¡± He bends down and plants a kiss on my distended mantle. ¡°I¡¯m here, baby.¡±


    In the middle of this nightmare, the universal wound that my existence has become, he holds me. No hedge magic in his hands. No magic of mine, either. But somehow, his touch still blunts the pain.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± he says again.


    His words echo through the dilapidated chambers of my heart. The space balloons them, as though this minuscule human¡¯s voice was so much larger than it is.

 28. An escape

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe I let you see me in squid monster mode.¡± I wrap my arms tighter around Caspar¡¯s shoulders as he picks his way around the headstones. ¡°So much for easing you in.¡±


    ¡°Wait till you see me in pannenkoek monster mode,¡± Caspar says. ¡°I put those motherfuckers away three at a time. That¡¯s some inhumanity.¡±


    ¡°It really didn¡¯t bug you?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a privilege of being a woman¡¯s man to see her without her face made up.¡± Caspar hikes me up his back. ¡°Same difference. Just a little more literal for you and me.¡±


    I kiss the back of his head. ¡°You are my perfect himbo, Caspar Cartwright.¡±


    He takes the epithet with smiling grace. It¡¯s the mark of a sensitive, intelligent lover to know exactly the right moments to be a bit of a dunce.


    Caspar carries me up a mossy hill. On its crest stands the taphouse, relocated to Bina¡¯s demesne. The agony made me lose my grip on nearly everything I¡¯d made. It¡¯s a point of pride to me that despite losing every other illusion I¡¯d wrapped myself in, the taphouse held. I even kept the brews chilled. Now that I¡¯m not fighting to keep the place and the people inside it from ruin, I have enough juice in me to bring back my proper manifestation.


    There¡¯s a gathering outside¡ªa getting-to-know-Bina¡¯s-guts sort of thing, mixed with an impromptu celebration of our survival. A set of cheap plastic chairs, a grill, an icebox. Mostly it¡¯s dead people. I took the discrete liberty of picking up the gun-dealer and his muscleman, though Bina¡¯s got them stashed in a crypt somewhere while they adjust to their strange hereafter. Collecting these mortals has become a minor hobby. It tickles me, seeing how they interact. I¡¯ve found myself rooting for that horn dog, Degmar. One of the checkpoint templars has taken it upon himself to be a romantic rival for Alys; when Degmar thrashed him at a not-so-friendly game of pool, I silently cheered the card dealer on.


    Sam the bricklayer¡¯s at the grill, carefully caramelizing a row of wurst. Bina keeps it altogether warmer in her demesne than my chilly autumnal dusk, and he¡¯s taken the opportunity to strip down to a grubby tank top. Kai (the man whose mouth I stole once) is having trouble hiding his admiration of his friend¡¯s trapezius. On Diamante, he was a faithful man¡ªan industrious clerk who promised his padre and his parents he¡¯d save himself for the chapel and for a nice young woman he could give a child. But he¡¯ll never set foot on Diamante again. Maybe here he¡¯s someone different.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let her boss you into carrying her around everywhere,¡± Salome calls, as Caspar places me in a stubby white lawn chair. She¡¯s perched elegantly atop a sunken mausoleum¡¯s fallen wall. ¡°That manifestation is perfectly able.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her, lover.¡± I kiss his ear. ¡°I¡¯m very weak.¡±


    He passes me a beer, then eases into the seat next to me and kicks his feet up onto a boulder. ¡°Truth be told, Miss Salome, I just enjoy lifting heavy weights.¡± He glances at me. ¡°And light, petite weights.¡±


    I pat his bicep. ¡°Good boy.¡±


    ¡°So fascinating, isn¡¯t it. How hard humans work to change themselves. And only the specific changes they¡¯d like.¡± Saoirse is tearing greasy little pieces of her sausage off and feeding them to a colony of ants that has gathered by her feet. ¡°Months at the gymnasium, ballooning their arms. But give them a perfectly benign little growth or a swelling and the world¡¯s ending. Hello, Caspar.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Miss Saoirse,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You all right down there, Adaire?¡±


    Salome¡¯s warlock lounges on the grass. No beer and brats for Adaire¡ªshe¡¯s stirring a small tureen of lobster bisque that she brought from Salome¡¯s demesne.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I¡¯m just asleep. You¡¯re the unconscious one.¡±


    Caspar winces. ¡°Tricky one out there.¡±


    ¡°My condolences and congratulations. This is about how I expected a victory against Mr. Butcher would look.¡± Adaire blows on her soup.


    ¡°If Adaire is watching, look alive, girl.¡± On the viewport, Jordan¡¯s loading several surviving liquors into a knapsack. ¡°Bout to wake you up. I need help getting these boys out.¡± She gestures to Caspar and the Butcher, whose gut shots she allowed him to evoke shut before she trussed him up in just about every ziptie left in their arsenal. ¡°And then it¡¯s high time you escaped.¡±


    ¡°Oh, tits,¡± Adaire mutters, and picks up the pace on her bisque.


    Alys¡¯s fellow prison guard, a stud named Loras with a disarming lisp, eyes the stolen alcohol with jealousy. ¡°That bourbon¡¯s a Revulin ¡®86. You people better not waste that.¡±


    ¡°Oh, look at him. My little pookie.¡± Saoirse coos as Jordan follows Peat Moss back up to the Calfsport¡¯s main floor. ¡°He did so well, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    Caspar grins at their little adopted warlock¡¯s ungainly gait up the steps. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Saoirse smiles at Caspar. ¡°He likes you very much, you know.¡±


    ¡°That, uh.¡± Caspar tries not to show how deeply the affection of the deer monster touches him. ¡°That¡¯s good to hear.¡±


    Jordan braces herself to return to the first floor in a hellion everyone out register, but there¡¯s no need. At the sound of gunfire below, the last patrons cleared out. Only a matter of time before the templars show up. She puts some hustle into her step.


    ¡°Bina,¡± Salome calls. ¡°Would you mind a spot of dilation? I need my warlock for a while longer.¡±


    My sister doesn¡¯t have a manifestation present, but we¡¯re inside her; she hears us just fine. The world, through the viewport, slows to a fifth of its usual speed.


    Salome gestures. ¡°Attend, my warlock. We have to plan your escape with Tilliam.¡±


    ¡°Yes, mistress.¡± Adaire places her bisque to one side and stands, wiping the grass from her legs. After so much time with Caspar, Bina, and Jordan, it¡¯s strange to see such a traditional and obedient Old One/Warlock dynamic.


    Though I bet I could get Caspar to say yes, mistress if I wanted.


    ¡°But before we depart. Irene, Caspar.¡± Salome moves to the icebox. ¡°You both fought valiantly. And shed a lot of blood. And while I maintain it was a necessary battle, better brought to Ganea than sprung on us, it was my call and my plan, and my demand.¡± She opens the lid. ¡°I made this for the two of you.¡±


    She pulls out a sloppy cylindrical cake, with a sheet of plastic film over it. Red icing, squeezed by an inexpert hand, reads THANK YOU atop it.


    ¡°Salami,¡± I say. ¡°Is this handmade?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Adaire tells me that¡¯s important.¡±


    ¡°Not necessarily,¡± Adaire says. ¡°Not to me. I¡¯d take a five-star dark forest gateau any day. I said it¡¯s probably important to Caspar. Given what I know of the man.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s grinning huge. ¡°It¡¯s very appreciated, Miss Salome.¡±


    ¡°Look at all this edible glitter.¡± I run a finger across the frosting. ¡°My goodness.¡±


    ¡°Just eat the fucking thing, all right?¡± Salome clicks her tongue. It pings off the roof of her mouth like a doorbell. ¡°So I can stop looking at it.¡±


    We eat together as Salome departs with Adaire.


    ¡°It¡¯s good.¡± Caspar chews. ¡°Little yeasty, but good.¡±


    ¡°Probably the first time Salami actually baked something,¡± I say. ¡°We just manifest most of the time.¡±


    ¡°Adaire¡¯s right,¡± Caspar says. ¡°It¡¯s about making the thing. Remind me to do up a strudel for you once you¡¯re fixed up and we¡¯re back home.¡±


    I pick at my slice. ¡°That might¡­ take a while, Cas.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s okay.¡± He puts a hand on my knee. ¡°You take the time you need.¡±


    I flinch slightly at his touch. ¡°I won¡¯t be able to give you the power you¡¯re used to. Or do the things that I normally can.¡±


    ¡°Poor Irene doesn¡¯t want to say it,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°But she¡¯s in a great deal of pain.¡±


    ¡°Sersh,¡± I warn.


    Caspar goes pale. ¡°Still?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª¡± I can¡¯t say I¡¯m okay, or it¡¯s fine. I can¡¯t lie to him. ¡°I¡¯m recovering. It¡¯ll pass.¡± I shrink from his stricken expression. ¡°You don¡¯t need to look at me like that or be delicate with me, okay? I¡¯ve got it separated from this manifestation. It¡¯s something the rest of me is dealing with.¡±


    ¡°How bad?¡± he asks. I hear the soothing village doctor in his voice.


    I promised him I wouldn¡¯t hide anything from him anymore. I sigh. ¡°It¡¯s, uh. It¡¯s agony.¡±


    His hazel eyes flash.


    ¡°If I was human, I¡¯d be mad with it. Or just dying of shock, I don¡¯t know. But I¡¯m not,¡± I hastily add. ¡°I¡¯m on top of it.¡±


    Caspar leans closer. ¡°There has to be something I can do.¡±


    ¡°Sure there is,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°You could let her eat one of these little souls you¡¯ve been storing in her.¡±


    Aaron¡¯s eyes jolt to where we sit, like a flighty rabbit¡¯s.


    ¡°No.¡± My reply is sharp.


    ¡°He asked.¡± Saoirse shrugs. ¡°Irene may not have told you this, sir warlock, but when my kind devours a soul, it brings a good deal of power. Even a little mortal morsel would be enough to jumpstart her healing process. That¡¯s the reason Eight is such a holy terror these days. She eats her warlocks when she¡¯s through with them.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t the rest of you do it?¡±


    She titters. ¡°We¡¯re monsters, Caspar Cartwright, not monsters. It¡¯s a shortcut and a rather grisly one. Also, your wife made us all swear we wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    A stab of surprise from Caspar. I remember how touchy he gets about these mortal terms. ¡°I¡¯m not his wife,¡± I say.


    ¡°No?¡± Saoirse taps her foot. ¡°What do I call you, then? You can¡¯t both be consorts. He¡¯s the consort.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m his girlfriend.¡±


    She tsks amusedly. ¡°Really, Irene. How many millennia old are we?¡±


    Caspar chews his lip. ¡°What about a piece of one? Of a soul. Is it an all-or-nothing thing? Or is it like eating a leg?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more or less like eating a leg,¡± Saoirse says.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like eating a leg. Caspar¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the leg equivalent?¡± Caspar asks.


    ¡°Don¡¯t answer that, Sersh.¡±


    ¡°A sense, or an emotion,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Or a memory.¡±


    I throw my hands in the air.


    ¡°A memory? A memory is fine,¡± Caspar says. ¡°I¡¯d lose a memory.¡±


    ¡°Caspar. Let me fix myself.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in pain,¡± he says. ¡°At least let me take that away. How about the first five years? When I still lived with my parents. My older sister. My blood family. Would all my memories of them do?¡±


    Saoirse hums. ¡°I imagine that¡¯d be a rather effective little painkiller.¡±


    ¡°Cas.¡± I push a palm into his chest. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re barely anyone to me, Miss Irene,¡± he says. ¡°Blurry faces and quarterly phone calls, and a calendar of awkward holidays. And if this is forever, then a few years shaved off the very front, what difference does that make? Blink of an eye. That¡¯s not me.¡± His fingers twine into mine. ¡°This is me.¡±


    I brush my lips against his thumb where it folds around mine. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t choose me,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You chose me. I choose you back.¡±


    He takes a knee before me. ¡°Do I need to do anything for this?¡±


    I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m doing this. I¡¯m eating a piece of my boyfriend. I blink back my gall and emotion. ¡°Just¡­ think about them. And hold still.¡±


    Most of it just lifts right off him. He¡¯s not precious about these memories. They fall from him like slow-roasted meat off the bone.


    I can¡¯t keep from releasing a whimper as it siphons off. The pain diminishes almost instantly. It¡¯s so good. So warm. A hunger I¡¯ve held at bay for decades, slaked once again.


    One little thing remains. The only thing he holds on to. The first gorgeous day in summer and they picked him up from seminary and drove to the beach. His parents and sister and her boyfriend.


    His father handed him an ice cold soda, and the sea air kissed the condensation against his fingers. ¡°You¡¯re being a good kid, right?¡± His father¡¯s smile, crinkly at the edges, and Caspar saw himself in it, in the dimples. ¡°You¡¯ve always been such a good kid. Your mom and I, it wasn¡¯t anything you did. Just couldn¡¯t feed another one.¡± He popped opened the cap for Caspar with a little keychain opener. ¡°But we¡¯ve always been proud of you. You know we have. Right?¡±


    Caspar took the first crisp sip. And he said¡ª


    ¡ªsomething.


    His reply, the beach, the taste, his father¡¯s face. His sister¡¯s name. The songs his mother sang to him when he was fussy in her arms.


    It all goes away.


    He reaches for the memories and they¡¯re just gone. No hole or staticky censor. Just a total void. He knows he had a father, but he couldn¡¯t tell you the first thing about him. This affects him more than he thought it would, more than he wants it to.


    ¡°Good?¡± he asks me.


    My eyes shudder shut. I wish I could describe the taste to you. It¡¯s like the thing from your childhood, the thing. The taste you half-recall whenever you¡¯re trying something delicious. Your measuring stick. Like it was pulled out of you and served you again, and it tasted exactly as good as you remember, and it filled you up perfectly.


    I open my eyes again and my vision fills with his face. He¡¯s crouching in front of me, full of hope and concern.


    I lay my hands on his cheekbones and my forehead against his. ¡°I¡¯ve never had a faith or a religion,¡± I whisper. ¡°Nobody I¡¯ve ever prayed to, nothing above myself. This is the first time I¡¯ve ever felt its lacking. What god can I thank for giving me a lover like you?¡±


    ¡°You can thank yourself.¡± He kisses the little ridge where my nose isn¡¯t. ¡°You saved me in every way a person can be saved.¡±


    I don¡¯t care that my sisters are here, or Adaire, or all our victims. I wrap my fingers around the back of my warlock¡¯s head and kiss him long and deep.


    ¡°How viscous,¡± Saoirse observes.


    ???????????


    The Butcher is in captivity. Salome is treating with Ganea over the terms of surrender. Our part of the bargain is finished. Adaire is now working as our agent. The next step is to stage an escape, so that she can continue her act with Tilliam and turn his presence here to our benefit.


    Caspar and Jordan decide, for the sake of verisimilitude, to get rip-roaring drunk in their cheap hotel room. They leave Salome¡¯s warlock and the archbishop in the van.


    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ shit, do I love being a warlock.¡± Jordan flicks a bottle cap off with her thumb. ¡°Look at that. I couldn¡¯t used to do that. I¡¯m strong as fuck.¡±


    ¡°Let me. Let me try that.¡± Caspar reaches for a bottle. Jordan passes it over. ¡°Ow. God dammit.¡± He chuckles and tries again. ¡°How the hell. Oh, Peat, that¡¯s probably plastic, kiddo.¡±


    Peat Moss is chewing on the ratty bouquet their motel room is furnished with. ¡°Oh,¡± he says. ¡°That makes sense. Tastes terrible.¡± He hops off the desk. ¡°Can I have a beer?¡±


    Caspar shakes his head. ¡°When you¡¯re older.¡±


    ¡°What about some of that brown stuff?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s whiskey. That¡¯s worse.¡± Caspar winces as he shifts it. He¡¯s only been able to heal partway, thanks to how weak I¡¯ve gotten.


    ¡°Let me, brother.¡± Jordan sticks the handle of whiskey onto the nightstand. ¡°Look at him, Peaty. He gets the shit beaten out of him and he comes to with a big ol¡¯ grin cause he¡¯s been out in Heaven railing an eldritch horror in a sundress.¡± She giggles. ¡°Always waking up all smiley. I tell you what. You know what?¡± She flops onto her twin bed. ¡°I¡¯d fuck Bina.¡±


    ¡°Jordy¡ª¡±


    ¡°You can have babies with Bina?¡± Peat Moss asks.


    ¡°I can have something with her, I bet.¡±


    ¡°Jordan. Jordy.¡±


    ¡°I thought fucking was to have babies,¡± Peat Moss says.


    ¡°I love that bitch. She¡¯s so fun. And nice. She¡¯s always getting flustered and going ooooh cause she doesn¡¯t get humans. It¡¯s so fucking cute.¡± Jordan gasps and sits up. ¡°Bro. And she¡¯s hot now. Have you noticed? She¡¯s hot, man. She got an ass and titties. I don¡¯t even care about the wolf thing. She¡¯s like a sexy werewolf now.¡±


    ¡°Jordy.¡± Caspar¡¯s shoulders are shaking with barely suppressed mirth. ¡°She can hear you, Jordy. Remember?¡±


    ¡°Oh, shit.¡± Jordan falls back and slaps her forehead. ¡°Shit. I forgot. Oh, fuck.¡±


    Caspar clears his throat. ¡°It¡¯s out there now, though. Maybe that¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± Jordan props herself up. ¡°Out there now,¡± she murmurs. A wide smile spreads across her face. ¡°Fuck it, man. Fuck it!¡±


    She bursts into laughter. Caspar joins in.


    ¡°Hey Biiiinaaaa.¡± She looks into the full-length mirror on their closet door and bites her lip as she gyrates her gymnast hips. Her top rides up slightly; the edge of my sister¡¯s brand is visible on the lower curve of her stomach. ¡°Hiiii. I know you¡¯re listening. You got cute, you know that? You think I wouldn¡¯t notice?¡± A lascivious thrust flexes her abs beneath her cinnamon skin. ¡°I noticed. I bet you wanted me to notice.¡± Her voice gets low and raspy. ¡°What do those tentacles do, girl?¡±


    Caspar wishes he had a video camera for this so he could know in the morning whether he¡¯s drunkenly hallucinating.


    ¡°Bean. Beany Bean Bean. I love that nickname.¡± Jordan¡¯s sexy expression breaks back into a giggle. ¡°I like you. I wanna kiss you. I wanna do you. I wanna get fucking weird with it.¡±


    ¡°Oh my lord. Not in front of Peaty.¡± Caspar shepherds the fawn over to the hotel room door. ¡°Come on, kiddo.¡±


    ¡°I already know about all this stuff!¡± Peat Moss headbutts Caspar¡¯s extended hand in protest. ¡°I wanna stay up!¡±


    ¡°Go play outside for a while, okay? Go get you some real flowers. Just stay away from the van so they don¡¯t think you¡¯ve seen them.¡±


    ¡°UGH. Okay.¡± Peat trots over to the door and Caspar opens it for him. ¡°But for the record, I¡¯m already like an entire month old in deer years.¡±


    I come dashing up to Bina¡¯s viewing pool, carrying my heels in one hand, the better to hustle.


    My sister is staring wide-eyed into the water, a blanket across her lap and a cup of cocoa in her claw. ¡°She¡¯s drunk.¡± She looks at me as I sit next to her, out of breath. ¡°She¡¯s drunk, right? She doesn¡¯t know what she¡¯s saying.¡±


    I watch Jordan simulating cowgirl on a cushion, her full, dark-chocolate lips stretched into a boozy laugh. ¡°She is quite drunk. But sometimes that just makes them more truthful. If you want my expert opinion, give me a glimpse into her brain and I¡¯ll give it.¡±


    ¡°Umm.¡± Bina chews her lupine lip. ¡°Okay.¡±


    I do a temperature check on Jordan.


    Oh, goodness.


    ¡°That¡¯s very real,¡± I say.


    Bina draws her blanket up past her snout.


    ¡°Cartwright. I don¡¯t mean to alarm you.¡± Jordan wobbles upright. ¡°But someone got your partner a little bit.¡± She burps lightly. ¡°Inebriated.¡±


    ¡°Golly.¡± Caspar opens another beer. ¡°Do we put out an APB?¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Jordan snaps her fingers at him. ¡°Another Please, Brother.¡±


    Caspar tosses her a beer and realizes mid-air that he shouldn¡¯t be tossing drunk people beers. He sighs with relief when the inspector¡¯s well-honed reflexes catch the bottle, regardless.


    ¡°Thanks, neighbor.¡± She does the bottle cap thumb trick again. Caspar tries not to be jealous. ¡°Hey. What¡¯s it feel like to have a tentacle inside you?¡±


    ¡°Darius. For Pete¡¯s sake.¡±


    ¡°Peat¡¯s not here anymore and I wanna know.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t really cotton to messing around with my, uh¡­ barn door.¡±


    ¡°What!? Caspar Cartwright, you got a girlfriend covered in fucking tentacles and you haven¡¯t taken one up the barn fuckin¡¯ door?¡±


    ¡°She hasn¡¯t asked. And it¡¯s just not my flavor.¡±


    ¡°You ever try it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never tried a lot of things that I know aren¡¯t my flavor.¡±


    ¡°Cas you¡¯ve got eternity with this beautiful woman, man. This spectacular tentacular hottie. I guaran-fuckin-tee you¡¯re gonna wanna try it some day. You¡¯re gonna wanna do all kinds of shit with an eternity.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s boozy brain latches onto an eternity with me. His eyes sting; his breath thickens. An eternity. With Miss Irene.


    ¡°I bet she¡¯d be fine with her barn door sometime,¡± Jordan is saying. He¡¯s barely listening. ¡°I bet that¡¯s not off limits to you. Gotta be reciprocal. I mean, it ain¡¯t like there¡¯s anything coming outta there, right? Probably? That¡¯s something I think about cause they¡¯ve got asses, but if they have assholes they¡¯ve put em there for a reason, you figure. And it¡¯d be just so weird, an ass with no hole. I don¡¯t know how I¡¯d react to that. Does Irene¡ªyou ain¡¯t gotta answer that one. That¡¯s not a neighborly question.¡±


    ¡°Jordan, can I tell you something?¡± He takes another drink.


    ¡°Anything. Brother. Anything at all. Sorry I talked about your girlfriend¡¯s asshole.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s okay. I¡¯d¡ªwait. You¡¯re gonna laugh.¡±


    ¡°I am not.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d marry Irene,¡± he says. ¡°In a second I would. We¡¯ve barely started courting but Saoirse called her my wife and it¡­ it felt right.¡± He pictures me with a ring. He pictures me with a wedding dress. Then he pictures me in frilly white lingerie. He hiccups. ¡°I don¡¯t know who the hell would even marry us. Ain¡¯t no Father to witness it or confirm it. But I¡¯d marry that woman in a fucking heartbeat.¡±


    She snorts.


    ¡°You said you wouldn¡¯t laugh!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not. I¡¯m not! It¡¯s actually adorable. Your embarrassing secret is that you want to marry your girlfriend.¡±


    ¡°It ain¡¯t embarrassing until you laugh at it.¡±


    ¡°You are such a fuckin¡¯ rural farmhouse-next-door hunk, man. Overalls on your titties, missionary on a tractor, childhood sweetheart type dude. I think they sell calendars of you. You¡¯re not the joke. The fact that you¡¯re ga-ga over an ancient void monster and not some sweet preacher¡¯s daughter is the joke.¡±


    Caspar scoffs. Then he thinks more about it and laughs loud. He takes a swig. ¡°I ever tell you I was engaged once before? Lady named Vesta, back in Rogarth.¡±


    ¡°No shit? What happened?¡±


    ¡°She tripped and fell onto the neighbor. Had the courtesy of letting me know on our wedding day.¡±


    ¡°What a bitch.¡±


    ¡°No. I mean yeah, but no. I wasn¡¯t there for her. Shipped out to the crusade, and then I came home, but I didn¡¯t really come home, you know?¡± He smacks his lips pensively. ¡°Still half of me over there. Wasn¡¯t the man she fell in love with any more. Not at all. It was for the best. We¡¯da been miserable together. And it brought me here.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± She pours a shot of shamefully expensive whiskey and slides it to him. ¡°Hey. A toast to your little wifey. The new one. The right one.¡±


    Caspar picks the glass up. ¡°Aw hush.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serious. She doesn¡¯t save you, you don¡¯t kill me. And you killing me was the best thing that ever happened to me.¡± She raises her shot glass. ¡°This one¡¯s to Irene.¡±


    He clinks his rim against hers. ¡°To Irene.¡±


    They knock them back. Jordan rolls over on the bed and reaches for the handle once more. ¡°Now we¡¯re doing one for Bina and her sexy she-wolf wagon.¡±


    Caspar sets his shot glass aside. ¡°I think I am finished with the drinking.¡±


    ¡°Sznrszzkt,¡± Jordan replies.


    Caspar blinks. Through some combination of system strain and inebriation, Jordan Darius has fallen asleep mid-conversation.


    She slumbers peacefully (for a given definition¡ªCaspar has become acclimated to her chainsaw snoring). He chuckles and rolls her all the way onto her side, just in case.


    He has to go find Peat Moss and pretend to search for Adaire and Tilliam. ¡°G¡¯nght, Jordy.¡± He straightens his back and battles his buzz. ¡°And good luck.¡±


    He trudges off into the night.


    Jordan sits up in front of us. She smacks her lips and the lack of alcohol on her breath surprises her.


    The memory of what she just said hits her like a bullet train. Her head slowly swivels to where we sit on the edge of the water and stare at her.


    ¡°Um,¡± Bina says. ¡°Hello.¡±

 29. My hand [18+]

    ¡°Not exactly worth getting the shit kicked outta me, but not bad.¡± Jordan chews the slice of cake. ¡°Tastes a little beer-ish.¡±


    ¡°Caspar said yeasty,¡± I say.


    ¡°Well, he¡¯d know. Mister house-husband.¡± She drops the fork on the plate and holds it out to me. ¡°Thank Salome for me?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± I take the cutlery from her. ¡°Bina?¡±


    Bina blinks, and the plate melts into a puddle of keratin. The grass beneath our feet reabsorbs it.


    I still have a presence inside her sober mind as she remembers, with a microscopic shiver, that she is sitting on and inside of my sister, and eating off of her. She looks at the nervous wolf monster and performs a quick internal audit. Did the drink make her foolish, or did it unlock something? Does she still desire this unfathomable eldritch being, now that the booze isn¡¯t clouding her mind?


    Her eyes trail down Bina¡¯s generous contours. Her stomach drops. She does. She very much does.


    She wonders how many nippl¡ª


    I make a hasty incognito exit from the inspector¡¯s mind.


    Jordan clears her throat. ¡°Bina.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh?¡±


    ¡°I might have¡­ my memory ain¡¯t perfect. But I might have, uh, overindulged down there. On Diamante. And I might have said some stuff that, uh¡­¡± Her sky-colored eyes slide my way. ¡°Maybe we could get some privacy, Irene, if you please.¡±


    I raise my palms as I back toward the door. ¡°Sure, sure. Have a nice plan.¡±


    Jordan twists into a frown. Turnabout is fair play, Madame Inspector.


    ¡°Actually, Jordan.¡± Bina crosses her legs. ¡°First, can I introduce you to someone?¡±


    Jordan¡¯s brows knit. ¡°Introduce me?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s taking longer than I¡¯d hoped,¡± Bina says. ¡°But I¡¯ve started making good on that promise I made you.¡±


    ¡°Jordy?¡±


    The inspector turns to the source of the voice. A professorial-looking man of early middle age, his shock of natural hair streaked with gray, stands stock-still at the threshold of the room.


    In a moment, years of hardening and honing are sand-blown from Jordan Darius. The icy barrier over her gaze melts and wells into the corners of her eyes.


    Her voice is small and high like a kid¡¯s: ¡°Dad?¡±


    ¡°I think you ought to go,¡± Bina whispers to me. ¡°I don¡¯t think Jordan would like you to see this.¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯re understanding humanity better than you realize these days,¡± I whisper back.


    ¡°Oh, no. I don¡¯t know about humanity.¡± She gives my shoulder a squeeze as she shoos me out the other door. ¡°Just Jordy.¡±


    ???????????


    Caspar finds Peat Moss laying asleep by the motel flower bed. He¡¯s eaten half a row of bluebells. Not exactly the foraging my warlock had meant, but he¡¯s grateful at least that the fawn still appreciates plant matter after being introduced to the world of pastries and ice cream.


    He picks the slumbering fawn up and carries him back into the hotel room. He lays Peat Moss at the foot of the bed. From her twin across the room, Jordan Darius murmurs dad.


    He goes to the van. The back door hangs open. A set of zipties sits cut and abandoned. A note sits tucked into the driver''s seat ash tray.


    C + J,


    Wait 1 week and then let¡¯s meet at Sparrowhawk Suites in Branchard, north side of Pastornos. By then I¡¯ll have Tilliam cowed. We¡¯ll blackmail him into introducing you as colleagues to the Bishopric. From there¡ªthe Suzerain.


    Looking forward to working with you more openly.


    Fondly,


    A


    Caspar pockets the note and retrieves his autogun from beneath the passenger seat. He goes around to the loading bay and pulls the tapestries aside to get at the handle.


    Seated atop a pile of folded tapestries, the Iron Butcher regards him with a gray-eyed stare.


    ¡°You sleep yet?¡± Caspar keeps the gun couched in his armpit, pointed down, but loaded and live.


    The Iron Butcher shakes his head. ¡°Tried.¡±


    ¡°Try harder. We need you in touch with your mistress.¡± Caspar¡¯s about to shut the bay door again when his prisoner speaks.


    ¡°I failed her.¡± His expression is a mask. ¡°I can¡¯t face her.¡±


    There¡¯s kind, and then there¡¯s kind enough to be the armchair therapist to a man who almost ripped your head off with his bare hands. I have to doubt that Caspar, wonderful as he is, is quite that kind.


    ¡°Look.¡± He scratches his nose with the hand not holding his auto. ¡°You are the most terrifying son of a bitch I have ever seen. If I still dreamt normal, you¡¯d be haunting my nightmares. You would have killed all of us, three-on-one, but your mistress was fighting ours in Heaven. That¡¯s why your powers weren¡¯t working. I bet she thinks she failed you, too.¡±


    I stand corrected.


    If this was before I¡¯d fallen in love with him, the man¡¯s absolute lack of a grudge would have made me roll my eyes. And okay, sure¡ªeyes still rolling. But with a defined note of affection.


    The Butcher stares at his bound, bloody hands.


    ¡°Do your best to sleep,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You¡¯re still up come morning, I¡¯ll come out here and beat you unconscious. Deal?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fair.¡±


    Caspar leaves the crestfallen warrior and returns to his hotel room. He sits on the faded pasture-tapestry bedspread and drinks tap water from an amber glass as he gazes out into the primeval old country-night. The distant lights of inner Pastornos gleam.


    One week. He¡¯s barely had a day of down time since all this began. Now he¡¯s got a full week. What the hell should he do with himself? He¡¯s given over his life on Diamante to fear and pain and hurt. He doesn¡¯t like this world anymore. It¡¯s only when he¡¯s asleep that he feels alive. Maybe he could just sleep all day?


    The notion lands on him that if he told all this stuff to a therapist, they¡¯d have the temple menders on the blower to drag him into a padded room for harm observation. It paints a rueful grin on his face.


    Come on now, Caspar. You dreamt all your life of going to Relic City, of doing the pilgrimage. Now you¡¯re here. Sure, it¡¯s all a lie, but the statues are still lovely. And you might miss me, but I¡¯m right here behind your eyes. I¡¯m going to make my warlock do all the tourist shit he doesn¡¯t want to admit he¡¯d love. That¡¯s the perks of being inside your boyfriend¡¯s brain.


    I¡¯ve freed up enough power that he¡¯s repaired the most severe damage to himself¡ªthe bleeding, the concussion, the broken bones¡ªbut the smaller scrapes and contusions he¡¯s insisted on leaving where they are. He¡¯ll treat these the old-fashioned way. Painkillers and bed-rest.


    He slides under the covers. His buzz is gone by now, replaced with an unpleasant blur. He wants to wake up in my demesne again. A strain of guilt with the hope¡ªI¡¯ve certainly expanded his formerly vanilla horizons, but there¡¯s still only so far he¡¯s willing to go with his affections when he¡¯s at Bina¡¯s, and he misses our lovemaking. How much will I have healed when he¡¯s back with me? Will he be home again?


    My breath catches in my manifestation¡¯s chest. Home again. I am his home.


    Come home, Caspar.


    ???????????


    Caspar¡¯s head is propped up on something smooth and soft. He shifts and so does his pillow. His head is laying on my stomach, he realizes. He raises his lids and sees three upside down golden eyes looking back at him. We¡¯re in my room. The same place as our first time.


    ¡°Well, hi there, Mister Warlock.¡± I curl my calves across his chest.


    There¡¯s a scratchy texture on his skin. He glances at my legs where they intersect over his bare abdomen. He¡¯s naked; I¡¯m not.


    I¡¯m wearing the exact lingerie he drunkenly fantasized about. Garters and buckles squishing soft grooves into my butt. Sheer, silvery stockings. A frilled cage bra that leaves my stomach bare to serve as his pillow. A white choker with lacy little hearts. I¡¯m his porny blushing bride.


    (It¡¯s not entirely white, of course. I am me. It¡¯s a very pale lavender.)


    ¡°Hi, Miss Irene.¡± He breathes out long into my delicate hands as I cup his jaw, play with his lips and his nose.


    ¡°Do you think I should have a nose?¡± I slip a pinky into his nostril. He snorts and lightly jerks his face away. ¡°I¡¯ve gone back and forth. Tried a few, and none of them said Irene to me.¡±


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°You know what I think.¡± His fingernails scrape along my stockings. I do. He thinks I¡¯m the most beautiful creature he¡¯s ever seen. He tilts his head to the side and nuzzles his cheek against my inner thigh. ¡°How¡¯re you doing with that bit of soul, Miss Irene? Is it helping?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a fucking godsend, Caspar. A mortal-send. I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m getting so much better, so much quicker. By the time the week is through, I think you¡¯ll be able to evoke me again. Maybe a hiccup here and there, but we¡¯ll be back in the groove. And all the pain is gone. And the taste¡­¡± I trail off.


    My traitorous stomach growls. We both laugh.


    ¡°Went to the zoo one time in seminary and there was a guy who put his head in a crocodile¡¯s mouth as a gag for the tourists. I thought, what kind of damn fool do you have to be.¡± He curls the joint of my inky pinky back and forth. ¡°Now look at me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Swallowed whole.¡± I nibble on the top of his head. ¡°But I bet the crocodile and the zookeeper didn¡¯t do the kinds of things that I wanna do tonight.¡±


    ¡°Lord. Let¡¯s hope not.¡± Caspar twists around so that his chin sits below my sternum. His gaze travels up between my caged breasts. ¡°One would think they¡¯d screen the interview for that kind of thing.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of that kind of thing. What an interesting conversation you and the inspector had about my baby sister.¡±


    He sucks in air through his teeth. ¡°Yeah. Never seen Jordy get that toasted. Is she okay? Her and Bina?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But I have a pretty strong feeling they¡¯re going to give this whole interspecies thing we¡¯ve got going on a shot.¡± I slide down the head of the bed to get more of myself underneath my man. ¡°I¡¯ve been talking humanity up. Mostly inadvertently. But I guess I got Bina curious.¡±


    ¡°I guess I got Jordan curious.¡±


    ¡°Shit, Cas. What have we done?¡±


    ¡°We have done all kinds of bullshit.¡± Caspar curls up with me. ¡°We¡¯ve done our best. Now we have a good long week to do nothing at all.¡±


    ¡°My fault.¡± I sigh. ¡°I let myself go on the battle-ready thing. Wanted to believe I wouldn¡¯t have to do that anymore. Not with my own sisters.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to believe I was done, too,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Now, just about the only thing I¡¯m willing to believe in is my goddess.¡±


    I scoff gently. ¡°I can¡¯t be your goddess tonight. I¡¯m too torn up to be your goddess. Tonight I¡¯m just your girlfriend.¡±


    He smiles. ¡°I believe in her, too.¡±


    ¡°I had all kinds of daydreams about what it would be like to be yours, you know? Watching you at work, craving some of that Caspar kindness.¡± I lay back and gyrate my hips against his waist. ¡°Imagining what it would be like to be a weak little mortal girl getting fixed by you.¡±


    He shifts his weight so that more of his broad body lies on mine. His thumb kneads my wrist. ¡°Reckon this is the one time I¡¯m ever gonna get the opportunity. To be the one who takes care of you.¡±


    ¡°Take care of me.¡± I wrap my arms around him. In the middle of the kiss that follows, I take his hand from my shoulder and lay it across my breast. ¡°Take me.¡±


    ¡°Are you¡ª¡± His thumb brushes the complicated band of my bra. ¡°I don¡¯t want to get you hurt more.¡±


    I giggle. ¡°Ooh. Mr. Human is worried about hurting me. The last person who did that was a warrior goddess alien who weighs five hundred thousand tons.¡±


    ¡°All right, all right.¡± He chuckles. ¡°Go easy.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a wonderful man. You¡¯re kind and wonderful and gentle.¡± I trail kisses along his jaw. ¡°You¡¯re the reason I¡¯m okay. You¡¯re the reason I can manifest all this again. This bed, this body.¡± I pour a syrupy whisper into his ear. ¡°That means you get to do anything you want to it.¡±


    His hands close around my waist and tug me the rest of the way beneath him. That beautiful heat, the motion of him, the blood rushing through him, the muscle and tendon and tissue working together under his skin to create his elegant body. This marvel of evolution resting itself between my thighs. Hooking its thumbs into my garters. Kissing me.


    ¡°I think,¡± I say, when I get the chance. ¡°I think that I¡¯m just about helpless.¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm. No tentacles. No reality shaping. I¡¯d just fall apart if I tried.¡± I stretch my arms above my head. Caspar watches the petite curves of my breasts elongate. A raven black nipple peeks shyly from the cup of my bra. ¡°A big strong human could probably do whatever they wanted with this little manifestation. If they wanted.¡±


    His lip twitches upward. Amused, aroused. Even if I wasn¡¯t in his head, he¡¯s so easy to read.


    My calf winds around his back and curls him closer. He takes my leg and lowers it to the bed. I pout at him. ¡°Turn over,¡± he says.


    I quizzically obey, looking over my shoulder as he settles over me.


    He sits up and slides the straps and silk down my back. His fingers tease the clasps open and run along the grooves they made in my skin. ¡°Could you manifest one more thing for me, Miss Irene?¡±


    ¡°What did you have in mind?¡±


    ¡°You ever see that bottle I had in the homeopathy cabinet? The yellow label that said jojoba oil?¡±


    ¡°Jojoba oil.¡± I realize his intent. ¡°I gave you the helpless do what you want thing and you¡¯re going to massage me?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡± He cracks his knuckles. ¡°If you¡¯re just my girlfriend tonight, then I¡¯m just your boyfriend. And I¡¯mma give you the boyfriend experience.¡±


    ¡°They must have grown you in a fucking lab.¡± I reach into a drawer on the nightstand that wasn¡¯t there before and hand him a little bottle (my label is, of course, violet). ¡°A lab for golden retriever/human hybrids, and you escaped so you could be the best thing that ever fucking happened to me.¡±


    Caspar rubs his palms together to warm the oil on his hands. He sinks his coarse finger pads into my back. He gets to work. I never really got the big deal on this massage thing. I¡¯ve seen him do this to clients before and they make these weird, almost horny noises, but we¡¯re talking about old farmhand fellows. There¡¯s only so good something can feel when it¡¯s done in such a professional capa-aaah.


    Never mind. I need him to never stop doing this.


    Caspar has a clinician¡¯s understanding of the tensions and pains of the body. He¡¯s also madly in love with me. The mixture of expertise and eager handsiness is intoxicating. My musculature is similar, even if the flesh is different. Cooler, a little more pliant, a little bouncier. No hairs and pores like a mammal¡¯s skin. He squeezes my ass, and it¡¯s like squeezing a giggling stress ball. He sees the momentary mark of his thumb as I deform under his touch.


    His massage reduces me to a happy puddle. (Oh¡ªnot literally. I guess a spooky bitch like me should clarify that.)


    His fingers press the back of my neck. They stray to the edge of my tentacular mantle. ¡°You want me to give these a shot?¡±


    I tilt my head back. ¡°Mmmhmmm.¡± A half-dozen tendrils wrap around his hand and guide it toward the squirming thicket of my unbound hair.


    He scoots forward across my increasingly slippery body. Those rough, magical hands delve into my tendrils.


    I yelp. He jerks back. ¡°Sorry?¡±


    My hair catches him and yanks his fingers back onto my scalp. The third eye on my forehead glows. ¡°Do that again.¡±


    I bury my face in the pillows as he gets back to work. He chuckles at the effect he has on me. But the groans and sighs I make are having an effect right back on Mr. Cartwright. An effect I feel, warm and firm, poking up between the globes of my butt.


    As he returns to my shoulders, I prop my head up on my forearms. ¡°Caspar?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, baby?¡±


    ¡°This is so incredibly lovely.¡± I fold my thigh beneath my body, angling my rear so it¡¯s pressing his hard-on up into his stomach. ¡°But what if I asked you to be a bit mean to me tonight?¡±


    His hands pause their ministrations momentarily. ¡°Let me finish this up.¡± They continue, slipping down my rear to my legs. ¡°And then I can be a bit mean.¡±


    My eyes drift close as my warlock¡¯s bewitching touch continues down my legs. Hamstrings, calves. A musical sigh escapes me when his kneading thumbs reach the soles of my feet.


    By the time he¡¯s finished, a cuddly glow suffuses me. He leans into me. ¡°Know why I did all that?¡±


    ¡°Mmmm?¡± I languidly look up at him.


    ¡°I did all that,¡± he says, ¡°so that you¡¯ll know I still worship you¡ª¡± he slides my ass up into the air ¡°¡ªwhen I do this.¡±


    His stingy slap on my ass wakes me right up. My body jerks. A groan escapes me. It¡¯s cut off when his coarse hand closes around my neck. He wrenches me back. My spine curves an arching S.


    His pointer finger caresses my jaw. ¡°Be a good girl for me, Miss Irene.¡± His grip tightens. ¡°Okay?¡±


    I swallow hard against his palm and nod.


    I think it goes without saying, reader, that if you skipped the last little tryst I illustrated for you, it¡¯s a good idea to repeat your prudence here. Shield your chaste eyes and meet me in the next chapter.


    His voice is as raspy and firm as his touch. ¡°You make me so fucking hard.¡± It burns like a brand against my back. ¡°You feel that?¡±


    I nod.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a dirty talk kind of guy, but you.¡± His hot breath on my neck. ¡°You been changing me in all kinds of ways. Haven¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I breathe.


    ¡°Sorry¡¯s not gonna cut it. Up.¡± I obediently raise my knees, one after another, to let him slide my panties off. ¡°You gonna take responsibility for making me like this?¡±


    The cool kiss of the air on my exposed sex is replaced by his thick fingers. My thighs drift apart. ¡°Yes,¡± I squeak.


    ¡°Then how about this. How about you come when I give you permission. And not before.¡±


    I take a deep, shaky breath. ¡°Okay.¡±


    He kisses the cool sweat from my forehead. His fingers are slick with the massage oil. They slide inside with a wet, silky sound that makes my face burn.


    All the rubbing has wound me up. It only takes seconds for the first involuntary squeeze to clench against his touch. He tsks. ¡°Poor little thing. You gotta try harder than that.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I groan. ¡°Wait wait. I just need a second.¡±


    He slows down, but his fingers are still inside me. ¡°How about when you say hyacinth, I actually stop,¡± he murmurs. ¡°And when you say wait, I don¡¯t.¡±


    I nod.


    ¡°Okay.¡± His fingers tighten and slide along the ridges inside me.


    ¡°Wait¡ª¡± I gasp. Another sharp slap ripples me. I whine and bury my face in the bedspread.


    And I try. I try really hard. Honest, I do. My needle teeth slot out and bite into the pillow. But he doesn¡¯t slow down. He doesn¡¯t give me a break. I shift and writhe and plead and he¡¯s merciless. When my hand clasps his wrist, he takes it and pins it above my head, leans forward to keep me beneath him.


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna¡ªI can¡¯t. I can¡¯t, Cas.¡± A violent shake. My eyes squeeze shut. All I can see is what he sees, my body twitching and glistening, my ass deforming against the thick forearm pushed up against it, bent and pumping as he works me. My back is arching. My rear is rising off the bed. There¡¯s one bare thread keeping me tethered. ¡°Cas, please. Please. Let me come. Give me¡ª¡°


    Right as my stomach drops out and the tide crests, he takes a fistful of my hair tendrils and yanks.


    I come, violently and immediately.


    I collapse onto the bed, hips bucking and grinding against the fabric, toes clenching.


    He tsks. There¡¯s a wry grin on his face. ¡°Now, did I say you could do that?¡±


    ¡°You. Augh.¡± I¡¯m trying to catch my breath. ¡°You¡¯re too fucking good at that for a temple boy.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not my usual flavor.¡± He strokes my spine. ¡°But I live to serve.¡±


    I let out an overheated giggle. My brain is descending from the stratosphere Caspar sent it into. ¡°And I reward my servants.¡± I roll onto my back. ¡°You want some vanilla?¡± I hold my arms out.


    He chuckles and takes my hands. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t say no.¡±


    ¡°How about this? No more funny business.¡± I fold my thighs up against my chest. ¡°Missionary.¡± I thread my fingers through his. ¡°Handholding.¡± I cross my calves over his butt. ¡°No pulling out.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t have kids. And you¡¯re the Adversary.¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah.¡± I wiggle. ¡°But the rest of this is soooo vanilla.¡±


    He chuffs out a laugh as he props himself up on his forearms and kisses me, deep and languid and sloppy. A silvery strand links us as he pulls back.


    ¡°Miss Irene.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Caspar Cartwright?¡±


    ¡°Do you want to make it more vanilla?¡±


    My throat goes dry. ¡°Yes, Caspar Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°Will you marry me?¡±


    My chest shakes. I take a sharp inhale to steady myself. ¡°Yes, Caspar Cartwright.¡±


    And he¡¯s back inside me. Back home. His vision of me blurs¡ªwith tears, I realize, as the first one drops from him. I fold my arms around his head and squish it into my breasts.


    I¡¯m crying too. My husband. I¡¯m too overwhelmed and overstimulated to come again; but I want his, more than I¡¯ve ever wanted anything.


    Caspar is close. I can feel him thickening, the tensing of his tendons and the sharp exhale through his nose, his pace faltering as the electricity coursing through his nervous system pushes him forward involuntarily. His thickening cock trembles, scrapes and shoves, and turns my heavy breaths into yelping gasps. I plant a foot on the bed and push back against him. I want it so badly. I want to feel him lose his mind. A lightbulb flashes in my mind. I know just what will push him off the ledge.


    ¡°Come in me.¡± My ass grinds against him as I take him to the hilt. ¡°Come in your wife.¡±


    My words throw a thunderous switch in him like a floodlight turning on. With a bestial grunt his arms crush me back to him, impaling me again, bouncing me like a gleeful little rag doll, and mission accomplished. I feel it happen, feel the rush of heat, feel him go limp and pliable in my arms as his energy vents from him into me.


    We breathe together. His stomach rises and falls against my back. His cum drips from the warm, close place we connect.


    A little clink sounds as he takes my hand back in his. There¡¯s a ring, he realizes. That swirly engagement ring is back on his finger. On mine, too. He isn¡¯t sure when that happened.


    ¡°Should we invite your parents?¡± I ask. ¡°To the wedding.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he says. ¡°You ate them.¡±


    In the surviving half of my impossible cosmic form, we laugh through our tears, loose and delirious.

 30. An egg

    Hi, reader. Thanks for your patience with my little dalliances. I know they aren''t exactly epic clashes with the servants of oblivion, but wow did I need that. If you¡¯re just joining us again, I¡¯m married now.


    Engaged. Whatever. You humans have a lot of really fun traditions, but I don¡¯t understand the wait between the proposal and the getting hitched is one of them. I¡¯m just going to start calling Caspar my husband. I hope you don¡¯t mind.


    Caspar sips his rooibos and rubs his chin as he surveys the board, which lays in front of me as we spoon. ¡°This pointy one goes¡­.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the militant. It goes two or three squares in any direction.¡± I briefly demonstrate.


    ¡°Oh.¡± He squints and replaces his cup on the nightstand. ¡°But not one square.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    He gamely makes a blundering move. ¡°Am I in trouble, then?¡±


    ¡°Huge trouble.¡±


    ¡°Does it thrill you, beating up on a poor dumb newbie like me?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely everything I do with this poor dumb newbie thrills me.¡± My cardinal captures his militant. I dissolve the piece into bone marrow. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll put a g-spot up in my barn door,¡± I muse. ¡°I heard you and Jordy talking about it. Or make it taste like pineapple. Give you a little tropical blend down there.¡±


    He chuckles. His thumb massages my tummy. ¡°I ever mention how weird you are?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s your wife you¡¯re talking about, mister.¡± I turn from the game and snuggle back into his arms. ¡°I know I said that it didn¡¯t matter, really, and we were already closer than that and all that stuff. But I was fooling myself. We can have a big bizarre wedding. Gotta mark the occasion. First time ever, a human and an Old One. We can make up the ceremony. We¡¯ll set a precedent, even. New traditions.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s people,¡± Caspar remembers. ¡°Some Rogarth folks, some guys from my unit. My cousin Maria, definitely. Need to invite her. Which means we may need to wait a while.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a while?¡±


    ¡°A few decades.¡±


    ¡°Caaas, c¡¯mooon.¡± I deliver a puny series of punches to his bicep. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna wait that long. What if we just go kill them all after we¡¯re done with the key? Get ¡®em into Heaven early.¡±


    He holds a stern finger up. ¡°Don¡¯t joke about that.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. Sorry.¡± I rub his back. I don¡¯t mention that I wasn¡¯t joking. ¡°Maybe we elope? Quick and dirty little knot-tying and then we wait until the guest list croaks?¡±


    He shifts uncomfortably. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to kill your buzz, Irene, honest¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± I nest my head in the crook of his shoulder. ¡°Interdimensional wedding planning was never gonna be smooth. I can be patient. We can figure it out once I¡¯ve got the key. Maybe I can manifest something on Diamante, somehow, once I have its power. And we can have the wedding there.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± Caspar rests his lips on my forehead, above my third eye. What he thinks, but doesn¡¯t say, is: I reckon I won¡¯t survive getting that key. These are my last days on Diamante.


    What I think, but don¡¯t say, is: good. Once my husband gets us the key, I want him dead, as painlessly and quickly as possible. I¡¯m tired of sending him back to that stupid world and the ways it hurts him. I don¡¯t just want his nights. I want him here full time.


    I perk up. ¡°But starting now I¡¯m gonna make everyone call me Mrs. Cartwright.¡±


    His eyes widen. ¡°You¡¯re taking my last name?¡±


    ¡°Well, sure. I don¡¯t have one. I¡¯m just Irene. And I like Cartwright. Irene Cartwright. Doesn¡¯t sound bad, does it?¡±


    I feel a tidal wave of emotion from Caspar. He¡¯d go weak in the knees if he wasn¡¯t laying here with me. ¡°Not bad at all.¡±


    ¡°And it¡¯s funny how you¡¯re called that and you never wrighted a cart.¡± I shift. ¡°Do you like it? Your name?¡±


    Caspar swallows the knot in his throat. ¡°Beats, uh...¡±


    He fed me the surname he was born with. He¡¯s forgotten it.


    ¡°Beats whatever my old family name was,¡± he says. ¡°Probably. I never gave it much thought. It was just the name all the seminary kids got.¡±


    ¡°And now it¡¯s mine, too.¡±


    He smiles. ¡°Well, now I like it.¡±


    ¡°Fuck this thing.¡± I kick the board off the bed. ¡°I resign. You win. Let¡¯s make out.¡±


    ¡°Sweet.¡± He scoops me onto his chest. ¡°My strategy worked.¡±


    I dare to manifest a few tentacles as Caspar¡¯s tongue intermingles with mine. I need the closeness. He hums with pleased surprise as one wraps around his calf. When I let up, he says, ¡°Look at that. Getting better quick.¡±


    ¡°What a reaction.¡± I give his ankle a squeeze. ¡°I¡¯ve gotten you too into tentacles, I think.¡±


    ¡°Just glad to see my patient well.¡± His toes tickle my pseudopod.


    I smooth his hair back from his face. He really has changed, I realize. Not just physically (although I note with some pleasure that there¡¯s a ring of Irene-gold at the edges of his hazel irises now). But the lines on his forehead, that I thought time had irreversibly carved. They¡¯re just about gone. He looks relaxed. Happy. Radiant.


    ¡°I have an idea,¡± I say.


    ¡°Oh, boy,¡± he says.


    ¡°This might go wrong, but it won¡¯t go too wrong. Like, loss-of-consciousness wrong, tops. If I were to try this on fresh baby warlock Caspar you¡¯d have had a stroke. But I think you¡¯re ready. You can take it at this point.¡±


    ¡°Take what?¡±


    ¡°If you trust me, I¡¯m going to teach you your first word in my language.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡± He carefully sits up. ¡°What¡¯s it mean?¡±


    ¡°Love, kind of. It means the way I feel about you. I¡¯m tired of using this limited vocabulary. I want you to understand the way I feel. The depth of it. It might be a little¡­ ring-y. Temporary deafness. But you absolutely will not have a brain bleed. I promise.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± He clicks his tongue. ¡°When you put it like that, how can a body say no?¡±


    I curl closer.


    ¡°Caspar,¡± I whisper. ¡°I¡ª


    (You aren¡¯t ready like he is. Sorry. Take a few weeks as a warlock and let an Old One fuck around with your Eustachian tubes and language centers, and you might be. But even if I can¡¯t reproduce it here, you¡¯ve felt something approaching it, if you¡¯re lucky. A completeness beyond completeness, a devotion beyond devotion. A connection so profound you learn the limits of poetry, a thing there are no words to express. There aren¡¯t, in your language. But there is in mine. That¡¯s what I say to Caspar. One syllable, and finally¡ªfinally¡ªhe knows just what he is to me.)


    ¡ªyou.¡±


    His breath sharpens and snags. His eyes dampen. ¡°That¡­¡±


    A drop of blood drips from his ear. I expected that; I have a little doily-edged handkerchief ready. It¡¯s not a brain bleed, okay? Just an ear thing. Easily fixed.


    ¡°That was beautiful,¡± he breathes, as I dab the crimson from him.


    ¡°You are beautiful,¡± I say. I have another word, actually, for how beautiful he is, but that one might kill him.


    ¡°I wish¡ª¡± His mouth moves but no sound comes out. ¡°I wish I could say it back.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to.¡± I put my thumb between his brows. ¡°I feel it. I¡¯m right in there with you. Always.¡± I kiss the spot my thumb laid on.


    ¡°How far will this transformation go? Will I ever be able to? Say it, I mean.¡±


    ¡°You will,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s the least of what you¡¯ll be able to say. You¡¯ll transcend this tongue. There will be perfect understanding between us. You¡¯ll see all of me, just as I see all of you. Know all of me. All of what is yours.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°Can a human really do all that?¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± I chew one of my hair tendrils. ¡°No. Not exactly.¡±


    I decide, then and there. If he¡¯s ready to hear the rudiments of the black speech of the void, he¡¯s ready for this. It¡¯s time I told Caspar.


    And you. Both of you deserve to know.


    It¡¯s time I told him how humanity ends.


    ¡°I have a plan,¡± I say. ¡°For what happens next. When we fix your Heaven, we can¡¯t just sit around in it permanently. Stagnation, eternity¡ªthose are anathema to the human mind. It¡¯s made to be temporary.¡±


    He purses his lips. ¡°I thought you said you were keeping me forever.¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± I say. ¡°And I am. But you¡¯ll need to be forever-proofed, or you¡¯d go bonkers. There are beings which were designed, physically and psychically, for eternity. I¡¯m one of them.¡±


    ¡°So, what are you going to do? Redesign me?¡±


    ¡°Have you ever wondered where Old Ones come from, Caspar?¡±


    Slow realization rolls across his face. ¡°You¡¯re gonna make me an Old One?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± I say. ¡°It''s not a thing we''re going to do. It''s just what happens in a well-kept afterlife. We''ll keep you safe while you gestate. And then humanity will be an Old One. Eventually. A species is just one stage in the life cycle. Heaven is an egg, Caspar. You all go in, and then you come out as one of us. Another Sister of the Void.¡±


    His brows knit. I wait for him to process this. ¡°Just one of you?¡±


    ¡°I contain multitudes. Me, Bina, Salome, Saoirse, all of us. We¡¯re pacts, formed by entire extinct afterlives.¡± I chew a hair tendril. ¡°This is weirding you out. I figured it might. I wish I could explain it better.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± He licks his lips. ¡°A lot. A lot to comprehend. So Heaven isn¡¯t eternal, you¡¯re saying.¡±


    ¡°It is. Well, it can be. But humanity isn¡¯t. We¡¯ll hand you Heaven, wait for you to go extinct, and then give you as much time as you need to exhaust the limited pleasures of your low-dimensional minds. With unlimited resources and unlimited time, you¡¯ll max out. Nothing more to improve, nothing left to strive for. You¡¯ll need something else. That¡¯s when you¡¯ll be ready.¡±


    He¡¯s still struggling.


    ¡°Look,¡± I say. ¡°It takes a fuckton of time, even with species that were much more harmonious and clued into higher dimensions. It¡¯s a group decision, and you are a big group. Took me something like six thousand years after I went extinct, and I was much more harmonious than humanity ever was.¡±


    ¡°Just how not-harmonious are we?¡±


    ¡°Disharmonious, lovebug.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°Pretty disharmonious if I¡¯m being honest. Humanity¡­ you guys run hot, okay? Big love, big hate. Big passions. Very attached to your individuality.¡± I know just how attached. The same niggling ego that made me keep this untethered manifestation long after I otherwise would have reabsorbed it dwells in him. ¡°It¡¯s going to take time,¡± I say. ¡°For it to work, every single human has to want it.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how they could. I can¡¯t imagine it.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. I couldn¡¯t imagine it either, when I was a species. I don¡¯t know if any mortal could. But you¡¯ll see.¡± I wink. ¡°You¡¯ve never met a human older than what, a century? You keep developing. Just as you¡¯re programmed to fall in love, to want children, to grow old and die, you¡¯re programmed for this, too. It¡¯s a part of the mortal life cycle. The last step, as far as we know. My heaven will keep you happy and comfortable and help you through the long, long gestation.¡±


    ¡°Is there¡ªdon¡¯t take this the wrong way.¡±


    I kiss his chest. ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Is there an alternative?¡±


    ¡°There is,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s suffering. Anything forever is Hell, to a mortal. That was the Father¡¯s mistake. You know how you can get bored? Of even your favorite things? How blah it gets when you have it every day? That¡¯s your dimensional thinking. That¡¯s a trigger in you. A natural biological urge. It¡¯s there so that you¡¯ll eventually want to move on from it, from your existence to an existence like mine. If you don¡¯t, if that change is halted, say, by a rogue Old One latching onto your species and insisting on turning your worship into its eternal feast¡­ well. You saw. For a second. You saw what an ingrown afterlife turns into. The wards fail. Things decay. The mind breaks down; and out here, the mind is matter. The Father hobbled you through doctrine and stricture and then clung to you like a parasite, gorging himself on your fealty.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯d He do that?¡±


    ¡°I wondered that myself until I started getting worshipped. It¡¯s fucking delicious. Not quite at the level of straight-up eating a soul. But it¡¯s the only thing that compares. A few billion people doing that?¡± I shiver. ¡°That sounds just fabulous.¡±


    He gives this a soft laugh. But his face is pensive. Cloudy.


    One of my tendrils strokes his chin. ¡°You¡¯re a little scared.¡±


    He nods.


    ¡°That¡¯s okay. I get it. It¡¯s a big step. But when your species takes it, you¡¯ll still be Caspar. Your consciousness won¡¯t fade or go away. It¡¯ll just change. Your definition of you will expand. But that expansion won¡¯t come at the loss of Caspar Cartwright. Or of what he has with Irene. We¡¯re forever, baby.¡±


    He threads his hands across the narrowest point of my waist.


    I slide up a few inches so we¡¯re eye to eye. ¡°It¡¯s incredible. You¡¯ll see. It¡¯s such a beautiful existence. Power and grace and everything you¡¯ve ever wished you could do. When you¡¯re not getting yourself torn in half, anyway. And I won¡¯t let that happen to you. I promise you¡¯ll still be mine, and I¡¯ll be yours. I love all my sisters, and I¡¯ll love all of the entity you become, but you and me? It¡¯ll be special. We¡¯ll make everyone else so jealous and tired of our shit.¡±


    ¡°And we¡¯ll be¡­ sisters?¡± He blows a little gust that flaps one of my tendrils out of my face. ¡°That¡¯s an odd connotation, Miss Irene. If you don¡¯t mind my saying.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just what we call ourselves in your tongue, dude. We¡¯re not really sisters. Not related. Not even strictly female, though we all agreed to present that way to humanity. That was my idea.¡±


    ¡°What made you pick it?¡±


    ¡°Officially, it was because we wanted to present ourselves in opposition to the Father. As a united matriarchal front. Between you and me?¡± I let out a silky giggle. ¡°I love being a girl. So much more fun to manifest them. All soft and curvy. And that was before you showed me what a snatch can do. Now I¡¯m all in. Once you¡¯re a master of your own reality, you should really give it a shot.¡±


    He chuckles. ¡°Maybe.¡±


    I gasp and give his pectoral a little smack of excitement. ¡°We could do a little switcheroo. And I could see what having a dick is like. It seems like a damn blast.¡±


    My patient husband smiles and traces my spine. ¡°It¡¯s got a lot going for it.¡±


    ¡°Shit, Caspar.¡± I play lightly with his package. Not in a horny way. I¡¯m just messing around. ¡°When I tell you humanity doesn¡¯t realize how lucky it got, reproduction-wise. What a happy accident.¡±


    ¡°Miss Irene. You¡¯re not gonna tell me we¡¯re the only species that have sex.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. But you¡¯re the first I¡¯ve encountered where it''s this much fun. Like, wow.¡± I pat his dick affectionately. ¡°That¡¯s gonna help you make it. How good you can make each other feel. Some of my sisters are skeptical. They don¡¯t really think you can do it. Not every species can. If it wasn¡¯t for us coming in and eating the Father, I don¡¯t think you would have. He held you back. Messed you up.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re confident humanity can?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I really am. I think you¡¯re going to flail and argue and be your little human selves. But you''re gonna have help. I never had a god, just an afterlife and a lot of figuring shit out. With us helping you, you will find your place among the Old Ones. If Ganea did, you will. She took fucking eons, I hear. Don¡¯t tell her I told you. Just a bunch of Ganeas all beating the shit out of each other for the biggest chair. What a mess. Can you imagine?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve met her yet.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m keeping you from her. She¡¯s a bit of a tit. I¡¯m hoping she¡¯ll be humbler now that you thrashed her warlock.¡±


    ¡°So you were an entire race,¡± he says. ¡°Like, billions of people.¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s been a very long time since then, but I used to be a whole afterlife¡¯s worth of freaky aliens. We were called¡ªwell, let¡¯s see how much of it your ears pick up.¡±


    I manifest a few beaks from the wall so I can say the name of my progenitors.


    ¡°The¡­¡± Caspar screws up his mouth. ¡°The hwuarch?¡±


    I snort. ¡°Jeez, Cas. Way to make my old selves sound like a loogy. Sure. The hwuarch.¡±


    ¡°What did you used to look like? A hwuarch?¡±


    ¡°You saw one, sort of,¡± I say. ¡°Part of one. It used to be my default manifestation. When I was all fucked up I partially reverted. Not very sexy. Not to a human.¡±


    ¡°Can I see a full one? A healthy one?¡± He taps his chin. ¡°Manifest the hottest hwuarch that ever lived, maybe.¡±


    I exhale my amusement. ¡°Okay. Interesting. I think I can handle that now. I¡¯ll show you if you promise to still think I¡¯m sexy. You promise?¡±


    ¡°Scout¡¯s honor.¡±


    I manifest the absolute apex of hwuarch beauty in front of us. It drops to the floor with a glutinous plap.


    ¡°Oh,¡± he says. ¡°Huh.¡±


    ¡°That frill on top? The way it drapes?¡± I point. ¡°Several of my old genders would have gone so crazy for that.¡±


    He tilts his head. ¡°It¡¯s very drapey.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. So I used to be a few billion of that.¡± I dissolve it before Caspar can get too good of a look at its pedipalps. ¡°And now I¡¯m your wife.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re really happy with just me?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re only skeptical about that because you haven¡¯t met you.¡±


    ¡°What about all the rest of humanity? Is our thing gonna get in the way?¡±


    ¡°Nope. I love humans, but I am only in love with Caspar. You¡¯re going to be an anomaly. The rest of your species will be one with their families and lovers in the gestalt. Yours will be on the outside. But you can manifest this body, the same way I do mine, and live with me untethered. Just like we are now. I¡¯m not gonna date the rest of you. Only you.¡±


    ¡°Now I¡¯m confused again.¡± He scratches my scalp. ¡°Isn¡¯t that like¡­ dating a toe or something?¡±


    I giggle. ¡°A toe? Give yourself credit. You¡¯re at least a finger. It¡¯ll make sense, eventually. Once you¡¯ve obtained your true form, it will. I mean, it¡¯s not like you want to date my graibaciae.¡±


    ¡°What is a graibaciae?¡±


    ¡°The singular is a graibacius,¡± I say, ¡°and it¡¯s a cluster of organs in my dorsal complex that secretes my time-nectar.¡±


    ¡°I am going to stop asking questions now.¡± Caspar takes a deep breath and lays back.


    ¡°You¡¯re the boss.¡± I slide off his chest and into the crook of his arm.


    ¡°I won¡¯t lie, Miss Irene. I don¡¯t get it. And I¡¯m nervous about it. But I trust you.¡±


    I feel it. His trust in me. He¡¯s not exactly over the moon at the eventual destiny of his species, but he isn¡¯t as afraid as he was.


    ¡°Well, look.¡± I curve my leg over his waist. ¡°You are going to have a long, wonderful, wildly sexy few millennia in paradise to get accustomed to the idea. And if it makes things easier, I intend to hold on to this form right here forever. And I hope very much you¡¯ll hold on to yours, too. Although you can lose the brand. You won¡¯t be my servant any longer.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± He smirks. ¡°What if I ask nicely?¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± I smirk back. ¡°If you¡¯re nice¡­¡±


    We kiss, and for a time his confusion and his anxiety drip away in the face of our careless, unhurried tenderness.


    But a question cuts through him like a freezing wind through an unattended window. One that slows and shallows his kiss. I withdraw my prehensile tongue. I don¡¯t want to make him ask it.


    ¡°You want to know what about if Eight wins,¡± I say.


    He nods.


    ¡°Then none of that happens. Humanity¡¯s souls are digested and its consciousness faces oblivion. Eaten in its nest like an oviraptor. I fully intend to be devoured in its defense, but I can¡¯t fault my sisters getting the fuck out if it comes to that.¡±


    ¡°You better not.¡± Caspar¡¯s face is grave. ¡°I¡¯m not letting you throw yourself away for us.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s for you, it¡¯s not throwing away.¡± I am unmoving. ¡°Humans are beautiful. I will not flee like a pussy and watch their light be snuffed out.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not having this argument,¡± he says. ¡°Because we¡¯ll win. So it¡¯s not even something we have to think about.¡±


    ¡°I know. I believe it, more than I¡¯ve ever believed it before. But I am¡­¡± I haven¡¯t admitted this to him, yet, I don¡¯t think. ¡°I¡¯m kind of scared.¡±


    ¡°Me, too.¡± He kisses me. ¡°But I have my goddess.¡± He kisses me again. ¡°And my faith.¡± And again, and I kiss him back. And he rolls over onto me, and takes my small wrists in his hands. My back arches as he raises them above my head, pressing them softly into the pillows. Our new rings click together again.


    ¡°And if it all goes wrong.¡± His hearth-warm chest lowers onto mine. ¡°If we don¡¯t have eternity after all...¡±


    I finish the thought that rises like sweet incense from my lover¡¯s mind. ¡°We have tonight.¡±

 31. A badass pussy magnet

    Salome paces the long-shadowed length of the dewy foothill I¡¯ve manifested. It¡¯s my first time hosting my sisters since the fight. All the humans are back in place, in the autumn valley we overlook. Stephen the truck loser is finally in the taphouse full time. Being bounced from one afterlife to the next in a divinity-sized lipoma was enough of a binding agent to bring him into the fold, I suppose.


    ¡°What I want,¡± she says, ¡°is an I¡¯m sorry, Salome.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve surrendered. I¡¯ve admitted your superiority. I¡¯ve agreed to join your foolish faction.¡± Ganea¡¯s gauntlet twitches. ¡°Is it not clear that you¡¯ve won?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about winning¡ª¡±


    ¡°You should.¡±


    ¡°I want to know that you understand and accept your misdeed, and that you regret it and feel poorly about it, enough to say sorry to me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sorry,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I¡¯ll lie if you want¡ª¡±


    A triangle ding as Salome smacks her forehead. ¡°Gan.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t regret Gliese 682 Scorpii. We fought, and I won. I¡¯m not sorry about that.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to apologize to Irene?¡± Bina cuts in. ¡°You ripped her in half, Gan. That¡¯s so mean.¡±


    Ganea sits silently. We¡¯re arrayed around a copy of the stone-slab table from Bina¡¯s demesne. I loved the look of it, just as I loved the look on Bean¡¯s face when she saw I¡¯d manifested a copy. There are few higher compliments between Old Ones.


    ¡°It¡¯s all right, Bina,¡± I say. ¡°We attacked Ganea. She was within her rights to¡ª¡±


    ¡°I am sorry, Irene.¡± Ganea¡¯s grinding voice interrupts me.


    I blink. ¡°You are?¡±


    ¡°I knew the fight was turning against us. The tactically advantageous thing would have been to disable you temporarily. I tantrumed and over-committed.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re sorry you lost,¡± Salome says.


    She nods. ¡°And.¡±


    She falls silent. I wait patiently. Next to me, Caspar¡¯s hand rests on the knee that pokes through the slit in my dress.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about how badly I hurt you, Irene.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for your apology, Gan,¡± I say. ¡°Accepted. Please think about doing the same for Salome.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Salome crosses her arms. ¡°Fine, you¡¯re sorry?¡±


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll think about it.¡±


    ¡°You disemboweled me,¡± Salome says.


    Ganea crosses her arms right back. ¡°Vivisection is nowhere near as bad as bisection.¡±


    ¡°Salome.¡± Bina leans past the inspector curled in her lap. ¡°Maybe let¡¯s just drop it for a while?¡± My sister¡¯s manifestation has undergone a growth spurt. Her proportions are the same, but she¡¯s now around eight feet tall. Caspar glances at the inspector lounging across my sister¡¯s expanded lap like a house cat, and she glances back in a distinctly smug manner. ¡°Until we¡¯re all in charge.¡±


    Salome takes a beat and visibly decompresses. ¡°For now, Ganea, you can make it up to us by getting your crazy murder-warlock involved in our plotting.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Ganea says.


    Salome¡¯s springtrap patience compresses again. ¡°What do you mean, no?¡±


    ¡°Butcher,¡± Ganea calls. Her voice rings across the valley like an air-raid siren.


    The Butcher crests the hill and stands before his goddess. He wears a crisp linen stand-collar uniform, gray as slate and pinned at the breast by her tombstone icon.


    ¡°Mistress.¡±


    ¡°We finally come to it,¡± Ganea says. ¡°You¡¯ve been bested.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± His eyes are fixed on the ground. ¡°I failed you.¡±


    ¡°You were glorious.¡± Ganea leans down and rests one finger on his shoulder. ¡°My splendid murderer. Even outnumbered, even without my power. How you shone. The art has lost its finest practitioner.¡±


    He looks up. ¡°Then¡ª¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t forgotten my promise,¡± Ganea says. ¡°Your fight is finished. You honored me.¡± Her finger hooks behind the Butcher¡¯s neck and brings him closer. ¡°What I do now¡ªstanding in humanity¡¯s defense¡ªis to honor you in return.¡±


    The Butcher touches his forehead to hers. ¡°What will I do, then? How can I serve?¡±


    ¡°Be happy.¡± Ganea¡¯s stoplight eyes flicker shut. ¡°Open the little taphouse you told me about. Live your life with the same poise with which you took the lives of the weak. Then return to my side in the hereafter. That¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°I think,¡± Salome says, her voice on its vibratory edge, ¡°that I¡¯m missing some context.¡±


    ¡°I swore to my warlock that when someone finally outfought him, he could stop killing,¡± Ganea says. ¡°Now you have, and he can. He has a life to live. I promised him.¡±


    ¡°Wait.¡± Salome¡¯s facets flash. ¡°No no no. We need him.¡± She looks for my support.


    I nod. ¡°He¡¯d be a really useful asset, Ganea. I get you had a deal, I do, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°If you need more manpower, have Salome¡¯s shapeshifter pick up a weapon some time,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I swore an oath to him. I won¡¯t take it back.¡±


    This isn¡¯t what I had in mind. ¡°But Gan¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, Irene.¡± She stands. ¡°Would you break a promise to your consort?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s different with me and Caspar,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re lovers. We¡¯re engaged.¡±


    Ganea just stares at me. I look from her to the Butcher. She¡¯s five times his size and made predominantly of bloody, rusted metal.


    Caspar coughs.


    ¡°Gan,¡± I say. ¡°Are you¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll fight against Eight with you, in our dimension,¡± Ganea says. ¡°My warlock, I free. If you refuse to allow it, we can pick up where we left off.¡±


    Salome issues a woodwind sigh. ¡°Did I miss something? Is everyone here in bed with their human these days?¡±


    Ganea¡¯s red eyes whirl to her. ¡°Quiet, mirror witch. Don¡¯t compare the Iron Butcher to these kine.¡±


    Salome literally bristles. Her angles spike out like ferrofluid. ¡°Mirror witch?¡±


    ¡°Oh!¡± Bina raises a pseudopod. ¡°That reminds me. Me and Jordan are girlfriend/girlfriend now.¡±


    Salome gets her form back under control. ¡°She¡¯s sitting in your lap, Bean. I¡¯d figured.¡±


    Jordan sips a ginger beer mule from a copper mug as her mistress¡¯s pseudopods rest possessively on her shoulders. ¡°Y¡¯all pretend I¡¯m not here, ladies.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s really no need to bring the mortals to every council, people,¡± Salome says. ¡°This was supposed to be sister business. And Irene¡¯s out here in her consort¡¯s jacket. Saoirse manages not to involve hers.¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡± Saoirse glances up from the millipede she¡¯s plucking the legs from.


    I wrap Caspar¡¯s oversized sleeves around me. ¡°Adaire is right there,¡± I say.


    ¡°That¡¯s because you all brought yours. I won¡¯t keep mine out if the rest of you aren¡¯t. That wouldn¡¯t be fair to her.¡±


    Adaire folds her hands in her lap. ¡°Thank you, mistress.¡±


    ¡°And you are sleeping with her,¡± I say. ¡°She told Caspar.¡±


    Salome gives Adaire a sharp look. ¡°That¡¯s a simple reward for service, by request. It¡¯s not the same thing. I don¡¯t pretend like the manifestations I summon bear my genuine emotions, or that it affects our concordat.¡±


    ¡°So you get nothing out of it? Playing hide the Salami?¡±


    ¡°I think we should make Adaire ask that,¡± Bina says. ¡°So she can¡¯t lie.¡±


    Jordan lets out a giggle so girlish at Bina¡¯s pronouncement that I have to double take to make sure it came from the inspector.


    Salome fans a protective forearm in front of her servant. ¡°Nobody¡¯s gonna order my warlock around but her mistress, thank you very much.¡±


    Adaire finds some sudden fascination in my evening¡¯s wispy cirrus clouds.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°I think mirror witch is a cool thing to call someone,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°Very cool.¡± Bina plaits her warlock¡¯s hair. ¡°I bet Sal¡¯d think so if it wasn¡¯t Gan saying it.¡±


    Salome glowers. She surely would.


    ¡°At least she¡¯s willing to fight in heaven, right?¡± I murmur to Salome. ¡°She¡¯s just about the only one who would do anything more than tickle Eight¡¯s hide if it came down to it.¡±


    ¡°If it comes down to that, I quite think we¡¯re hyper-fucked,¡± Salome says. ¡°But maybe she could buy us a minute or two.¡±


    ¡°Two,¡± Ganea says.


    We glance over. I didn¡¯t realize she was listening to us.


    ¡°I could hold my own against Eight for about 150 seconds before she devoured me,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I¡¯ve gamed it out.¡±


    ¡°Salome¡¯s right that our aim should be to prevent it entirely,¡± I say. ¡°But if you¡¯re volunteering¡­?¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°Then thank you, Gan.¡±


    ¡°Mom! Guys! Look at what I can do!¡± Peat Moss see-saws up to the table on two trembly legs. ¡°I came from all the way down there.¡± He points down the hill with one aloft hoof.


    ¡°How about that.¡± Caspar gives Peat a scratch on the ear. ¡°Been practicing, huh?¡±


    ¡°Peat Moss!¡± Saoirse claps her hands. ¡°How lovely, dear.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s actually way hard if you aren¡¯t used to it,¡± Bina murmurs to Jordan, at the edge of my hearing. ¡°Bipedal inclines.¡±


    Jordan nudges her fuzzy stomach with an elbow. ¡°You did seem more comfortable on all fours.¡±


    Bina gives this a scandalized giggle. ¡°Ohmygod Jordy stop.¡±


    ¡°Doing this on Diamante would be weird, right?¡± A burst of courage and Peat Moss balances briefly one one leg.


    ¡°The yokels might think so,¡± Caspar confirms. ¡°But that¡¯s real impressive, kiddo.¡±


    Peat Moss beams. Okay, I admit it. The fawn¡¯s kind of cute. ¡°Mom, can I have hands?¡± He wobbles up to Saoirse. ¡°With thumbs? Like Caspar and Jordy?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Saoirse prods his hoof. Its cloven fold deepens and splits into fleshy fingers. ¡°Just evoke them when you need them, darling.¡±


    ¡°This is so fucking cool.¡± Peat holds his new hand up. ¡°Caspar, look!¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Goodness.¡±


    ¡°Real freaky looking, Peat.¡± Jordan finishes her mule. Bina refills it immediately with the flick of a pseudopod.


    Peat wiggles his new fingers. ¡°Can I have a gun?¡±


    ¡°Oh, hey now¡ª¡± Caspar shifts.


    Saoirse plucks her left forearm off with a sound like dry twigs cracking. She transmogrifies it into a pistol and passes it to the fawn. ¡°Here you are, dear.¡±


    ¡°Fuck yeah.¡± Peat takes the gun and points it into the air. He pulls the trigger and it clicks. ¡°Cas, how do I turn off the safety?¡±


    Caspar flinches to his feet. ¡°Peat, how about you give me that and we can walk you through some basic safe¡ªno come back please slow down you don¡¯t wanna run with that yet Peat.¡± My husband chases the cheerful fawn as he teeters away from the stone table.


    ¡°That seems as good a place to adjourn as any,¡± I say. ¡°Ganea: we formally accept you into the alliance. Your refusal to bring your warlock, we¡¯ll look past.¡± I hold a palm out. ¡°Welcome aboard, sister.¡±


    My hand barely fits around her proffered pointer finger. But a shake¡¯s a shake.


    ???????????


    A blue dawn. The icy light shows them their breath, swirling in the air. The Butcher rubs his wrists as Caspar cuts the ties loose.


    ¡°Suppose this is where we part,¡± Caspar says. He extends his hand.


    The Butcher takes it. ¡°I suppose so.¡±


    The gesture isn¡¯t as awkward as mine with Ganea, mechanically speaking, but the camaraderie remains a band-aid over the bullet hole of the war these warlocks fought.


    ¡°You got a name?¡± Jordan asks. ¡°Besides Butcher?¡±


    ¡°Not a real one,¡± the Iron Butcher says. ¡°Not yet. I¡¯ll pick from one of my aliases, I suppose.¡± He stretches his legs stiffly and climbs from the pile of temple seat tchotchkes. He looks at his reflection in the passenger side mirror. ¡°Would you let me evoke again? My nose is broken.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Sure.¡± Caspar feels his own abrasions under his clothes as, with a crackle of reforming cartilage, the Butcher channels Ganea¡¯s power. I¡¯ve assured Caspar that I can handle his lingering injuries, but he repeatedly insists I save it all for myself.


    ¡°Where¡¯s next?¡± Jordan asks.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯ll understand,¡± the Iron Butcher says. ¡°But I can¡¯t tell you. I¡¯m new. Can¡¯t let any of it follow me.¡± He shoulders the provisions they gave him. ¡°You only have a little time left on Diamante. Even less if you aren¡¯t lucky. Don¡¯t wait around on the forever.¡±


    Caspar puts his chilly hands in his pockets. The Butcher¡¯s pronouncement discomfits him, breaks some of the barky detachment he¡¯s grown to this world. This light which already feels false. His imperfections and his injuries, his fatigue with the smiling lies of his old faith. He sees this warlock freed, and feels as though he should desire the same freedom, rediscover the erstwhile love he had for his little mortal life.


    But he doesn¡¯t. I am Irene¡¯s creature, now, he thinks. He corrects himself: Irene¡¯s husband. And the quaver in my warlock¡¯s faith drifts away again, almost.


    But his thumb brushes the finger where, in my demesne, he wears my ring. It isn¡¯t there. It¡¯s all prologue, this time on Diamante. It¡¯s before chapter one. He must remember that. Why can¡¯t he shake the feeling that he¡¯s living in the conclusion?


    They burn the van a mile off-road. Sizzling leaves of bunting and scraps of pennant drift away in firefly spirals.


    Jordan boosts them a sleek wood-paneled coupe as its replacement. A smaller ride for their reduced headcount. It¡¯s just Cas, Jordy, and Peat Moss, now, and without Tilliam¡¯s sullen glare and Adaire¡¯s staged theatrics, the mood is brighter. The inspector fritters the miles away, teaching the fawn a litany of creative curse words beyond the fuck and shit concepts he already knows from the natural world.


    ¡°I know what cum is,¡± Peat says. ¡°What¡¯s a dumpster?¡±


    ¡°A real big trash can,¡± Jordan says. ¡°I¡¯ll point one out for you when we¡¯re in Relic City.¡±


    ¡°They make dumpsters for that?¡±


    ¡°Jordan, we¡¯re already killing people in front of him,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Maybe we preserve what innocence we can, huh?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be innocent,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°I want to be¡ªwhat did you say, Jordan?¡±


    ¡°A badass pussy magnet,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°I want to be a badass pussy magnet,¡± Peat Moss says.


    They¡¯re in the diocese''s heart now. Pastornos itself. Relic City. Peat Moss sits squeezed between Caspar and Jordan, fiddling with the inspector¡¯s lighter, fascinated by his new spell.


    The first day, they check into the cheapest hotel they can find that isn¡¯t completely carcinogenic. With the cold and the war whittling down the foot traffic, it¡¯s easy enough. Their room isn¡¯t even that bad¡ªjust cramped and situated close to the highway. But close your eyes and those rushing cars sound like the tide, almost.


    On one wall hangs a picture of the Suzerain, crackled and textured to look like an oil painting. His deep-set eyes disappear almost in the caves of his aged face, visible by their gleam.


    Jordan hangs a towel over it.


    They take an evening in Settler Square. They resolve to get the stately, old-world homework stuff out of the way today and then really hit the tourist bucket list the rest of the week. They take in the donjon outside of which the first Saint, Cancroth, burned himself alive. The first Suzerain took his oath before the sooty mark.


    ¡°It¡¯s been there this whole time?¡± Peat Moss whispers, as they hold up the binoculars from the viewing platform the guards shepherd the pet-owners onto.


    ¡°They re-burn it with butane torches every quarter,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Peat turns his head from the binoculars and blinks. ¡°What a crock.¡±


    Dinner is thick slabs of saurbraten, smothered in rich, buttery gravy. Peat gamely tries some and concludes that dessert is great, but he¡¯s going to stay herbivorous.


    Caspar and Jordan eat and look outside the bird-wire window, to a Basilica Administorum across the street, spiking out of the ground like the crest of a coronet, and thrice as gaudy. Whirling heraldry so dizzying, it solidifies into a coral reef on every corner of the pyramidal thing. That¡¯s the kind of place you go to get your permits renewed in Relic City. Positively pedestrian by Pastornos standards. The regality ought to be blowing Caspar¡¯s eyelids back, but he¡¯s barely looking at it.


    He¡¯s watching the guard outside the place. The one in the Dominion Suit. The first one he¡¯s ever seen outside the serials. They don¡¯t do it justice. Seven feet of mirror-polished steel and death angel tracery. A true figure of Pastornist supremacy. Within range of them; close enough to speak to, not that an on-duty Dominion would ever respond. Close enough to reduce them to quivering swiss cheese with those autoguns, too.


    A knot of pilgrims flocks nearby, ooohing and taking photographs in front of him.


    ¡°You ever see one of those before?¡± Caspar eyes the suit¡¯s huge gauntlets, the autoguns twin-linked on each forearm, ammo belts hanging and threaded with white roses.


    ¡°They had one come through to the Chamchek inspectorate,¡± Jordan says. ¡°He was there hunting a fugitive. Target must have been a real sonofabitch, since they aren¡¯t meant to leave Relic City. Wouldn¡¯t say it, but we all knew it was a warlock. That¡¯s what those things are for. Ninety percent of inspector jobs, they were just decimations or air fresheners. Actual warlocks in the Chamchek diocese, you send a half dozen inspectors minimum, and you feel blessed if one survives. Warlock in Pastornos, they send one Dominion and sleep like a baby. Used to daydream of being one. Cut through a ¡®lock like butter, pose like a serial hero, nail a vestal priestess or two.¡±


    ¡°You reckon we could take one down?¡±


    ¡°You, me, and Peat?¡± She smirks. ¡°Oh, yeah. No problem. Reckon one of us might even survive.¡±


    ¡°You said air freshener,¡± Caspar says. ¡°What¡¯s an air freshener?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s, uh.¡± Jordan looks at the ground. ¡°Inspector slang for a kind of inspectorate job. You smell something funky in a village, but you don¡¯t know where it¡¯s coming from, and you reckon if you do nothing, they¡¯ll be emboldened. And you¡¯ll have to come back later, do a decimation. So instead, you pick yourself someone who won¡¯t be missed and do some creative writing, find a charge. Make one up. Hang them in public, to cover up the funk. An air freshener. Get it?¡±


    Caspar chews his tongue. ¡°That¡¯s pretty ghoulish, Jordy.¡±


    ¡°I was a ghoul, Cas. Remember?¡± A rueful little chuckle escapes her. ¡°I was a monster.¡±


    She leaves dinner unfinished.


    The street lamps throw rococo textures through their gilded cages as the warlocks return to the hotel. Peat Moss snores in Caspar¡¯s arms. He glances at Jordan now and then. The inspector is uncharacteristically somber. She walks by a whole trolley load of gawking pilgrims without so much as a derisive aside.


    ¡°So,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You and Bean.¡±


    ¡°Hey.¡± Jordan perks up and prods his arm. ¡°You¡¯re not allowed to call her that.¡±


    ¡°You two got together, though?¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± The inspector¡¯s returning to the present as she says it. Or at least a much more recent and enjoyable past. ¡°That¡¯s a special woman, right there. When she¡¯s around Irene and them, she¡¯s more of a little sister. But just by ourselves, you¡¯d be surprised. She¡¯s a lot more mature than you¡¯d expect.¡±


    ¡°She is a thousand years old.¡±


    ¡°And a tentacle is a lot different from a strap, tell ya that.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t need to tell me that.¡±


    They lay Peat Moss on a nest of spare clothes and tuck into their flatboard beds. Caspar spends twenty minutes trying to get comfortable, and decides that, if there¡¯s no ease to be had with his bedding, he might as well moisten his throat. He finds a drinking glass and stalks to the bathroom.


    When he turns back from the tap, he sees the paperwhite light thrown across Jordan, sat up in bed. There¡¯s a sober expression on her face.


    ¡°Can¡¯t sleep,¡± she says.


    Caspar fidgets on his feet. The unalloyed late-night talk. He¡¯s never been good at it. Reminds him of his insomniac evenings, of gun oil and falling out of love.


    ¡°Is it nerves? Is it, uh, something with Bina?¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°That air freshener thing today. Brought it back. Got to me, a bit.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Caspar clicks the light off in the bathroom and cloaks the room in shadow again.


    ¡°I kept myself together some nights, caught sleep, by telling myself that by my hand, they found peace.¡± Jordan turns over. ¡°And now it¡¯s kinda true. But then. Before. Every innocent person I killed is in pain. Endless, horrible pain.¡±


    Her cheeks are damp.


    ¡°Sometimes I remember how fucking evil I am,¡± she says. ¡°And the good things, the friendship, the love. It¡¯s all¡ª¡±


    She falls silent. Caspar edges back over to his own bed, projecting what comfort he can to his sister warlock.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know the sort of person I am,¡± Jordan says into the dark. ¡°How bad it got. In my head, I mean. How closed I was. You should have just let me drop into Heaven. So I could feel a fraction of the pain I inflicted on this world. Bina should have gotten someone like you. Someone who deserves this second chance.¡±


    ¡°You can poor-me about it if you want, Jordan Darius. I won¡¯t play along. The suffering down in the wasteland, that wouldn¡¯t be justice. Wouldn¡¯t fix a thing.¡± Springs creak as Caspar sits on his bed. ¡°You and me know now the gods are just people, too. Strange, powerful people, but they don¡¯t control fate. Justice, penance, it¡¯s not fake, I guess, but it¡¯s in our heads. Things just happen, because they happen, and the only meaning behind suffering is the meaning we give it. So maybe you¡¯d feel you were getting what you deserve for a while. But you¡¯d be the only one. Nobody else to see it. And then you¡¯d lose your mind and forget. And then it wouldn¡¯t mean anything at all.¡±


    He hears the shudder in Jordan¡¯s breathing.


    ¡°This,¡± he says. ¡°What you¡¯re doing. This is real penance. Putting yourself to work to save everyone you damned. This counts. Anything else would be unacceptable.¡±


    Jordan slides back under the covers to the silty sound of the bedclothes parting. ¡°Thank you, Caspar.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Jordy.¡±


    ¡°I never liked very many people at all on this planet. Helped with the job. Only my family. My fathers, my siblings, their kids. But that¡¯s you, too, now.¡± Her hand snakes out from the sheets and reaches into the space between their twin beds. ¡°Brother.¡±


    He takes it. ¡°Sister.¡±


    He holds her hand until she falls asleep.

 32. A statue

    The bathrooms in the Hall of the Pious Crusaders are the cleanest in any public building Caspar¡¯s ever used. Marble and enamel and brass. There¡¯s these newfangled taps that can tell when your hands are under them. They¡¯re awful, and he needs to wave under them like a Tabarkan hand-dancer to get them to recognize his presence, but it¡¯s more about the possibility. The dream.


    Before he leaves the bathroom, he splashes water across his ensorcelled face. They¡¯re walking around in full evoked disguise whenever they¡¯re in public this past week. Caspar Cartwright and Jordan Darius are now officially missing persons of interest, with their old faces on bulletin boards and street corners. As a bonus, the constant low-level evocations act as fabulous endurance training. The dizzy spells aren¡¯t entirely gone, but they¡¯re rarer.


    In a golden, echoing chamber, its corniced roof painted with thousands of stoic sword-saints, he finds the statue in his honor. The third Tabarkan Crusade, second-to-last in the century¡¯s row, just behind the Rowhai Crusade and an empty plinth that awaits the memorial for the ongoing fifth Sarkanian Crusade.


    The statue¡¯s of a militia trooper, in oolitic limestone, hewn in brutalist deco, with a shell helmet on their lumpy head and a carbine in their fist. That¡¯s a RMR-10, Caspar thinks, with a lot of liberties taken. Those guns were ghastly, jammed as soon as you looked at them and baked your palms in the Tabarka heat if you left them out in the sun for longer than an eyeblink. They were quite gallant-looking, though. He supposes, with statuary, that¡¯s what counts.


    ¡°Real meathead proportions.¡± Jordan¡¯s footsteps echo as she comes up next to him. ¡°Big shoulders, little head. Reminds me of you.¡±


    He chuckles. ¡°Was just thinking it looked like my old CO, except how tiny the feet are. Guess it¡¯s an art thing. Exaggeration. Don¡¯t know if I get it.¡±


    ¡°Caspar the Critic.¡± Jordan adjusts her duffel bag. ¡°Peat. Stop scooting around.¡±


    ¡°Turn me,¡± the bag murmurs. ¡°I wanna see the art thing.¡±


    Jordan angles the bag¡¯s slightly open zipper upward. ¡°How about those bathrooms, though, right?¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Bet they spent more on one of them toilet bowls than on my pension.¡±


    ¡°If we hadn¡¯t thrown your ID away, the tickets woulda been free, though.¡± Jordan pats his shoulder. ¡°Makes up for the shell shock and the canceled engagement, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Caspar turns from the statue. ¡°High Inspectorum next?¡±


    Jordan sucks air through her teeth. ¡°Don¡¯t think so. Too risky. And I don¡¯t miss it at all. Not like you kinda do.¡±


    ¡°Me, miss the militia?¡± Caspar raises a defensive brow.


    ¡°Yeah, bro. Not the shooting, maybe. But you¡¯re a team player.¡± Jordan points up at the statue¡¯s epaulettes. ¡°Bet you miss the uniform, too.¡±


    He scoffs. I¡¯d never gang up on my man, not in front of Jordy, but between you and me, reader, she¡¯s right. Until the cruel reality of combat bled all over Caspar¡¯s hands, he adored the militia. The regimented life, the security of service, the abnegation of decisions. The rucking songs and the tea-powder lattes with his friends, before the world chewed them up. And he does miss the uniform. He thinks he looked pretty good in it.


    (My husband, the king of understatement. He was a fucking panty-melter in those service scarlets. If he hadn¡¯t insisted on talking about his damn fianc¨¦e all the time, he could have banged half his platoon.)


    ¡°If the Inspectorum¡¯s off the table, I declare us out of tourist shit to do.¡± Caspar checks his wristwatch. ¡°With 48 hours to spare before the Tilliam rendezvous.¡±


    ¡°Time enough,¡± Jordan says. ¡°If we¡¯re about to move around in Tilliam¡¯s crowd, we have to look flashier than we do. We¡¯re getting suits, and a haircut for you, and a chance to live baby Jordy¡¯s dream for me. We¡¯re going to the motherfuckin¡¯ Linen Quarter.¡±


    The rest of the day flies past in an extended montage of makeovers and materiel. The elegant row houses and lofts of the Linen Quarter, its subtle and sophisticated tailors. All of it would be entirely out-of-reach of our warlocks if they didn¡¯t have a trove of stolen cash from the archbishop¡¯s yacht. It goes halfway toward clearing them out, regardless.


    Jordan drops an eye-watering amount of money on a little brother-and-brother boutique for a promised one-day turnaround. The spindly couturier purses his lips as he passes his measuring tape to his sibling in order to cross the span of Caspar¡¯s linebacker shoulders.


    My husband excuses himself, a little red in the face, with half a rack of dress shirts to try on beneath the jacket. Has the illicit thrill worn off when I see my warlock¡¯s bare chest, now that he¡¯s my fianc¨¦? Now that I know what that skin tastes like? Well, maybe it¡¯s a little less illicit. But it¡¯s more thrilling.


    He meets back up with Jordan, who¡¯s weighed herself down with silk separates and a periwinkle-colored shopping bag from¡ª


    ¡°Dorotea¡¯s?¡± Caspar reads it. ¡°They make fancy dresses, don¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Jordan pulls the bag closer to herself with a crinkle.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t know you were a fancy dress type,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°I¡¯m not, usually. I just¡­¡± Jordan clears her throat. ¡°I¡¯m normally the big, strong one when I date. Getting thrown around by an eight foot tall werewolf chick has me feeling a little, uh. Lipstick-curious. Just a thing I¡¯m trying out.¡±


    Caspar smiles. ¡°I bet you¡¯ll look wonderful in it.¡±


    ¡°All right, all right.¡± Jordan shuffles the bag into the stack. ¡°Let¡¯s get you a haircut. Military-style. Your ass is walking around looking like a poet.¡±


    ???????????


    ¡°A tweak to the plan,¡± Adaire says. ¡°A somewhat impactful one, Mr. Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m listening,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Honest.¡±


    ¡°Air raaaaid,¡± cries a tinny bit-crushed voice, as the multiball catch loosens two more marbles into the machine.


    ¡°Tilliam¡¯s going to a little party tomorrow night. A reception a friend is putting on where they¡¯ll toast his heroic escape. I need him there and on his game; if we collar him beforehand, he¡¯ll be too visibly distraught. But an obstacle has presented itself. You¡¯re listening, Caspar? Peat Moss?¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± Peat Moss is propped up on the machine, gazing at the cascade.


    ¡°Swear to the Old Ones, I am.¡± Caspar glances away from the machine¡¯s gleaming chrome. ¡°Obstacle, you said.¡±


    ¡°Rebecca Tilliam,¡± Adaire says. ¡°She is on an airship crossing the Montane.¡±


    At the mention of his first adolescent crush, Caspar misses the last multiball. It slips between the game¡¯s flippers with a digitized explosion sound. ¡°Game Over!¡± crackles a voice from the machine. ¡°Go kiss your wife, Caspar!¡±


    Caspar gives the plunger a companionable squeeze. ¡°In a minute, pinball.¡±


    Jordan taps her chin. ¡°Poor Rebecca, coming into this whole mess. For a two-timing man. Not that, uh, you need to feel guilty about that.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± Adaire breezily refills her stein. ¡°She¡¯s due in Pastornos, the morning after next. So we have to move on him. At the party.¡±


    ¡°What about after?¡± Jordan asks.


    ¡°After, he gets into his fancy car and his fancy motorcade and heads to his fancy hotel,¡± Adaire says. ¡°No, that¡¯s its own complication, and a worse one. The party will do. You know how to act at these sorts of things?¡±


    ¡°Been to enough of them as a fancy ornament for the security team,¡± Jordan says. ¡°I can coach Caspar. It¡¯s too early for our tailored digs but I reckon we can throw together a new-money kinda look.¡±


    ¡°Capital. I¡¯ll get the two of you on the guest list and sweet talk you in. We¡¯ll turn him there and extract him.¡± Adaire scratches her shoulder, where a trim silver brocaded epaulette sits. Her fashion in Heaven, much like her mistress, is always completely colorless and bleeding-edge. ¡°The question remains, however¡ªwhat¡¯s to be done about Rebecca? Unless we deal with her, she¡¯ll compromise our control of the archbishop.¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Caspar raises a finger toward Jordan. ¡°Don¡¯t say it.¡±


    Jordan arches her brow. ¡°Don¡¯t say what?¡±


    ¡°You were gonna say we oughta bump her off before she becomes a problem,¡± Peat Moss says.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Caspar says. ¡°See? Peaty smells your bloodthirst.¡±


    ¡°Hey now!¡± Jordan protests. ¡°That woman¡¯s just lovely.¡± She can¡¯t resist throwing in: ¡°And I think she may have earned an early ticket to our lovely, lovely afterlife.¡±


    ¡°Are you fuckers talking about killing Rebecca Tilliam?¡± Sam demands, from the bar.


    Jordan shrugs. ¡°Would it be so terrible to have the prairie rose of Chamchek hanging out at the taphouse?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s joking, Sammy.¡± Caspar steps back from the pinball machine. Sotto voce, he says to Jordan: ¡°We are not killing Rebecca Tilliam, Jordy.¡±


    ¡°Then Cas is the one who decides what we do about her,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°We¡¯ll figure something out.¡± Caspar pours himself one for the road. ¡°Paul Tilliam, if he¡¯s a good man, will play along. Keep his wife out of danger.¡±


    Peat Moss takes position at the controls and manifests his new hands. ¡°I have been waiting so long to try this.¡±


    ¡°The warlocks are hogging the damn pinball again,¡± Sam observes to Hollis, who¡¯s sitting at the taphouse bar tuning the acoustic guitar.


    Hollis only gives a vague nod. He¡¯s in the zone right now. The templar¡¯s improving at a rapid clip. The rolls and dancing fingerpicking patterns he never thought he¡¯d play; they¡¯re jumping to his fingertips now. He doesn¡¯t feel dead anymore when he holds this instrument. He feels like he¡¯s dawning.


    ¡°Just one more round and it¡¯s yours, civilians,¡± Jordan says. ¡°We¡¯ll be out on call for the Alexandra thing.¡±


    ???????????


    The Alexandra thing. That¡¯s my headache, the reason I¡¯m not there right now, lounging on the bar and throwing smoky looks at my husband. We need to understand how and why Alexandra¡¯s working with the world-eater. My second-youngest sister has always been a fiery young woman. Even exiting her first millennium didn¡¯t cool her heels. Of all my sisters, she¡¯s the one I¡¯ve always struggled to reach. But she idolizes Ganea, and now Gan¡¯s on our side.


    Ganea carries me on her massive steel-shod back as we journey into the labyrinth of basilicae within which Alexandra roosts. The endless intricacies and ribcage buttresses have landslid to form an ersatz pileup of matchstick columns and spires, like the nest of some massive brooding bird. It¡¯s a potent natural defense; the architectural flourishes are so mashed and mislaid into magic-eye chaos that they threaten a headache even for the eldritch. Your average attack angel spirals out of the sky upon witnessing it; a clattered pile of their corpses lay among the spiky floor like dead insects.


    We¡¯re made of sterner stuff, although poor minimalist Salome¡¯s entire being is revolting at the landscape, and her form has compressed into a reflective sphere. ¡°It¡¯s just so tacky,¡± she groans, from the ship¡¯s-bridge observation platform upon which our manifestations stand.


    ¡°You know, when we visited you, you dismembered Bina,¡± I say.


    ¡°That was an innocent mistake,¡± Salome says. ¡°This is a declaration of war upon taste.¡±


    ¡°What do these buttons do, Gan?¡± Bina is puzzling over a console bank at the edge of the bridge.


    The manifestation seated before the console slaps an inquisitive pseudopod away. ¡°Don¡¯t touch anything.¡±


    Ganea is hosting us today. The interior of her demesne is constructed like a massive warship, all steel corridors and deadly machinery. As our warlocks dock and emerge into her boiler room guts, ranks of manifestations in faceless armor snap into salutation. They pass trooping ranks of the same insectoid soldiers that nearly destroyed us. They file through a massive war room with a football field-sized map of Known Heaven on its wall, with the movements of every sister and every major relict marked and tracked.


    They¡¯re blocked from the bridge by two hulking stormtroopers who cross glaives over the entrance. Standing before them, in parade rest, is the Iron Butcher.


    ¡°Cognitohazard on the bridge,¡± he says. ¡°The mortals will have to wait in the mess.¡±


    ¡°Is there tea in the mess?¡± Adaire inquires.


    ¡°Yes,¡± rumbles one stormtrooper.


    ¡°Splendid.¡± She tilts her head at a hatchway. ¡°Lead on.¡±


    ¡°Thought Ganea said you should split,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Do what makes you happy.¡±


    ¡°I am.¡± The Butcher wheels the mess door open for them.


    ¡°Wait! Wait a second.¡± I slip out the bridge door. ¡°Caspar.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Miss Irene?¡±


    I squeeze past the two bulky manifestations. I kiss him. ¡°Hi, Mr. Cartwright.¡±


    He grins. ¡°Hi, Mrs. Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°Be right back. Doing ineffable shit.¡± I scurry away again. ¡°Save me some tea.¡±


    I rejoin my sisters on the bridge. Salome points into the dark. ¡°Out there. Spotted while you were canoodling.¡±


    ¡°I saw, okay?¡± I remove my heels and feel the cool metal on the soles of my feet. ¡°I can multitask.¡±


    A flash of scarlet in the depths. The fleet form of our sister, darting within the fractured majesty of her home.


    I echo a greeting across her lair. A warm one that doesn¡¯t hide my apprehension, but qualifies it with affection. Embedded in my third syllable is an explanation that we have humans in attendance and a request for mortal-level communication.


    The responding eruption of void tongue comes with such urgency that for a moment I fear Alexandra has just liquefied our warlocks¡¯ brains. But a panicky inquest into Caspar¡¯s mind shows that Ganea has soundproofed the mess hall. I feel a surge of gratitude for my battle-ready elder sister.


    Distrust and hostility, fear and guilt. Alexandra knows why we¡¯re here and how little we understand her actions. She¡¯s not interested in explaining herself to us. She wants us gone.


    ¡°Thought this might happen.¡± Ganea slides her great horned helmet on. ¡°I¡¯ll retrieve her.¡±


    ¡°Hold on. Hold on.¡± I step in front of her. ¡°We don¡¯t need to do that. She¡¯s overwhelmed. There¡¯s too many of us here.¡±


    ¡°This is our sister, Irene,¡± Salome says. ¡°Not an exotic fish.¡±


    ¡°I know I¡¯m making excuses,¡± I say. ¡°But let¡¯s give her a chance, right? We¡¯ll wait outside and keep trying. And she¡¯ll either come out ready to talk, or she¡¯ll come out swinging.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe I can stay here.¡± Salome hugs her facets closer to herself. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m trying to make light of it, but it really does hurt. My prime form¡¯s too vulnerable to cognitohazard.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to stick around, Sal.¡± I keep my voice as kind as I know how to make it. It¡¯s got to be bad when Salome¡¯s willing to admit this kind of weakness to me. ¡°I won¡¯t waste anyone¡¯s time.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re still recovering, dear,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°You can¡¯t take her on alone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stay with Irene.¡± Ganea takes her helmet back off and shakes out her steel-cable hair. ¡°The rest of you can go as you please.¡±


    ¡°Will you be okay?¡± Bina murmurs.


    ¡°Sure.¡± I squeeze her shoulder, which takes a lot bigger of a stretch than I remember. ¡°Go with Salami and Sersh. Make sure they stay out of trouble.¡± I wink. ¡°Co-leader.¡±


    She kisses my cheek and departs. I am alone with Ganea, the colossus who tore me in half.


    We stand for a while in silence. I absorb the clanking of Ganea¡¯s manifestations as they attend their tasks across the bridge. It seems inefficient to me, externalizing these processes, but Ganea beat the shit out of us, so there¡¯s presumably a method behind it.


    I break the quiet. ¡°Do you know what I¡¯ve been remembering lately?¡±


    Ganea fixes her red gaze on me.


    ¡°I remember when you appeared in my afterlife,¡± I say. ¡°In my sky. You and Sal and Eight. My people were so utterly convinced that Heaven was over and the void monsters were here to devour our souls. We had the same myths about it that humanity does. The ultimate antagonist.¡±


    ¡°You hardly looked appetizing,¡± Ganea says. ¡°Too soggy for me. No crunch.¡±


    I chuckle. Ganea doesn¡¯t smile, but her stony demeanor softens, just a bit.


    ¡°We were so close,¡± I say. ¡°After I transcended. I was so afraid of you at first. And you were so patient with me. You remember?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°This war we fought against the Father. I know we won, but sometimes it doesn¡¯t feel that way. The way we all fell out, what it did to Eight. What it did to all of us, I guess.¡±


    ¡°You want that back,¡± Ganea says.


    ¡°I do. You know I do.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how we get there.¡±


    ¡°Me neither. But I think humanity is how we start.¡±


    A throne of gleaming blades and chrome ammunition unfolds from the floor with the clattering sound of a loading magazine. Ganea settles into it, her face pensive. Even seated, she¡¯s thrice my height.


    A metal stool with a purple cushion atop it slats from the floor next to it.


    ¡°What would you have done?¡± I ask as I sit. ¡°With Heaven. I¡¯d pictured some iron fist stuff. The way you always talked about humanity, it sounded like you were ready to build an army out of them.¡±


    Ganea rests her chin on her removed helmet. ¡°Their weapons and wars impressed me. Beyond any other mortals we¡¯ve ever encountered. Their eagerness to shed blood for half-baked abstractions. Their grasping for power for no sake but power¡¯s sake. My Heaven would be their battlefield and training ground. To perfect them.¡±


    ¡°But who would they have fought?¡± I ask. ¡°It¡¯s not like their forms would have been able to survive out in the void. Not for the time it would take for us to find another world to conquer. And even if they could, and even if we were in the conquering business, having another sister would be so much more of a force multiplier than an army of squishy little mortals.¡±


    Ganea stares into the maddening mandala beyond the bridge. ¡°All true,¡± she says. ¡°I thought the same thing.¡±


    ¡°So, then. What would you have done?¡±


    She holds her helmet out to one side. A pair of lesser manifestations retrieve it. She looks down at me. ¡°I¡¯d have made them our sister, too. You¡¯re convinced it¡¯s their love that will align them. I believed it would be their will to conquer. As it was for me.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you felt that way,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯d have been less of an asshole to you.¡±


    ¡°You were an enemy,¡± Ganea says. ¡°And I pulverized you regularly.¡±


    ¡°Well, I was terse.¡±


    She snorts.


    ¡°Sister Humanity, huh?¡± I nudge her¡ªit¡¯s like elbowing an anvil. ¡°After all the poo-pooing you did against them?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s new,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I only thought that way after I met the Iron Butcher. All that humanity could be. I aspire to the way he killed: no passion, all proficiency. I would have defeated you if I were more like him.¡±


    ¡°You really like this guy. The Ganea I know would have cut him loose. You¡¯re keeping him around like a house cat.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand why he¡¯s back,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I offered to send him away, to give him back his dreams. But he¡¯s staying here instead.¡± She waves a hand around her steely warship. ¡°It¡¯s not a pleasant place.¡±


    ¡°Do you love each other?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Ganea says. ¡°I don¡¯t know how humans do that. And I don¡¯t care. I¡¯m the goddess of war, not of love. That¡¯s you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not¡ª¡± I pause. I consider. I am the one who keeps on extolling the virtues of mortal romance. And I¡¯ve never taken control of a Heaven before, never acted as a deity for a mortal. If we¡¯re going to be a pantheon for them¡­ well, I could be the goddess of much worse.


    ¡°Well, I say you do.¡± I tap the third eye on my forehead.


    ¡°Fine.¡± She tries to look annoyed. I don¡¯t think she is.


    ¡°Be right back, okay?¡± I tap her bracer. ¡°We¡¯ll be at this for a while and I wanna say hello to my beau. Talk through the plan, that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m interested in your tea.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s acceptable.¡±


    ¡°You can come along, y¡¯know.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡± I start off the bridge.


    She stands up and falls in with me. ¡°I might as well hear the briefing.¡±

 33. A lie

    Caspar pulls the seared flesh from the bone and chews its crispy skin. A bursting pop of flavor, sumac and Northward oregano. Hot damn, that is delicious.


    He holds the thin wing bone in his hand and casts about for a place to put it. A beaming cater waiter plucks it from him. His ¡°oh, thank you¡± comes too late¡ªshe¡¯s already swanned away.


    He¡¯s never been great at parties. Never been one to strike up the conversation first. When he was with Vesta, his strategy was to keep stuck to her, let her make the approaches and introductions, and hop comfortably into the chat once it had been warmed up.


    He supposes the less memorable he is here, the better. That¡¯s a comfort. He settles into the ghostly solitude he so feared slipping into at previous shindigs. It¡¯s not half bad, being around all this glitz, when introversion is mission critical.


    He lets his attention trail across and past Paul Tilliam, the shiny bauble being gleefully passed around by Pastornos high society. Everywhere is ease and cheer. Mineral magnates in sharply tailored suits rub padded shoulders with Temple luminaries in chaperons and filigreed frocks. A shimmering starlet, her powdered face nearly lost in a thicket of exotic fur, giggles like a chiming music box at the cutting joke of a silver-haired captain. In the cylindrical center of the chamber, gaily dancing couples two-step across a hardwood dance floor painted with an ornate cornucopian mural, so polished and immaculate that Caspar has trouble imagining anyone¡¯s stepped on it before.


    Safe to assume none of these folks have attended a barn raising.


    Caspar indulges his imagination, thinking about showing up to one of these fancy to-dos with his wife on his arm, a little inky lady poured into something cute and purple. A century down the line, once everyone got used to cohabitating with Old Ones, I¡¯d be the life of the party, he reckons.


    I really don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve never been to something like this, only watched. The hwuarch were mostly solitary creatures outside of their spawning cycles. We liked our privacy when we were mortal. It was only once we¡¯d died off and reached an afterlife without competition for resources that we really hit it off with ourselves. And by then, none of us knew how to cha-cha properly.


    Watching the sparkling, laughing promenade over Caspar¡¯s shoulders, I promise myself: by the time my husband kicks the bucket, I¡¯ll have taught myself to dance with him.


    Caspar locates Jordan in the crowd; her evoked face, structured and aquiline, is a mask of neutrality as she slips through the frivolity like a coral reef predator.


    He passes her a flute of sparkling wine as she reaches him. ¡°Some party, huh?¡±


    ¡°Might surprise you, how unremarkable it is,¡± she says. ¡°You think the rich are gonna be classier in Pastornos somehow. Like you¡¯ll feel they deserve the money more because it¡¯s so old.¡± She looks askance at an heiress reaching precariously for the top glass of a champagne tower. ¡°Nope. Fancier accents, same horseshit. More horseshit, on account of there¡¯s actual horse shit out in the carriage bay.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s the dress treating you?¡± Caspar asks.


    She tugs on the hem of her dark maroon dress, which shimmers with rhinestones. ¡°I don¡¯t hate it. But my thighs aren¡¯t used to rubbing together this much. I look okay?¡±


    ¡°You look gorgeous,¡± he answers, and it¡¯s true¡ªshe does. Jordan¡¯s body, weaponized as it is, fills the sleeveless scoop-neck cut fabulously, exposing her sculpted shoulders. I remember a time when I¡¯d be angrily pacing at Caspar¡¯s pronouncement. Now I just rub my ring and wonder how that dress might look a few sizes smaller and a few shades purpler.


    My warlocks hear that famous laugh, the one that sounds like a pipe organ. Archbishop Paul Tilliam is glad-handing a shoal of cardinals, the fullness and color brought back to his cheeks by a return to indulgence and the careful appliance of continental rouge. A light touch on his arm draws him from the pool of popery. Adaire murmurs something to him, something that makes him smile and puts a brief glow on the edges of his ears. She leads him away, through the swinging door into the kitchens.


    ¡°That¡¯s us.¡± Jordan downs the dregs of her wine. ¡°Let¡¯s rock.¡±


    ¡°Are we allowed back there?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask that and don¡¯t wonder it. That¡¯s the trick. Head up and look like you belong, yeah?¡±


    Caspar keeps his head up and his shoulders square. The two warlocks push through the doors and stride past the hubbub of the line cooks. No eye contact with anyone, no slowing down. He feels like one of those cartoon characters running off a cliff and continuing apace past the ledge. Just don¡¯t look down, Cas.


    Tilliam and Adaire are on the far side of the kitchen now. She''s tipped his circular service hat onto her head at a jaunty angle and taken his tie out from beneath his suit jacket, pulling it lightly to guide him down a utility hall. Caspar and Jordan share a silent five-count, then follow. They emerge into the hall just in time to watch the bathroom door clicking shut.


    Jordan releases the tension in her trapezius with a slow circle nod. By the time she¡¯s reoriented, her face has rippled back into her usual features. Caspar follows suit and holds in the tickling sneeze that always accompanies his reconstructing nose.


    They enter the bathroom. The archbishop looks up from the hickey he¡¯s marking on Adaire¡¯s graceful neck. He makes eye contact with the inspector¡¯s boreal blues.


    ¡°Hi, Paul,¡± Jordan says.


    He doesn¡¯t have time to scream. Adaire¡¯s hand is clamped across his mouth. ¡°Shhh. Tilly. Calm, my brave boy. Be calm for me.¡±


    The archbishop¡¯s jaw goes slack; he feels the brute strength in his lady friend¡¯s willowy arms. She wears a radiant smile as she ratchets him closer. Her lips, full and crimson red, press to his ear, and whisper something into it that freezes him like he¡¯s been cast in bronze.


    ¡°Hello again, archbishop.¡± Caspar closes the bathroom door and locks it. ¡°Let¡¯s pick up where we left off.¡±


    ¡°Spawn of the Adversary.¡± The fury on Tilliam¡¯s face is pure and zealous. ¡°Misguided lamb, in the coils of the serpent. You ain¡¯t getting any more blood from this stone. I swore I¡¯d washed my hands of you and I have, one way or the other.¡±


    ¡°You asking to die for your dogma, Paul?¡± Jordan¡¯s toothy grin puts Caspar in the mind of her lupine mistress. ¡°Don¡¯t know if that¡¯ll work out like you think.¡±


    ¡°Again, you brandish your infirmity of faith against me, like it¡¯s a weapon and not a wound. Like it won¡¯t turn back to bite the fist that wields it.¡±


    ¡°You can spit defiance in their faces, Tilly.¡± Adaire¡¯s voice is silk. ¡°You can spit it in mine. But I know you. I know this boy. I wonder at the pride he broadcasts, and the weakness he professes to me. That he hides from both fathers. The Father, his father.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare¡ª¡± But Tilliam¡¯s hull is already breached even if he isn¡¯t all the way sunk. All four of them know he¡¯s drowning. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare,¡± he repeats, shrinkingly.


    ¡°Such a frightened man.¡± Adaire¡¯s long, red-tipped nails hiss against his cotton dress shirt and jostle the gold-leafed charm braid that hangs over his heart. ¡°You say you¡¯re ready to die. But you aren¡¯t. You don¡¯t know what¡¯s next. For all your prevarication. You¡¯ve seen our miracles. The things you call witchcraft. But you¡¯ve never seen one of yours.¡±


    ¡°Father¡­¡± His prayer perishes at his lips.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Adaire laughs softly. ¡°Go on.¡±


    He¡¯s silent. I touch lightly upon his overcharged mind. He¡¯s full of terror and self-loathing, and deflated, intimate hatred, the cicada shell that broken trust leaves in its wake.


    ¡°Always afraid.¡± The person he knew as Corinne is back in his ear, close. He feels the familiar honeyed heat of her breath. ¡°Such wavering faith. Well, we don¡¯t waver, Tilly. The void in us isn¡¯t like the void in you. Ours hears. Ours speaks. Ours we worship.¡±


    ¡°Warlock,¡± he whispers. ¡°You¡¯re a warlock too.¡±


    ¡°Finally, you are given eyes to see.¡± Her smile is radiant. ¡°My name is Adaire. It brings me such joy to properly introduce myself.¡±


    ¡°Deceiver. Liar.¡± A full body shiver takes Tilliam. ¡°I¡¯ve lain with you.¡±


    ¡°And stood with me, and kneeled, and crawled on all fours. And more besides.¡± One of her nails hooks on his collar lapel. ¡°None of that was a lie. None of my affections. None of my care for you. Perhaps it doesn¡¯t seem like it yet. But my friends and I feel the hands of our gods, always. In the ways you always thought you ought to feel and never felt. Guiding us.¡±


    A tear beads at the edge of Tilliam¡¯s terrified eye.


    Adaire wipes it away with the pad of her thumb. Her nail rasps lightly on his cheek. ¡°It¡¯s time you were guided, too, Tilly. For your own good.¡±


    A desperate shake of his head. It puts Caspar in mind of a steer in line for the slaughterhouse.


    ¡°Not a choice time, archbishop.¡± Caspar steps into his peripheral view. ¡°You¡¯re coming with us.¡±


    ¡°Sure there¡¯s a choice,¡± Jordan says. ¡°If you want, we¡¯ll introduce the world to your mistress and give you just long enough to watch your reputation burn down before we kill you as painfully as we know how.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no need for that, Miss Darius.¡± Adaire clicks her tongue. ¡°You¡¯ll be good for us, won¡¯t you, Tilly?¡±


    He¡¯s still as a statue. The fire is out.


    ¡°We¡¯ll take your car,¡± Adaire says. ¡°Jordan will drive us. She drives you now. We¡¯ll talk about your new life.¡±


    ¡°I¡ªplease.¡± He clutches her arm. ¡°I can¡¯t. I won¡¯t be able to do what you need.¡±


    ¡°You will, Tilly,¡± Adaire says. ¡°Don¡¯t put yourself down. You don¡¯t even know yet what tasks we have for you. We¡¯ve all watched you. Your broadcasts, the fire and thunder. You¡¯ve got three big fans right here.¡± She straightens his askew charm braid. ¡°You¡¯re going to do so wonderfully.¡±


    ???????????


    Alexandra¡¯s scarlet plumage lays flat along her fuselage as she peers from her mess of masonry once more. It¡¯s just Ganea and I camped at the mouth of her nest.


    I give her another cautious hail. This one is returned with a chittering, anxious greeting. I promise her we¡¯re not here to fight her or drag her into our alliance¡ªonly to understand. Ganea¡¯s bridge is open to whatever manifestation she cares to bring forth onto it.


    Our sister appears in a flurry of red feathers that turn to rose petals as they drift from her. Alexandra¡¯s wings are wrapped around her like a protective cloak. The topmost pair of her six metallic eyes peer with suspicion from above them.


    ¡°It¡¯s useless, what you¡¯re doing,¡± she says. ¡°This little alliance. No use.¡±


    I catch one of the turning petals between thumb and forefinger. ¡°Well, hello to you too, Alex.¡±


    Ganea brushes a couple more off one spaulder. ¡°You¡¯re cleaning those up.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s winning,¡± Alexandra says. ¡°You have a plan? She has a plan.¡±


    ¡°Putting plans aside.¡± I exude as calm and welcoming a presence as I can, which isn¡¯t easy at the right hand of a glaring steam-engine tyrant giantess. ¡°What I¡¯m wondering is how you¡¯ve been talking to her. I¡¯d filed our sister away in the force of nature category rather than the chat over tea one. After what happened with Milly.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s who I¡¯ve been talking to,¡± Alexandra says.


    ¡°Eight, do you mean? You¡¯ve found a way?¡±


    Alexandra shakes her avian head. ¡°Milly. I¡¯ve been talking to Milinoe.¡±


    My mortalesque heart skips a fluttering beat.


    Milinoe was our wake-up call. After we¡¯d stripped the last of the marrow from the bones of the Father, and realized that the key was on Diamante and not within His divine corpse, my sisters and I¡­


    I¡¯m having trouble putting this in your language. Sorry. I don¡¯t enjoy talking about this.


    I don¡¯t know. It was a hard war. We were all exhausted and hurt, and we¡¯d just realized how hollow our victory was. Words and abuses were exchanged. Rapproachments and covenants formed and discarded. Salome and Ganea ripped each other¡¯s appendages off, but that¡¯s Sal and Gan for you.


    Eight¡¯s strange behavior we disregarded at first. Her hunger was disconcerting, sure, but Bina loves putting stuff in her mouth, too. Her refusal to adopt our ways of mortal address and adjustment, we put down to that excusable calcification that comes with age. She¡¯s always been our wisdom, Eight. If I was the glue, she was the foundation. When she disappeared, we shook apart. I won¡¯t re-litigate the long, sad falling away here, reader, but suffice to say I¡¯m as guilty as everyone else that it happened. Our collaboration became a competition. There was only one sister everyone knew was blameless. The one without whom we never would have taken heaven. Who¡ªat the time¡ªI thought was the most powerful of our race. Quiet, courageous, kind. That was Milly.


    In the last fraying days of our old kinship, we beheld the trail of destruction Eight, well, ate across Heaven and realized she was eating you. My sisters and I did many wicked things to defeat the Father, but by the terms of our most ancient laws, devouring the souls of mortal kind was not one of them. The only reason we broke the rule and ate the big man was because we thought with His power in our gullets we¡¯d be able to fix your afterlife. Perhaps, we thought, this was what Eight was doing. An unutterable sacrifice, sure, but one in pursuit of that commendable aim. We needed to bring her to heel, but we told ourselves the story that it wasn¡¯t too late.


    Milly volunteered to find her.


    I was in negotiations with a would-be warlock when it happened. I¡¯d finally gotten through to him that no, I would not be giving him any love charms, and seeking one in the first place was psycho behavior. The cry echoed across Heaven. We all heard it. I dropped the connection with such haste that it gave the poor bastard¡¯s cortex a spiritual friction burn that kept him from sleeping properly for years afterward.


    Milinoe¡¯s final words. Even if you could read them, I wouldn¡¯t reproduce them here. The scar is still too sensitive to the touch. They were full of fear, and sorrow, and love for us all, even for the sister swallowing her whole. They were the last of her that escaped, before the rest spiraled into Eight¡¯s all-consuming maw, and she was silent.


    That¡¯s what I thought, anyway.


    ¡°How?¡± I barely hear myself over a sudden insistent hum in my ears.


    ¡°She¡¯s still in there,¡± Alexandra says. ¡°Still in Eight. She manifested. We talked.¡±


    Ganea leans forward. ¡°Was this at Eight¡¯s allowance?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Alexandra says. ¡°Neither does she, I don¡¯t think. All the way. But she hears. She sees. She says we can be together again. Inside.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not working for that,¡± I say. ¡°Surely you aren¡¯t.¡±


    She paces. ¡°Of course I¡¯m not. You think I want to do a family reunion inside Eight¡¯s bigass stomach? Who knows if it¡¯s even really her? Might not be enough of her left. Might just be Eight waving a fake manifestation to draw me into the mouth.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re working with her. What¡¯s she offering you?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Alexandra says. ¡°I did the offering. And Milly seemed to think it would work. My warlock, working with her warlocks. In exchange for a head start.¡±


    My blood freezes. ¡°A head start.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s going for me last. So Milly says, anyway. Don¡¯t know if it¡¯s true. But it¡¯s better than nothing. I¡¯ll take the wager. Can¡¯t hurt.¡±


    ¡°Alex, what the fuck, girl? How is that anything at all?¡±


    She bristles. ¡°It¡¯s more than you¡¯re getting. Irene.¡± An oily tear runs down her protective wing. ¡°The only reason I haven¡¯t fucked off back to the void is because she¡¯d see I¡¯m trying to run, and she¡¯d take me. Gotta time it right.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to think like that. If you join¡ª¡±


    ¡°We fucking lose, Irene!¡± Total despair pulls at her words like a counterweight. ¡°We lose. And maybe Milly¡¯s right and it¡¯s real and okay and we¡¯ll be together again, and that¡¯s the only thing that even looks a bit like hope. Don¡¯t hope. Hope¡¯s done now.¡±


    ¡°Coward,¡± Ganea rumbles. ¡°Didn¡¯t think you were this craven.¡±


    Alexandra hops backward away from us, stung. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Gan. I¡¯m really, really sorry. But not even you. Not any of you.¡±


    ¡°What is making you say this, Alex?¡± I take an unstable step. ¡°What has she been telling you?¡±


    She trills a frantic, harsh laugh. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t even be talking. You should just keep doing what you¡¯re doing. It¡¯ll distract her.¡±


    Ganea stands. ¡°This is useless.¡±


    I know that voice. She¡¯s in a crushing mood. I place myself between them. ¡°Whatever she¡¯s told you,¡± I say. ¡°Whatever this all is. You can¡¯t trust it, and you can¡¯t just throw up your hands. If you come into the fold, if you bring what you know and what you can do. That¡¯s gonna give you far more of a shot than playing along.¡±


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re looking for,¡± Alexandra says. ¡°You won¡¯t find it. Not here. Just go. Us all together, too big a risk, anyway. Leave me alone, all right?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be back,¡± I say. ¡°Once we¡¯ve got the key, okay? The door isn¡¯t closed.¡±


    Alexandra gives that a tremulous scoff. ¡°It¡¯s closed. It¡¯s pretty fucking closed.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not listening to this any longer.¡± Ganea¡¯s fists close. ¡°Leave, Alexandra. Before I erase you.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t need to hear it twice. A terminal curtain burst of feathers and Alexandra¡¯s gone.


    They drift like bloody snow around my ankles. I stare out the bridge window as the streak of red departs deeper into the shadows. I make no move to follow.


    A block of metal is at my back. Ganea¡¯s rested an uncertain gauntlet against me. It¡¯s not exactly comfortable, but I lean into the touch, anyway. ¡°That didn¡¯t go how I hoped.¡±


    ¡°She left her fucking feathers all over,¡± Ganea grumbles. ¡°I owe her a sororicide for that. Remind me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a sister that terrified.¡± I chew a hair tendril. ¡°Was she right, do you think?¡±


    Ganea¡¯s jaw is set. ¡°She¡¯s right about one thing. She¡¯s already lost.¡±


    ¡°What about us?¡±


    Ganea¡¯s head tilts. ¡°We¡¯re fighting.¡±


    ¡°What do you think? Will we win?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re fighting,¡± she repeats.

 34. A bouquet

    Rebecca Tilliam collapses onto the hotel couch with a groan of relief. She drops her suitcases and carry-ons in a pile of leather and canvas around her. ¡°What a lovely room, Carol.¡± She shuts her eyes. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± Rebecca hears the shuffling of her handler¡¯s papers, the clicking of her pen. ¡°We were fifteen minutes overtime on breakfast. So you¡¯re going to have to meet Paul in five if we want to keep to schedule.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he can wait a little longer, please? I just took these pumps off.¡± Rebecca rubs her ankle. She used to live in shoes like this, do day-long shoots and flawless choreography in them. She¡¯s getting too damn old for heels.


    Carol tsks. ¡°Should have thought of that before you took so long picking the cafe.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t been to Pastornos in years,¡± Rebecca says. ¡°Not since the last Grand Covenant. All the teahouses shuffled around.¡±


    ¡°Go meet him, Rebecca.¡± A hand on her shoulder. She sighs and opens her eyes. ¡°And be accommodating,¡± Carol says. ¡°The man¡¯s been through it.¡±


    Perhaps today is the day Rebecca melts down and crashes everything into a brick wall. Perhaps she could stop with the airships and the limousines. Perhaps she could never set foot in one of those giant, echoing, cold, dead, beautiful, awful basilicas again, starting today. No more beaming through the balderdash. Perhaps today she fires Carol and tells the Diocese PR team to fuck off and tells Paul she¡¯s doing movies again, whether or not he likes it. Movies where she dances and sings and shows off her legs.


    The right time for that was a decade and a half ago, Rebecca, she thinks, when those legs were worth showing. So perhaps not.


    Instead, she straps her smile on and rises lightly to her aching feet with all the grace her hemmed-in life has let her keep. ¡°All right,¡± she says, because of course it¡¯s all right. She¡¯s all right. She¡¯s a very lucky woman. ¡°Be right back, Carol.¡±


    Her handler already has her nose back in those damn schedules. ¡°Uh huh.¡±


    Rebecca takes a moment to herself in the elevator. She rubs her temples. It will be nice to see Paul again, she tells herself. She insists. That¡¯s your husband. Won¡¯t it be nice to see him?


    She knocks on the door she was instructed to knock on. ¡°Enter,¡± comes the reply, and she obeys that too.


    Paul¡¯s standing before a desk in the middle of his well-appointed suite, worrying over the assortment of a bouquet clutched in his white-knuckled hand. ¡°Becca. My dear.¡± He looks as though he wants to embrace her, but he stands instead, in that contrapposto presentation mode he wears like a security blanket. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry for the short notice.¡±


    Rebecca offers her jumpy husband a practiced laugh. ¡°You were kidnapped by terrorists, Paulie. I think I can forgive some scheduling hiccups.¡± Stood behind him are two people Rebecca¡¯s never seen before, tall and broad and bedecked in black clothes and indoor sunglasses. Security, she presumes. Deactivated cameras and anonymous strongfolk in black. Temple protocol. She¡¯s used to this. ¡°Hi there, folks,¡± she says. ¡°Rebecca Tilliam.¡±


    ¡°Madam.¡± This and a nod from the one on the left, a scarred but good-looking woman in sleek pinstripe.


    Paul flickers, as if he¡¯s remembered a piece of blocking he¡¯s been schooled in. ¡°Would you like to sit down?¡±


    Rebecca squints into the low amber light of the room. ¡°Is someone else here?¡± In its far corner, seated on a couch with one of those lanky greyhound dogs on her lap, is¡­


    ¡°Paul,¡± she says, slowly. ¡°When did your secretary get here?¡±


    ¡°Hello, Mrs. Tilliam,¡± Corinne says.


    ¡°Rebecca.¡± Paul¡¯s face is solemn and drawn. ¡°I know the Diocese thought it best to have us together here. And I am quite¡­ grateful, and sorry, that you¡¯ve made the continental crossing.¡± He closes his eyes. His lid twitches. ¡°But I think it¡¯s best if you turned back and went home now. I can talk to Carol.¡±


    Rebecca¡¯s freckled brow furrows. Frost creeps into her voice. ¡°Would you please tell me what is happening, Paul?¡±


    ¡°I.¡± Paul gets the one word out and then falls to silent fidgeting again. Fumbling with the flowers, straightening the stems.


    ¡°You ought to tell her,¡± Corinne calls from the couch. ¡°Before I do.¡±


    He refocuses on Rebecca¡¯s chocolate brown eyes. ¡°I¡¯ve been unfaithful to you.¡±


    Fifteen seconds of silence. Then two minutes of rage.


    You don¡¯t need me to reproduce most of it. Paul Tilliam¡¯s betrayal is banal. I witness this gentle and sincere woman reduced to a stock character by what he¡¯s done to her. Rebecca is a phenomenal individual, one of the few genuinely admirable higher-ups in the Pastornist church I¡¯ve ever seen. And here¡¯s your first, maybe your last, impression of her, and it¡¯s full of how could yous and how longs and how dares. Even as she¡¯s saying it, she recognizes it, the pattern she¡¯s fallen into, the same role she¡¯s seen so many Temple wives play. How many tears of powerless rage have been wept onto her comforting shoulder? How stupid was she to think her turn wouldn¡¯t come?


    I flit behind Tilliam¡¯s eyes so I can see Rebecca through them. I feel his nauseating wave of self-loathing, his regard for this woman, who he hasn¡¯t loved as anything but a sister-in-faith for a very long time, but who today, in her righteous anger, looks as beautiful as the day he met her, the wrath bringing the long-snuffed glow back to her face, straightening and steeling her meek little form.


    ¡°I¡¯ve let you turn me into your ventriloquist dummy,¡± she says. ¡°I let you take my life and hollow it out. And I told myself: at least he believes.¡±


    ¡°I do. I swear to the Father I do.¡± What¡¯s horrible is he does. I feel it in him, the conflict and the contrast that he swallows in so many of his waking hours. He¡¯s never had to face it with the lights on.


    ¡°Then why? Why do you do these things that by your doctrine condemn you to the purgatorial fire? You believe and you sin. You speak one way and act the other.¡±


    ¡°Becca.¡± He¡¯s looking for the words. ¡°Tessamon 32:13 says that the folly of man¡ª¡±


    ¡°You have railed against using Tessamon 32:13 as an escape hatch, Paul. I¡¯ve clapped for you while you did it. And, and, and the sanctity of betrothal and the value of a virtuous woman and I¡¯ve done everything you told me to, I¡¯ve done everything you asked, you and the Father, and is it because I got old?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing with you,¡± he says. ¡°Nothing you¡¯ve done.¡±


    ¡°Tell me it¡¯s because I got old and wrinkled and worn out. I¡¯d understand that. I¡¯d see you for what you are. Just tell me. Just be honest with me.¡±


    ¡°I erred. I mistook. But I believe¡ªthat is to say, I am sure. That with your faith, and your strength, and work from me, such hard, hard work, every day. I want to be redeemed. I want your forgiveness.¡±


    Her grip tightens on her flowers. ¡°And now you want me to go home.¡±


    ¡°Mrs. Tilliam¡ª¡± Her husband¡¯s secretary stands up, moving the dog from her lap.


    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± Rebecca stabs a finger at her. ¡°Do not talk, please, Corinne. I am not ready to speak to you yet. I would be too unkind.¡±


    ¡°Just for a while,¡± Paul says. ¡°Just until I can come home to you. To, to ah. To heal. I couldn¡¯t bear to troop you out in front of the world, with this¡­ this hanging from you. To humiliate you and to force you to smile and pretend.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve smiled and pretended for years, Paul. Years. If you want me out of your thinning hair, just tell me that.¡±


    He wants to tell her much more than that. He plans to tell her much more than that.


    I lean forward as I drill further into the archbishop¡¯s brain. Oh, no.


    ¡°The flowers,¡± I say to my unhearing husband, like I¡¯m warning a horror movie. ¡°Caspar, take the fucking flowers.¡±


    ¡°Just please¡­ you need time.¡± Paul¡¯s smile is sickly. He holds out the bouquet. ¡°Take these and take some time. Maybe I could walk you back to your car.¡± He takes a pleading look at the more musclebound of his two bodyguards, whose face wears an oddly transparent frown.


    ¡°You know what, Paul?¡± Rebecca utters a caustic laugh as she snatches the bouquet from his hands. ¡°You can take your flowers¡ª¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Paul throws his hands out.


    ¡°And you can shove them up¡ª¡± Rebecca slams the bouquet to the floor.


    A torn-off cover board from a hotel copy of the Father¡¯s precepts lays between the stems. HELP I AM A HOSTAGE is scratched into it.


    The Tilliams and their security stare at the soggy cardboard.


    ¡°Shit,¡± the dog says.


    Rebecca¡¯s mouth hangs ajar. ¡°What¡ª¡±


    Tilliam¡¯s secretary steps forward.


    A flickering movement. Rebecca¡¯s head jerks like she¡¯s been slapped. She tries to say what the hell? Nothing comes out.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The room blurs. Rebecca¡¯s hand rises to her neck, to that golden throat whose music brought her to the summit of her reality. It comes away bloody.


    ¡°No!¡± A man¡¯s voice. Paul? Why is it so hard to see? Rebecca takes a hesitant step toward the sound and trips and falls. Ow. She hasn¡¯t tripped in heels since grade school. These fucking shoes. She used to live in shoes like this.


    She gets back up to her elbows. The ground is soft. She¡¯s outside. When did that happen?


    She sits up and blinks in the early evening light. A woman made of night stands in front of her.


    ¡°Hi?¡± she manages.


    ¡°Hi, Rebecca,¡± I say. I extend a hand.


    She takes it and rises uncertainly to her feet. ¡°Your hand,¡± she says. She puzzles over it, my delicate joints, my platinum engagement ring. ¡°It¡¯s¡ªwispy.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. How are you feeling?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± She rubs her neck. Did that jackass Carol slip her something? When could she have? ¡°Fine, thanks. You have me at a bit of a loss.¡± Armor back on, Rebecca. Stand up straight and smile. She pastes it back on over her confusion. ¡°Rebecca Tilliam. I suppose you knew that.¡±


    ¡°I did. But it¡¯s nice to meet you face-to-face. My husband is a huge fan.¡± I squeeze her hand. ¡°Irene Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°Irene.¡± Rebecca rolls that name over. It¡¯s pretty. I¡¯m rather pretty, she thinks. Not much of a face, just three eyes and some lips if you look closely, but I¡¯m petite and shapely, in a way that puts the old pre-Pastornist master sculptors to mind. ¡°You¡¯re an angel, maybe?¡± she ventures.


    ¡°Not exactly.¡±


    ¡°I only ask,¡± she says, and giggles apologetically. ¡°I ask¡ªthis is ridiculous¡ªbecause I¡¯m afraid I might be dead.¡±


    ¡°Take a walk with me, why don¡¯t you?¡± I say. ¡°And we can talk about that.¡±


    ¡°The thing is, these shoes¡­¡± She looks down. She¡¯s wearing a sturdy, padded pair of hiking boots. ¡°Oh. Let¡¯s walk, then.¡±


    ???????????


    ¡°I am dead,¡± Rebecca says. She¡¯s said a variation on that sentence a few times now, trying to fit it into her brain.


    ¡°You are.¡±


    ¡°I am dead.¡±


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°I am dead.¡±


    She squats to the ground. She stares into the distance. I give her time.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to do a primal scream,¡± she decides. ¡°My therapist said to do this when I was overwhelmed, and then after a few weeks, Paul told me to stop, and I¡¯ve always missed it. May I scream?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a resounding, bestial screech that rolls across the forest.


    At the edge of the woods, the denizens of Little Paradise (as they¡¯ve started calling it) pause briefly in their work shingling the roof of the in-progress dance hall. But only briefly. They¡¯ve heard this sort of cry before from other new arrivals.


    ¡°Sounds like another lady,¡± Alys comments to Jessie.


    ¡°Sounds like you should lock your boyfriend in the basement, then,¡± Jessie says.


    ¡°Deg¡¯s been very good lately.¡± Alys gives her a warning nudge. ¡°Don¡¯t make me knock you off this roof. Kill you all over again.¡±


    The shriek takes longer than I expected to peter out. Rebecca has a songstress¡¯s lungs. She takes a ragged, restorative breath. ¡°Do you have water, please?¡±


    I hand her a glass.


    ¡°The last act of my life was getting into a fight with my philandering husband.¡± She sits on the forest floor. ¡°Like a kitchen table melodrama. My God.¡± She drains the glass in three greedy gulps. ¡°I wanted to be so much more. I thought I was so much more. And I was just a wife, in the end. Just another jilted Temple wife.¡±


    I crouch next to her. ¡°This isn¡¯t the ending. I know it feels like one. But you still have time. You have a lot of time. You wanted to do movies again, right?¡±


    She looks up at me with consternation.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s a great idea,¡± I say. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be Heaven without a Rebecca Wallace musical or three.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª¡± It¡¯s Rebecca Tilliam, she¡¯s about to say, but something stops her. Her fingers dig into the dirt. She takes a deep breath. She drapes her grace back over herself as she stands. ¡°Thank you for the water.¡± She holds the glass up. ¡°Where should I put this?¡±


    I take it from her and underhand toss it into the woods. Her eyes follow its parabolic arc. Once it¡¯s hidden in the bushes, I dissolve it into ribbons of tendon and reabsorb it through my leafy dermis.


    I start off into the forest. She follows.


    ¡°I never really believed in you, to be honest,¡± she says. ¡°Or anything else I couldn¡¯t see or touch. Had little time for faith except to make people do kind things. I had questions, but not the sort of questions you can ask.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure. Statement of faith in the contract?¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± She plucks a leaf from one of my trees as we pass. ¡°Every contract I ever signed, and every production prayer we ever started a shoot with, and then of course you marry a man of position like Paul and there¡¯s no room to talk about doubts. But even heads-down in the prayer circle, I thought: you die, and that¡¯s that. It made me feel smart. Not much makes you feel smart when all you do is hang off an arm. I held onto that. Like, look at all the churchly cattle. Go figure.¡±


    ¡°I hope it¡¯s a pleasant surprise, at least,¡± I say. ¡°That there¡¯s something, I mean. Not that you died.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s pleasant enough so far. Autumn¡¯s my favorite.¡± Her chestnut locks drift in the cool evening. I understand why she was Caspar¡¯s pubescent crush; two decades later, she¡¯s still gorgeous. ¡°This isn¡¯t some kind of punishment, is it? For not believing?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± I say. ¡°This is just what happens.¡±


    ¡°For everyone?¡±


    ¡°Everyone whose death my husband plays a part in. You¡¯re about ten thousand feet over heaven right now, in a pocket dimension I¡¯ve made to keep everyone comfortable while¡­ renovations happen. Paradise is not in a livable state.¡±


    ¡°I was in a dorm at the Chamchek Performance Academy for four years,¡± she says. ¡°You want to talk about livable states.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s levels to the word. I¡¯ve been showing it to some people when they get here, if they don¡¯t believe me. But I¡¯m hoping that won¡¯t be necessary for you. It¡¯s an unpleasant experience.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve had a lot of those today,¡± she says. ¡°Maybe let¡¯s just keep the hike going.¡±


    I lead Rebecca through the woods, toward our blossoming undead community.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to apologize,¡± I say. ¡°On my husband¡¯s behalf. He is feeling just awful about this. There¡¯s a quiet but vicious argument happening right now.¡±


    Rebecca is putting two and two together. ¡°Your husband is down there. He¡¯s a warlock, isn¡¯t he? I just got bumped off by warlocks, didn¡¯t I? By devil worshippers.¡±


    ¡°You did.¡±


    She releases an amused breath through her nose. ¡°Can I tell you¡ªthis is exactly what my weirdest aunt told me would happen if I went into show business.¡±


    We share a laugh. Hers is higher and longer than mine.


    ¡°I think I forgive you,¡± Rebecca says. ¡°You and him. I think I¡¯m okay.¡± She bends down back to the forest floor and places her plucked leaf on a crinkly pile. ¡°Unless this is some dying hallucination.¡±


    ¡°You take as long as you need to convince yourself otherwise,¡± I say, as we reach the crest of the hill, where my stone table sits. I gesture to the village in the middle distance. ¡°Do you want to meet the others?¡±


    Rebecca squints. She¡¯s surprised at how well her eyes are working. She doesn¡¯t feel her contact lenses over them. ¡°Those people are all Pastornist down there? From Chamchek and Pastornos and such?¡±


    ¡°Yes indeed,¡± I say.


    ¡°Ugh, Father forfend.¡± She grimaces. ¡°Can we not, for a while? I¡¯m afraid there¡¯ll be fans.¡±


    ¡°Almost certainly, there will be.¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°I love a fan, I do. I just, ah¡­ I¡¯ve got a great deal queued up for processing right now.¡±


    ¡°I understand perfectly,¡± I say. ¡°If you¡¯d like, I can leave you alone for a while. You can holler if you need something. I know you¡¯re good at hollering.¡±


    ¡°What would you do?¡± she asks. ¡°How does the Adversary spend her day?¡±


    ¡°Mostly, I watch my warlock,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s an addiction.¡±


    ¡°May I join you?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I really don¡¯t know if that¡¯s a good idea, Rebecca. They¡¯re, uh¡­ moving you right now.¡±


    ¡°You mean my corpse.¡±


    I nod.


    ¡°How about this? You let me watch and I forgive your husband killing me.¡±


    ¡°Rebecca.¡± I lay a scandalized hand on my chest. ¡°Are you takesy-backsing your forgiveness?¡±


    She sticks out her hip wryly. ¡°According to you, there¡¯s no Hell for liars. So I am hereby takesy-backsing, yes. Unless you let me watch.¡±


    ¡°I need you to appreciate that I don¡¯t normally take requests like this from anyone but Caspar.¡± I tap the surface of the stone table and it liquefies into a swirling, foaming whirlpool.


    Rebecca stares, enthralled. ¡°Is Caspar your husband?¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s the broad one, yes? He¡¯s handsome.¡±


    ¡°He is indeed the broad one, though the face you saw isn¡¯t the face he usually has.¡±


    The fluid surface hisses and bubbles as it becomes crystal clear water. An image resolves.


    Jordan Darius is tearing into a weeping Tilliam with whispered fury. She smacks him upside the head. Adaire and Caspar reposition Rebecca¡¯s rag-doll corpse on the center of the carpet, which now sports a splotchy bloodstain spread across it like a map of some undiscovered continent.


    ¡°I look old,¡± Rebecca says. ¡°Old and used up.¡±


    ¡°I can close this,¡± I say. ¡°Might be better to leave it behind.¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°This is helping. A definitive conclusion.¡± She rests her palm on the lip of the viewport. ¡°But would you hold my hand, please?¡±


    I take her fingers in mine. She laughs softly to herself as they roll her body up, her arms above her head in a ghoulish simulacrum of a ballet. ¡°Look at me go. Such a strange feeling. Like I¡¯ve finally sold the clunky old rustbucket I learned to drive with.¡±


    ¡°Father, receive this your servant.¡± Tilliam is on his knees. ¡°Father, give her the rewards her life of faith has prepared for her.¡±


    Jordan kicks him in the ribs. Rebecca winces.


    ¡°You dumb fucking dick,¡± the inspector snarls. ¡°No more books, no more alone time, no more nothing. I¡¯m hogtying this dipshit until we need him.¡±


    ¡°We could have salvaged that, Adaire,¡± Caspar says. ¡°There¡¯s a million ways we could have controlled that situation.¡±


    ¡°We lost control of the situation when you let Paul keep those precepts and buy those flowers,¡± Adaire says.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think he¡¯d rip it,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You don¡¯t do that, deface the precepts.¡±


    Tilliam¡¯s red face snaps upward. ¡°Am I gonna get a lecture about my hypocrisy now, or will you wait until you¡¯ve cleaned my wife¡¯s blood off your shoes?¡±


    ¡°Shut the fuck up.¡± Jordan shoves Paul. ¡°You killed her. Your pussy-ass note.¡±


    His returned gaze is damp and splotchy with tears, his voice full of hate and sorrow. ¡°Tell yourself whatever you want, demon.¡±


    ¡°This is an opportunity.¡± Adaire paces the denuded floorboards. ¡°Yes. This is an opportunity. I¡¯ll be Rebecca.¡±


    Caspar wipes his bloody hands on the carpet. ¡°This is the most-viewed woman in the Western Dioceses. We grew up watching her.¡±


    ¡°I grew up watching her, too, Caspar. She was your charm offensive. I can do this.¡±


    Peat Moss¡¯s face melts back into his usual fawn form. ¡°I never saw this poor lady before, but we gotta try, Cas. Otherwise, she just kicked it for no reason.¡±


    Rebecca puts her hand over her mouth. ¡°You have a talking dog that¡¯s a talking deer,¡± she says.


    ¡°Long story.¡±


    ¡°Is the rest of my existence going to be this¡­ destabilizing?¡±


    ¡°The next couple of centuries, at least,¡± I say.


    ¡°And then I¡¯ll figure it out, you suppose?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good. I never figured that out, you know.¡± She gestures to the stone table. ¡°Being a woman. It really ought to be lovely. But they just¡ª¡± She sighs. ¡°It always felt like I was doing something wrong, disappointing someone. And then they hurt you, on purpose or by accident, and you ask what it is you¡¯re doing wrong, how you can make them happy, and everyone has such a confident answer, and it¡¯s never ever the same one. I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ve had that, being the devil and all.¡±


    I shake my head.


    ¡°My first picture, I thought, how lucky I am that I can just do the things I like, just sing and dance, and it¡¯ll make them happy. But it doesn¡¯t go that way. Not my life, anyway. I sang, and danced, and the rest of the time I was anxious and confused and I kept getting hurt, and then I died, and that hurt too.¡± She snorts. ¡°Put that on the headstone.¡±


    She sits on one of the boulders around the table¡¯s circumference. I take position next to her.


    ¡°Some ladies talk about it like the pain is the thing,¡± she says. ¡°Like you must experience it¡ªthe cramps, the kids, the jerks, the stupid fucking shoes. The pain is womanhood. I always thought that was very foolish.¡±


    ¡°I like the shoes, honestly.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course. Love a shoe. A very chunky heel? Fabulous. But they hurt.¡± She puts her chin on her hand. ¡°I wish I could have come to it like you, that¡¯s all. By choice. Without pain.¡±


    ¡°Choice, sure,¡± I say. ¡°No pain, I don¡¯t know. I still had to break in the heels. And I was torn in half recently.¡±


    She raises her elegant brows. ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°You sing and dance very beautifully,¡± I say. ¡°You can keep doing that here, you know. You let me know if anyone tries to start that pastornist shit and I¡¯ll make them puke bugs or something, Ms. Wallace.¡±


    She closes her eyes. When they reopen, I see the silky steel of gentility back on them. ¡°All right,¡± she says. ¡°Let¡¯s meet the neighbors.¡±


    We start down the hill. ¡°Are you this nice to everyone," Rebecca asks, "or do I have a new friend here?¡±


    ¡°I used to be very brusque with the dead,¡± I say. ¡°Just showed them how bad Heaven had gotten and tossed them into the taphouse. I didn¡¯t sign up for the job, being a psychopomp. I was annoyed. It felt like an imposition. But I¡¯ve come a very long way from there.¡± I realize it as I say it. ¡°A very long way.¡±


    ¡°What changed your mind?¡±


    ¡°The usual story.¡± I shrug. ¡°I met a boy.¡±

 35. A catacomb

    ¡°I am so, so, so, so, so sorry,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Mrs. Tilliam, I never intended to harm a hair on your head. And I am so¡ª¡±


    Rebecca laughs. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mr. Cartwright. Truly, it is. Your mistress has already apologized prettily on your behalf. And please.¡± She raises her voice to include the full taphouse. ¡°It¡¯s Miss Wallace, everybody. Till death was what I said, and now it¡¯s happened.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Miss Wallace.¡± Edgar keeps his nodding gravity and his schoolteacher solemnity, but there¡¯s a sparking thought in him, and in half the taphouse besides. Ever since Degmar and Alys set the blueprint, there has been a new curiosity settling in over Little Paradise.


    ¡°Really, Miss Wallace,¡± Caspar says. ¡°If there¡¯s anything we can do for you, anything at all¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to let you know.¡± She pats his hand. ¡°But you really don¡¯t have to worry. It¡¯s not like you were the one who killed me.¡±


    Her face melts. Her shoulders lower and loosen.


    ¡°That would be me,¡± Adaire says.


    An iron curtain slams over the fireplace warmth on the taphouse.


    (I know. I said I was a reliable narrator. But I couldn¡¯t resist the reveal this one time. Apologies, dear reader.)


    Salome¡¯s warlock returns a bland smile of greeting to the dozens of icy glares now pointed her way. ¡°Well done, no?¡±


    In a room full of chilly expressions, Caspar¡¯s is positively polar. ¡°Where¡¯s Rebecca, Adaire?¡±


    ¡°With your mistress over at the dance hall, introducing herself to the builders,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I¡¯m avoiding the woman for now. I don¡¯t imagine she wants to see me.¡±


    Edgar scowls. ¡°I don¡¯t imagine anyone does.¡±


    Adaire ignores him. ¡°The warlocks are gathering, Mr. Cartwright. Shall we?¡±


    My husband rises reluctantly. The saloon doors swing as he joins Adaire in the crisp outdoor evening. ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot of making up to do.¡±


    ¡°I serve at my mistress¡¯s pleasure,¡± she says. ¡°Not theirs and not yours. Kindly remember that.¡±


    ¡°And is she pleased? That you killed Diamante¡¯s biggest movie star?¡±


    ¡°She recognizes the necessity. And she¡¯s excited for the opportunity.¡±


    I¡¯d be loath to admit this to Caspar, but I am, too. If Adaire can fool a whole taphouse of the lady¡¯s fans, this false Rebecca is a huge ace in the hole.


    There¡¯s a broken-down well deep in the woods. A ring of stumps encircles it like studs in a leather fastening. I¡¯m perched on one, having excused myself from Rebecca¡¯s company. She¡¯s adjusting well enough without me, and I wanted to be here to make kissy faces at Caspar. Jordan¡¯s seated on another, watching Peat Moss try to clamber onto his. ¡°If you¡¯re wanting to sit like a person, Peaty,¡± she says, ¡°You really gotta wear pants.¡±


    ¡°Seconded,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°What?¡± Peat Moss shoots him a look of betrayal. ¡°Why?¡±


    Jordan points. ¡°Your fuckin¡¯ nuts are hanging out, man.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a deer. That¡¯s normal.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re gonna be a bipedal deer, dear, we need more coverage,¡± I say. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m sure Saoirse will have a blast putting little outfits on you. I can give you some pants right now if you wanna sit.¡±


    ¡°No, no. No pants,¡± Peat Moss grumbles as he curls up on the forest floor instead. ¡°You¡¯ve all forgotten what it¡¯s like. This freedom.¡±


    Adaire parks on the stump he left behind. ¡°So, then,¡± she says. ¡°We¡¯re now in the business of impersonating Rebecca Tilliam.¡±


    ¡°By the way,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°To the rest of the animal kingdom, you people are the weird ones.¡±


    Adaire folds her hands in her lap. ¡°We¡¯re finished now?¡±


    Peat Moss settles. ¡°I just wanted it known.¡±


    Jordan squints at Adaire. ¡°Is your impersonation even something we can hang our hat on?¡±


    Adaire picks at a nail. ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask Caspar?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s rigid and irritated, but he can¡¯t deny it. ¡°Reckon she can do it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Adaire says, and her tone is just nice enough to keep me from manifesting a few mosquitoes to bite her. ¡°Our primary goal is the same, and has happily been simplified: an audience with His Sacredness Armos Pastornos CDXXXI. The Suzerain.¡±


    ¡°Have we figured out what we¡¯ll do with him?¡± Jordan asks.


    ¡°He has the key around his neck, every appearance he makes,¡± Adaire says. ¡°We¡¯ll take it off him.¡±


    Caspar raises his hand. ¡°How do we get it to the Sisters?¡±


    Adaire¡¯s voice tinges with skepticism. ¡°Has Irene not told you?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t asked.¡±


    She glances at me. I don¡¯t appreciate the look in those chameleon eyes. ¡°One simply needs to hold the key here on Diamante, and their mistress gains its power. Entrance to the Kingdom and rule over Heaven.¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯ll park our prime forms at the Kingdom gate. With the time dilation, you¡¯ll only need a couple seconds of physical contact.¡±


    Adaire purses her lips. ¡°You never thought to ask how it works?¡±


    ¡°I figured I¡¯d be told when I needed to know,¡± Caspar says. ¡°We¡¯re servants, as you love to point out.¡±


    Adaire¡¯s brows settle. ¡°Quite so. It¡¯s possible I can bring Peat Moss; we¡¯ll work to establish him as a new pet we¡¯ve obtained in Pastornos. But as the likeliest way to the key is through physical violence, we¡¯ll need Caspar and Jordan there, and we can¡¯t bring personal security into the Basilica Pastornica. My mistress and I have come up with what we believe is a sufficient alibi. We¡¯re canonizing you.¡±


    Jordan blinks. ¡°We¡¯re what.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to access the canonist archives and add a pair of false identities for you. Depicting you as bishops in bellicus. That way¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s in bellicus?¡± Peat Moss asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s what happens when a militia bishop is KIA,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Seen it a few times. The company¡¯s COs vote and frock a new one in. Doesn¡¯t have to be clergy already. If they make it back, they¡¯re big deals. Big war heroes.¡±


    ¡°Tilliam and I will secure an invitation to one of the Temple District basilicae,¡± Adaire says. ¡°You¡¯ll join us as our security detail. With the ease-of-access we¡¯ll have, we can obtain a pair of uniforms and move you through the catacombs¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Temple District catacombs are real?¡± Jordan cuts in.


    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s how they move cardinals and their retinues in secret. No more interruptions, please.¡± Adaire reaches into a knapsack leaning by the well and pulls a folded sheet of dot matrix paper. She passes it to Jordan. ¡°I have a map the two of you will have to memorize. We¡¯ll take the time to go over every security measure and workaround you need. And we¡¯ll train you how to punch the data into their system.¡±


    Jordan shifts on her stump. ¡°Sounds like a lot to pick up.¡±


    ¡°If the clerical pageboys can do it, you can,¡± Adaire says. ¡°Have faith, yes?¡±


    ¡°You sure know a lot about all this basilica stuff,¡± Peat Moss says.


    ¡°Our employers are omniscient, Mr. Moss.¡± Adaire says. ¡°Remember? Salome has been preparing for a long time.¡±


    ¡°Would you let my distinguished sister know I hear and resent the implication there, please,¡± I say.


    As we adjourn, Peat trots by my husband¡¯s calves. ¡°Do you wanna do another shooting lesson, Cas?¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Peat Moss,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Got work to do before we head back. Maybe Jordy can give you a hand.¡±


    ¡°Whatcha gotta do?¡± the fawn asks.


    ¡°I have another spell to teach my warlock.¡± I squeeze Caspar¡¯s hand. ¡°But first, I need his help moving some furniture.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Caspar carries me to our bed and tosses me onto it. We move some furniture. What our technique lacks in efficiency it makes up for in diversion.


    We lie tangled in silk bedsheets, bathing in the afterglow. My leg drapes over my warlock. His thumb draws little figure-eights on my spine. He admires the smush of my thigh where it lays against his stomach. Our heartbeats are slow and synchronous. I gaze into my warlock¡¯s hazel eyes and know it won¡¯t be long now. It won¡¯t be long until we realize what terror gnaws at Alexandra, whether she spoke cowardice or an omen. It won¡¯t be long until Caspar faces his last trial, and we discover whether this beautiful, strong man is strong enough. And then I¡¯ll have him forever. Or I¡¯ll have nothing.


    ¡°I wish I could hear in there.¡± Caspar rests his hand on my cheek. ¡°Like you hear me. I know that would make my head blow up or something. But I wish it anyway.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking about the future,¡± I say. ¡°Our future.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°I think¡­¡± I chew on my lip. ¡°I think I want a river out back. Like the Altarwood. Maybe one of those fancy floating docks. I wanna try canoeing. That canoe trip to Alhama you took in high school looked so fun.¡±


    ¡°You mind if I ask, with no malice at all,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Why you were watching me, the whole time. What made you keep tabs on a snot-nosed seminary kid?¡±


    ¡°I picked a few dozen snot-nosed seminary kids at random across Chamchek,¡± I say. ¡°I wanted to understand the pious Pastornists, and it felt like a good place to start. But as the years passed, I dropped most of them. A few died on Crusade, a few of the sweating sickness back in ¡®64. Most are living boring lives in a constellation of villages. I whittled my focus down to the most interesting people. By the time you were twenty, I had three or four left, but you were the one I watched the most. You joined the militia, and I spent the campaign over your shoulder, thinking: maybe he¡¯ll take a bullet to the heart, and I can introduce myself. Maybe he¡¯ll be my warlock. Once you¡¯d learned your hedge magic, I knew it could only be you.¡± I shift further onto his chest. ¡°And now it¡¯s only you forever.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s eyes dance. His lips find mine again.


    ¡°Good workout, canoeing,¡± he says, when we¡¯ve had our fill. ¡°Good for your core.¡±


    ¡°Would you like that?¡± I curl closer. ¡°A lil¡¯ gym bunny? Maybe if I had a six-pack?¡±


    His grin banishes the last dregs of dread from me, like the sun melting snow. ¡°You know I like you just the way¡ª¡± His caress on my stomach pauses as it brushes unexpectedly taut skin. He looks down at the graceful, trim musculature of my newly prominent abs.


    Maybe he does like that.


    ???????????


    Eventually, we extricate ourselves from bed, and I teach him his latest spell. The hardest part, he finds, is regrowing all his teeth after.


    ???????????


    ¡°Anything?¡± Jordan asks.


    Caspar shakes his head. ¡°Just cart sounds. It¡¯s tough to hear the talking. Let me focus, right?¡±


    She nods and taps her fist on his shoulder. He plugs the one ear left on his head, the better to listen to the other.


    Blowing air. The rhythmic drum of a track. The basilica catacombs are lined with subterranean railways. Down there, rushing through the ossuary dark, is a train car with three clerks, two armed guards, and a severed ear onboard.


    The utility room door opens and a stoop-shouldered janitor enters, pushing a hamper. His uniform identifies him as Xavier, fifth sphere priest of the Basilica Bianca¡¯s cleanliness team. Jordan¡¯s head jerks around; her hand goes to her .45. ¡°Sir.¡± She¡¯s got that inspector sound: loud but calm. ¡°Going to ask you to leave. Temple business.¡±


    The janitor pushes his threadbare cap up. ¡°A simple improvisation, but well executed.¡± He steps around the wheeled hamper with a smooth sweep to his gait and is Adaire. She flicks the catch on the hamper.


    Jordan drops her grip from her holster and puts it on her chest. ¡°Scared the shit outta me.¡±


    ¡°I have your outfits. And your deer.¡± Adaire opens the hamper lid and pulls a Basilica Templar uniform out, brushing toasted-marshmallow hairs from its pauldrons. The hamper quakes on its casters as Peat Moss hops from it.


    He watches Jordan unfold stripy hosiery and slashed silk sleeves. ¡°These things are so goofy looking.¡±


    Jordan unbuttons her pants. ¡°They¡¯re historical.¡±


    Peat snickers as Jordan pulls her foppish doublet on. ¡°More like hysterical.¡±


    ¡°Vocabulary jokes,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Truly, he¡¯s in his middle school era.¡±


    Caspar holds up a hand. ¡°Checkpoint. Everyone shh.¡±


    Jordan crouches beside him and pulls a notepad from her discarded jacket pocket.


    The squeal of a handbrake, and the train noise resolves with the slowing motion.


    An electrostatic crackle. A mechanized voice on the edge of hearing says ¡°Password.¡±


    ¡°Minotaur Umber Five Eight Five And The Wicked Shall Know Purgatory¡¯s Vexation.¡±


    A gruff templar says it, Caspar repeats it, and Jordan scribbles it on her pad. The password changes every morning¡ªit was the only part of the plan that the warlocks¡¯ omniscient mistresses didn¡¯t already have in-hand. Now they¡¯ve got all they need (except for Caspar¡¯s ear, which he¡¯ll have to retrieve on the way).


    Caspar hastily belts himself into his doublet and his hose. A quick correction to the earlier thought about Caspar missing uniforms: he missed uniforms that didn¡¯t include ruffled collars.


    Adaire shrugs her janitorial coverall off and steps into her fine fringe dress. ¡°Zip me, please.¡±


    Caspar closes the fabric up the rest of the way; by the time the zipper¡¯s up at the nape of Adaire¡¯s neck, she¡¯s transformed into Rebecca Tilliam. Caspar jerks his hand away from the zipper like it¡¯s given him a static shock. He has imagined zipping Rebecca Tilliam¡¯s dress up for her before. This isn¡¯t what he pictured.


    ¡°Thank you, young sir.¡± Adaire gives him that television smile. It¡¯s a flawless imitation. ¡°Tilly and I will be at Cardinal Safton¡¯s sermon in the nave. You have fifty minutes.¡±


    She tilts the hamper over. Paul Tilliam spills out, his limbs bound, his mouth taped. With two quick swipes and a tear from his faux wife, he¡¯s back on his feet and sputtering. ¡°It smelled dire in there,¡± he says. ¡°Really, truly unnecessary.¡±


    ¡°Alas, Paul.¡± Adaire straightens his hat. ¡°The trust died with dear Rebecca. Let¡¯s see that smile, please.¡±


    They split. Adaire-Rebecca clicks in her kitty heels down the echoing hallways and past the cherubic frescoes of the Basilica, dragging the archbishop to their sermon/photo opportunity in its vaulted nave.


    Caspar and Jordan, in their clown show getup, leash Peat Moss (now disguised as a forbidding, spike-collar metzgerhund guard dog) and move through narrower, dimmer climes.


    They follow the map Adaire made them memorize. It takes them through a series of echoing, sterile backrooms, each colder and deeper than the last, until they emerge into a two-laned switching station. Parked in its bay is a twenty-foot long autocart, a control cabin sprouting wartlike from its aft like a cartoonish tugboat.


    As Jordan rightly notes: ¡°Doesn¡¯t look much like a catacomb.¡±


    Caspar enters the cabin, lifts the flap of his foppish beret and focuses. A ropy strand of flesh snaps into place, and his ear whips out from below the control console. He shakes his head around, feels the return of his full vestibular system return the surety to his steps.


    They coast out from the station, and into the ossuary tunnels where the still-smelling air is whipped into motion by their passage. Their high beams cast along rows and casements and arches and struts and junctions and buttresses of bone. Cities of bone.


    They speed through centuries of the dead.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Jordan says. ¡°That¡¯s more like it.¡±


    Caspar watches the mortal remains resolve into a yellowy chalk smear as they rush through. All these people, he thinks. All in Heaven. All in agony. All counting on us.


    A gleaming red light indicates the next switching station. The track is disengaged; until that light turns green, they¡¯re not going anywhere. Jordan cuts the engine and they groan to a halt before an intercom held up by a pillar of ulnae. A pool of light in the distant dark illuminates another platform, like the one they left, a concrete extrusion of modernity into the ageless repose.


    ¡°Password.¡±


    Caspar licks his lips as he holds the pad up to a penlight. ¡°Minotaur Umber Five Eight Five And The Wicked Shall Know Purgatory¡¯s Vexation.¡±


    A held breath. And then the light flicks green and the track squawks its way into parallel. Jordan throws the throttle and they speed along, past the station platform and further into the dark.


    The control cabin¡¯s switchboard is easy enough to understand. Caspar has to double back at one point when he takes them down the wrong Y-junction, but it¡¯s hardly as difficult as crash-landing an airship.


    How many miles slide past in that crepuscular graveyard? How many sturdy, obedient souls do they move beneath? How many of the Father¡¯s servants have some inkling of the mass grave upon which the crown of their civilization rests?


    These are my thoughts, to be clear, not Caspar¡¯s. Caspar has a task now, and has moved on from his existential dread. Currently he¡¯s thinking about the proper way to run this trek in reverse, with a small piece of his mind set aside to idly wonder whether I¡¯m ticklish.


    (I am. No clue why evolution left that in you¡ªit seems an annoyance¡ªbut I don¡¯t want to miss out on any sensations, just in case.)


    No signs or words to guide them. Only the map in their minds and a series of cipher sigils burnt into varnished wooden placards. Their pale headlight glares onto a cursive stroke intersecting a fleur-de-lis, encompassed by a globe. The scriptorium.


    Off the cart, onto the station, and into an overheated manila colored room, dominated by a cityscape of whirring machinery and fridge-sized modems. A hundred feet above them, the sacred scriptorium gleams and dazzles in the winter sun. Rows of texts on illuminated vellum decorate grand cherrywood shelves and scroll cases.


    It¡¯s all for show. All fancy giltwork to hide this sweltering, buzzing room, the actual archive. The only nod to the aboveground splendor here is a printout-sized portrait of the saggy Suzerain hung in a disproportionately fancy frame, and an ivory tray with an incense cone on it to cover up the ozone smell.


    Caspar and Jordan find a console housed between two sloshing coolant pipes that bead with condensation. For a few panicky minutes the warlocks struggle with a technology decades beyond anything they¡¯ve seen in Chamchek.


    ¡°Gotta put a backslash at the beginning, Cas.¡±


    ¡°Which slash is the damn backslash?¡±


    Finally, the command line resolves itself into a fuzzy green menu, and Caspar feels the ground solidify beneath his feet. His thick fingers hunt and peck across the clacky keyboard. ¡°What do you want your bishopric name to be?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go with¡­¡± Jordan taps her lip pensively. ¡°Lucerne.¡±


    ¡°Very Eastern Diocese,¡± Caspar says. ¡°You got any ideas for mine, Peat?¡±


    ¡°Peat Moss,¡± says Peat Moss.


    ¡°Peter.¡± Caspar taps it in with one hand; the other scratches the fawn behind an ear. With a final keystroke, the terminal is shut off, and two bishops are born.


    They return to the station. The subterranean air slaps a chill across the perspiration on Caspar¡¯s forehead.


    ¡°That was simple enough,¡± Jordan says, as they climb back onto the cart. ¡°Hope it works.¡±


    Caspar shoulders the door to the control cabin open. ¡°Adaire seems confident.¡± He¡¯s thinking it was too simple, in fact, but he doesn¡¯t want to expose that thought to the light, spare as it is.


    ¡°Does she make you guys nervous?¡± Peat asks. ¡°She makes me nervous.¡±


    ¡°She cut Rebecca Tilliam¡¯s head off.¡± Caspar starts the engine. ¡°Nervous is right.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but also she¡¯s, like, nice and mean. At the same time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s called passive-aggressive,¡± Jordan says. ¡°And it¡¯s the spice of life. Remind me and I¡¯ll give you some lessons on it.¡±


    Caspar shakes his head as he takes them down their first left. ¡°You are intent on ruining this boy, Darius.¡±


    They rattle past the switching station. They give the password once again and let the track squeal into place to guide them past the platform.


    Upon it, hidden in the shadows pooled by the workmanlike fluorescents, waits the ambush. A full firing line in shiny black, with shinier, blacker guns.


    ¡°Down,¡± Caspar cries, and a dozen automatic weapons roar their scorn, lighting the tunnel up as if it were a solstice day. The cart skids past, newly ventilated in a hundred places.


    ¡°Oh no oh no oh no.¡± Peat Moss is flat on the floor.


    ¡°How in the goddamn hell did they know?¡± Caspar pokes his head up from the rim of the control cabin window.


    Jordan dashes to the rear platform of the cart, pulling leather as she goes. ¡°Caspar. They¡¯re following us.¡±


    A cart has departed the switching station. Its high beams sweep across the pits and bones and the metal rail. It speeds toward them.


    ¡°Cut the engine halfway,¡± Jordan calls. ¡°We take this cart here, we can block the rest.¡±


    The tunnel light gleams off their pursuers. Four people in Eight¡¯s telltale warlock black, their chitin piecemeal and ugly. And something hulking and chrome, as it steps forward and raises its arms.


    They behold death.


    ¡°Full speed!¡± Jordan drops into cover. ¡°Full fucking speed!¡±


    Eight¡¯s warlocks have a Dominion suit.

 36. A loss

    A burst of gunfire, so rapid that it morphs into one buzzing shriek. A chunk of the cart the size of a watermelon is sheared clean off. Each bullet hole flowers to the size of a fist. Secondary explosions spit the smell of sulfur into the close-cropped tunnel.


    Jordan abandons the controls to dive for cover. The air becomes 50% lead by volume as four autoguns and two twin-linked autocannons light the cavern as if it were day.


    Caspar¡¯s head burns. His ears ring. His hands tremble. His stomach¡ªoh, he¡¯s been shot. When did that happen? With a flare of concentration, he ejects the bullet. Skin forms over the open wound. Chitin flows over the skin.


    ¡°Cover me!¡± That¡¯s Jordan, screaming over the next volley, and Caspar unleashes a chattering fusillade of his own. When he fires his Saur, he usually feels the world quaking in its resonance, as though he¡¯s channeling some tool of horrible primordial creation. But it¡¯s nothing more than a polite cough against the force that opposes them.


    A cry of agony rises from one gunman. His face is melting off. The dollops of sloughing flesh become flower petals as they drop from his skull. Peat Moss bounds to a nearby metal riser seat and huddles behind it, the acid he spat beading off his chin. I love this deer. That¡¯s one down.


    Jordan breaks cover and provokes another screaming burst from the dominion¡¯s guns. It rents the control cabin asunder and sends whirligig secondary explosions popping through the air.


    She skids to a halt next to Caspar, holding up behind the central column of the cart¡¯s main cabin. ¡°Our armor will not do shit against that dominion gun.¡± She has to yell it in Caspar¡¯s ear over the crack and crackle of their enemies¡¯ arsenal. ¡°AP bullets, tipped with explosives. Made to kill warlocks.¡±


    The engine¡¯s gone now. Nothing but smoke and fire. They¡¯re coasting solely on momentum.


    ¡°He¡¯s conserving his shots,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Or he¡¯d have torn us apart by now. Few bullets, slow on the trigger.¡±


    ¡°What do we do?¡±


    Jordan slides onto her stomach and glances between the carts, as far out as she dares. ¡°You think you can jump that gap? Between us?¡±


    Caspar slides to the other side. It¡¯s a considerable space, ten feet at least, but his legs are bolstered by his mistress¡¯s fell strength. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Peat!¡± Jordan loads a new mag into her pistol. ¡°On three, we¡¯re out of cover, armor up. That dominion¡¯s the only one that can get through. He¡¯s the target. All three of us, three vectors. I shoot, Peat spits, Cas rushes. One of us gets him.¡±


    Caspar hands her the Saur. She holds it in her right, her pistol in the left. Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment.


    ¡°Faith and strength,¡± she says.


    ¡°Faith and strength,¡± Caspar repeats.


    ¡°Fucking shit.¡± Peat coughs a bullet out of his esophagus as the meat of his stomach reforms.


    Jordan counts it out on her lips and her fingers. Three. Two. One.


    They break from cover. Caspar sprinting on the right, Jordan diving on the left, Peat Moss leaping over the top of his seat.


    The spinning autocannons bloom once more, with that terrible buzzing wail. Caspar is surrounded by fire. He vaults. His spiked claws slam forth from his knuckles as he flies.


    Caspar¡¯s landing is a shoulder tackle into a warlock whose autogun goes rubber-banding from his hands as my husband connects. Eight favors quantity over quality for her warlocks. I wondered why for a long time, until I saw her eating them. This button-man is typical fodder; his cuirass isn¡¯t even fully formed. Caspar¡¯s claws shove through its segmented gap and come out gleaming and spattered. He delivers a cruel twist to kill or debilitate, springs to his feet, and charges down the dominion.


    An autogun swivels to bear and Caspar gazes into three dozen portals to the afterlife as its gatling mouth yawns forth. Then it flashes and fizzles and misfires. Peat Moss¡¯s acid eats into its chrome.


    Caspar football-slides to avoid the dominion¡¯s clubbing swing and comes up in a snarling flurry of sorcerous blackbone claws. He scrambles across the surface of the dominion suit like a wildcat, hewing tight joints into gory rents. My revised design. I feel a spike of pride in myself and my warlock.


    The brainpan of another black-clad foe pops. The dominion suit¡¯s hydraulics hiss and spit and the man within the metal strains. My witchcraft strength meets the unyielding technology designed to counter it. The dominion locks Caspar¡¯s arm around his waist, breaking it with a sharp twist.


    Caspar sprawls with the motion and weaves himself out of the line of fire. Another fizzing globule of acid, another kick of sparks from an unloaded mag. The dominion vomits forth a rebuke in flame from his one remaining autocannon; it¡¯s cut off and thrown wide by a repaired Caspar, whose charge catches the suit in the midsection. The tracer fire rakes a wide line across the cart and the wall beyond, sending bone fragments powderizing across the pursuing cart as warlock and dominion skid to its lip.


    ¡°Caspar!¡±


    Caspar locks his arms around the dominion¡¯s middle. He roars as his hamstrings fire, and his arms bulge, and his hips twist into a flawless suplex. He tilts backward and pulls the dominion off his feet, releasing midway through the arc of his fall and sending the faceless suit hurtling. The dominion tumbles and crushes beneath the back wheel for an eyeblink before fire flowers forth from its insides. The rest of the explosive ammunition cooks off, all at once.


    The blast sends the cart bucking forward onto its front wheels, its rear cabin peeling apart, its back wheels barging up into the air and then coming down twisted and off-course and geysering twin tsunamis of sparks as they squeal along the rending track. Eight¡¯s final living warlock is bailed from the metal platform and disappears into the catacomb umbra.


    ¡°Caspar!¡± Peat Moss screams it. Caspar hears the dying gearbox of their leading cart howl its terminal grind; someone¡¯s thrown the handbrake. He clings to the pursuing cart as it gains on their original ride and shudders into a low-impact collision. By the time he¡¯s leapt back across, they can¡¯t be going faster than a sprint.


    Peat is pacing fretfully in front of Jordan. And Jordan¡ª


    Jordan¡¯s legs sprawl in front of her. Her chest, what¡¯s left of it, trembles as it rises and falls. Gore dyes the garish fabric. If she wasn¡¯t a warlock, she¡¯d surely be gone already. She¡¯s been torn open.


    ¡°Told you,¡± she mumbles. ¡°Knew we could take a dominion. Not so tough.¡±


    Caspar crouches by his friend. ¡°Can you evoke? Is it healing?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡± Her rueful grin is stained bright red. ¡°And it didn¡¯t.¡±


    Caspar lands a hand on Peat¡¯s back to stop him pacing. ¡°Peat, I need you to find anything that looks like a first aid kit on here. It¡¯s going to have a cross on it.¡±


    ¡°Caspar.¡± Jordan¡¯s shaking her head. ¡°No, man.¡±


    ¡°If we can stabilize you.¡± Caspar recognizes the dumbfool desperation in his words. ¡°Maybe if we can stabilize you, until the system strain drops and you can¡ª¡±


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    ¡°No. Cas.¡± She grips his arm. Her drowning cough splashes a dot matrix of crimson across his face. ¡°It¡¯s too much,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m off the ride.¡±


    And he knows. Right as she says it. This is something he learned on the front¡ªthere¡¯s a knowledge the dying have that transcends fortune and training. When your buddy tells you they¡¯re going, they¡¯re going.


    ¡°Give me my gun.¡± Jordan reaches a shaking hand out. Her fingers are already going ashy. ¡°Put me in cover and leave me here. They¡¯re gonna be coming up the left side. Maybe I can get one.¡±


    Caspar presses her .45 into her hand. There¡¯s a shallow ache in him, deepening by the second.


    Jordan pulls the slide back. Blood smears the chrome. ¡°They came for us, they¡¯re gonna come for Tilliam and Adaire. Find them. On foot to the next station, right?¡±


    Caspar doesn¡¯t trust himself to speak. He nods.


    ¡°We can¡¯t¡ª¡± Peat¡¯s ears are trembling. ¡°We can¡¯t just leave her here.¡±


    ¡°Fuck are you crying about, kid?¡± A wet laugh. ¡°Gonna see me in a few hours.¡±


    Caspar closes Jordan¡¯s fist around the stock of her pistol. ¡°I love you, sister,¡± he says.


    ¡°I love you, brother.¡± She pulls away from his hand. ¡°Get the fuck out of here. Go.¡±


    Caspar lifts Peat Moss around the middle like he¡¯s a keg. He turns from his dying friend. A hitch in his movement¡ªthere is so much he¡¯s leaving unsaid¡ªand he has to scream at his quaking mortal soul: no, there isn¡¯t. That he¡¯ll see the broken, bleeding woman again, whole and happy.


    He sprints with Peat down the ossuary hall. He hears the final roar of Jordan Darius¡¯ handgun, and a sawing chatter of autofire, and then nothing, nothing at all, and they¡¯ll meet again. They will. But the tears spring from his eyes, anyway.


    ???????????


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Jordan Darius¡¯s frustrated kick still bears the warlock strength she had in life. The headstone it connects with topples to the ground. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Sorry, Bina. I didn¡¯t¡ª¡± She bends down and tries fruitlessly to right it. ¡°FUCK,¡± she repeats, on the teetering edge of hysteria.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay. It''s so okay.¡± Bina hastily stands from her stone seat. ¡°Come here, doll.¡±


    Jordan makes no sign of having heard her. ¡°Stupid fucking explosive bullets. Fucking dominions. Taken down by a goddamn mook in a tin costume.¡± She presses her palms to her face. Her breathing is rapid. ¡°Stupid fucking mistake.¡±


    ¡°Jordy. Hey.¡± Bina reaches out and cups Jordan¡¯s wrist. ¡°Hey, you¡¯re here. I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re here. You¡¯re home.¡±


    ¡°Yep. Full-time, now, right?¡± Jordan¡¯s laugh has a crazed, raw-nerve edge to it. ¡°No more trips back to Diamante. Good news, right?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Bina¡¯s hesitant. ¡°It is. You¡¯re here, you¡¯re okay.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I¡¯m here, I¡¯m okay. I¡¯m not¡ª¡± Jordan¡¯s voice tears like flimsy tissue. ¡°I¡¯m dead.¡±


    The dam breaks.


    ¡°I¡¯m dead,¡± she wails. ¡°I died I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead forever¡±


    ¡°Oh, darling.¡± Bina kneels and closes her arms and pseudopods around Jordan. She holds her warlock until the weeping peters off into shaking breath. She runs a gentle claw along Jordan¡¯s back.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Jordan¡¯s throat is scratchy and raw. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Irene.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to apologize for,¡± I say. ¡°You were a warrior down there, Jordan Darius.¡±


    ¡°What am I now, then?¡± Her composure cracks again. ¡°What am I supposed to be forever?¡±


    ¡°Safe.¡± Bina lifts her into a bridal carry. ¡°We¡¯ll figure out the rest later.¡±


    Jordan buries her face in the ruff of fur at my sister¡¯s neck, shoulders shaking again. She nods.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two alone.¡± I stand up. ¡°As soon as Caspar¡¯s back, you¡¯ll know.¡±


    Jordan¡¯s visible eye, blue-on-red, glances down at me. ¡°Can you tell him¡ª¡±


    ¡°You can tell him whatever you need to yourself,¡± I say. ¡°This isn¡¯t goodbye to anything, okay? Not anything important.¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯m being so stupid. You can put me down, Bean.¡±


    Bina shakes her head and sits on a stone bench, keeping Jordan in her lap. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m getting snot on your fur.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s okay. My gross little human. I like it.¡± Bina nuzzles Jordan.


    Jordan sputters a laugh. ¡°You¡¯re gross.¡±


    ¡°We are gonna have so much time now.¡± Bina cradles her. ¡°I know it feels just awful, but it¡¯s going to be so nice, so soon. And we¡¯ll do that redecorating I promised.¡±


    ¡°Zebra print?¡± Jordan¡¯s voice is tiny and weak.


    ¡°Anything.¡± Bina¡¯s ribs expand as she takes a deep inhale of her warlock¡¯s hair. ¡°Mirror balls, zebra print. Whatever wild shit you want. Whatever makes this place home.¡±


    And despite the tears in both their eyes, and the ruined body they left in the dark, I feel a needle-sting of envy as I depart.


    ???????????


    The cart grinds to a halt back in the station. Caspar Cartwright comes sprinting off of it, covered in blood and bone dust. There is no time to clean up, no time to find Adaire and pass her a message. He needs the basilica cleared out before Eight¡¯s warlocks can reach it. He needs enough pandemonium to get himself and his people out.


    In the long hallway next to the nave, he unslings his autogun. ¡°I¡¯m dropping you, Peat,¡± he says. ¡°You ready to run?¡±


    ¡°They fucking killed Jordan.¡± Peat¡¯s face is wet. ¡°What the fuck.¡±


    ¡°I know, Peaty. I know. I need your focus.¡± Caspar puts the fawn on the floor and clicks the gun¡¯s safety off. ¡°We¡¯re gonna move.¡±


    ¡°Cas, c¡¯mon¡ª¡±


    Caspar holds the trigger and empties the autogun into the ceiling, then hurls it aside. A docent with a shaky grip on his service pistol sees my warlock sprinting down the hallway like a crazed wraith and has time for a ¡°Sir¡ª¡± before Caspar cold-cocks him to the floor.


    The nave¡¯s double doors have opened. People stream out in well-heeled panic. Caspar joins the stampede, shedding the most ostentatious parts of his ridiculous outfit as he goes. He glimpses Adaire, in full Rebecca guise, tugging an apoplectic Paul Tilliam through the crowd.


    No use. The shout rings out. ¡°You! With the uniform! Stop!¡±


    Caspar ignores it.


    ¡°Freeze!¡±


    He shoves a squalling minister aside and breaks into a sprint. Another chorus of screams and ducking heads as a templar opens fire into the air. A bullet tears through his shoulder. He curses loud and manifests his armor over his chest and head.


    ¡°Warlock!¡± comes a howling cry behind him, as he tears into the street. Peat Moss skitters after him.


    Cars skid. Civilians flee. He slides across the hood of an elegant town car and swipes round the bend it was taking, breaking out into a row of jewel-tone condominium towers. He chooses one, more or less at random, and collides into the front door with such violence that it splinters.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± Peat Moss bounds over the wooden wreckage.


    ¡°Off the streets,¡± Caspar says. ¡°We get to the rooftops, we can hide. They haven¡¯t gotten an airship up yet.¡±


    Through the atrium and up the stairs. No roof access¡ªhe needs to duck into an apartment, find a fire escape to climb. The gunning of engines outside tells him they¡¯ve got vehicles on the scene now. He looks for unadorned doors. Most of these luxury apartments only exist as investments and write-offs. If he¡¯s lucky, he¡¯ll find one with no residents.


    His claw punches through a deadbolt and yanks it whole cloth out from the door. He thunders inside and, thank the Sisters, something¡¯s finally gone right. Nobody in this one.


    A yell from outside. They¡¯ve seen him through the window. This fucking bozo outfit.


    That terrible, familiar humming roar sounds and a chunk of the outer wall is blown to plaster dust and rubble. This dominion probably doesn¡¯t have a warlock inside it. Cold comfort.


    Caspar gets a glimpse of the street through the new picture window his pursuers have installed. They¡¯ve got the building cordoned by cars. Temple cruisers, just like the one Jordan was driving when Caspar barged into her life and destroyed it. Destroyed it twice, now.


    The glint of light on armor. There¡¯s the dominion, taking a running start. The power suit¡¯s capable of a two-story vertical, easily. It¡¯s about to leap into the hole it¡¯s made and kill everything inside.


    Caspar seizes Peat Moss once more. He dashes to the apartment¡¯s marble-and-chrome kitchenette. He yanks the fridge open and shoves the fawn inside. ¡°What¡¯s¡ª¡± Peat Moss squawks, and then the door¡¯s slammed shut in his face, muffling the rest.


    Caspar flattens himself by the ragged gap in the apartment. He takes a deep, fortifying breath. Hydraulics hiss and snap below. The dominion leaps upward onto the second floor, its gauntlets gleaming.


    Caspar opens his mouth and casts his new spell.


    The syllable he utters isn¡¯t even a word, not really. It¡¯s an expletive, an Old One interjection of frustration. Last time I said it was when I got a pseudopod stuck in a crevasse.


    It fires from my warlock¡¯s throat with such force that it cracks his jaw and blows his teeth out. He¡¯s instantaneously concussed. Every surviving windowpane, every piece of glassware in the apartment shatters. Every eardrum in the building gives a pressurized pop; at ground zero, Caspar¡¯s simply explode, casting blood and lymph out of his ears. Every electric bulb sparks and breaks with a chorus of crisp pings. The dominion and the warlock are sent hurtling in opposite directions. Caspar slams into the kitchenette wall. His silver foe blows back out of the hole in the apartment like he¡¯s been walloped by an invisible semi-truck.


    Caspar staggers away from the crack his flying spine knocked into the tile. He evokes away the hellacious burn in his head. Bones grind and bloody gums realign while his teeth flicker back into his mouth. A molar knicks his lip as it clicks into place.


    My lovely husband is, I reflect, a very long way away from conversational void tongue.


    He throws the fridge open and pulls his dazed deer out of it. Peat¡¯s indignant pronouncement comes out like a muffled foghorn. He tosses Peat Moss over his shoulder like a bag of flour as he flees the scene of devastation behind him. Out the broken garden window, up the rickety fire escape.


    A crackle sounds in his brainpan as his eardrums rehouse themselves. ¡°¡ªcarrying me all the fucking time,¡± Peat finishes.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Caspar says. As he climbs, the cold air stings across his torn knuckles and he¡¯s barely saying it to Peat. He¡¯s saying it to everyone, to the world, to me, to Jordan¡¯s corpse stiffening somewhere in the silent and still air of the catacombs. Sorry. Sorry.

 37. An illness

    ¡°I am sorry that we¡¯ve lost Jordan. She was a good soldier.¡± Adaire¡¯s voice echoes through the warehouse. At its center, incongruous in all the background dilapidation, is a gleaming model kitchen. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to imply that mine is the greater woe. But there¡¯s a problem we need to reckon with.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Tilliam.¡± Adaire jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the trussed-up archbishop, squirming in the empty coal hopper she¡¯s dumped him into. ¡°When we were evacuating, he tried to flee me. His rebellions are becoming flagrant. He¡¯s unpredictable and hostile since Rebecca¡¯s death. Our control is slipping.¡±


    ¡°You killed his wife in front of him,¡± Caspar says. ¡°What did you think would happen?¡±


    ¡°I presumed his fear of us would increase to fill the space where his willingness lacked,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I presumed incorrectly. I underestimated the man again. If we lean on him, I have no faith he¡¯ll do anything but drop out from under us.¡±


    ¡°We could just kill him.¡±


    They turn to Peat Moss.


    ¡°Bina doesn¡¯t have a warlock anymore,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°We kill him, we show him proof and let him talk to his wife, then bring him back. Maybe it¡¯ll flip him.¡±


    ¡°That¡­¡± Adaire runs her tongue across the bottom row of her teeth. ¡°That is actually rather shrewd, Mr. Moss.¡±


    Caspar frowns. ¡°Does Bina want that fellow as her warlock? Seems a downgrade.¡±


    ¡°How about this.¡± Adaire holds her arm out. ¡°Mistress,¡± she says. ¡°Your humble servants request a convocation of the Sisters to decide Tilliam¡¯s fate, whether to be granted the gift of your power. If you desire we send him to you, extend this your warlock¡¯s blade, that it may do your bidding.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s quite novel, Salome.¡± I lean across Bina¡¯s stone table, studying Adaire¡¯s outstretched arm. ¡°You do this often?¡±


    Salome grins. ¡°Clever, no?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not exactly necessary if you have a warlock whose decisions you trust implicitly,¡± I say.


    Saoirse chuckles. ¡°She is so jealous that she didn¡¯t think of it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not¡ª¡± I lower the accusatory pointer that just shot up at Saoirse. ¡°I am not jealous. It¡¯s clever, Sal.¡±


    ¡°So humbled you think so.¡± Salome retopologizes the facets of her legs as she crosses them. ¡°How¡¯s your former warlock doing, Bina?¡±


    Bina¡¯s got the aforementioned decedent curled in her lap. ¡°She cried a lot and fell asleep,¡± she says. ¡°Is it okay for humans to do that?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll be okay,¡± I say. ¡°She¡¯s tough.¡±


    ¡°Shame it was some fool with exploding bullets and metal muscles,¡± Ganea says. ¡°Would have been more honorable if it had been the Butcher.¡±


    Jordan mumbles and shifts, burying her face into Bina¡¯s stomach. ¡°Loud-ass talker,¡± she murmurs.


    ¡°So, then. The question before us.¡± Salome taps the table. ¡°Do we have our mortals kill the archbishop? I vote in the affirmative.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s a rather brilliant idea,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Little Peaty is becoming so tactical.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d say Sersh¡¯s vote counts for half and Bina¡¯s counts double,¡± I say. ¡°I mean, I vote yes as well, but we need to keep in mind she¡¯s going to have to be the archbishop¡¯s handler. I don¡¯t relish that for her.¡±


    A heavy sigh escapes Bina. ¡°He¡¯s such a little jerk.¡± She curls Jordan closer into herself. ¡°I am only saying yes to this because I have a full-time emotional support human.¡±


    Jordan¡¯s eyes don¡¯t open, but her smile and faint hum of assent tell me she¡¯s awake now. Her hand creeps out and wraps around Bina¡¯s paw. There¡¯s that little poke of jealousy again. The field is too chilly and spacious, suddenly, without the arms of my husband sheltering me.


    ¡°It¡¯s unanimous,¡± Ganea says. ¡°He dies.¡±


    I stand and turn on my heel. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back, ladies,¡± I say. ¡°Got to throw a little welcome wagon together. I know a few people who would just love to talk to this gentleman.¡±


    ¡°Save a piece of that pious ass for me,¡± calls Jordan. ¡°Wanna give it a few more kicks.¡±


    Next to her and Bina, Salome¡¯s arm twitches.


    Adaire¡¯s blade snicks out from her forearm.


    ¡°Well, then.¡± Its light gleams in her eyes. ¡°That¡¯s settled. Mr. Moss? Mr. Cartwright?¡±


    Caspar looks away from the dirty window. He¡¯s watching the airships slowly circumnavigate the night, and the passage of their sweeping searchlights. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Do you have any protests, sir?¡±


    Caspar shakes his head. ¡°Ain¡¯t going against the Sisters.¡±


    Adaire approaches Tilliam. He shakes his head rapidly as the blood drains from his face. She takes hold of his gag and lowers it. ¡°Make ready to greet the Sisters of the Void, Tilly.¡±


    Tilliam licks his dry lips. ¡°Corinne. Adaire. No. Please wait. I¡¯ll obey. I¡¯ll be good. I¡ªplease please no plea¡ª¡±


    His last word becomes a gurgling rasp as Adaire opens his throat with a cut so vicious and deep it nearly beheads him. His eyes go wide with pain and fear, then unfocus and unsee.


    Paul Tilliam, archbishop of the Chamchek diocese, drops to the floor, thrashes twice, and dies.


    Caspar grimaces. ¡°You talk a lot about how untrained you are to kill, but you sure know how to do it quick.¡±


    Adaire flicks the blood from her sickle-blade, then folds it back into her forearm. ¡°The trick is to tie them up first.¡±


    ¡°What if it doesn¡¯t work?¡± Peat Moss asks.


    ¡°I suppose he just won¡¯t wake up,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Sisters above, Adaire. Could we not just have smothered the poor man? There¡¯s blood everywhere.¡±


    ¡°Sorry about the mess,¡± Adaire says. ¡°But I have wanted to do that for a very long time.¡±


    ¡°I thought you liked this guy,¡± Caspar says.


    She smiles as she undoes the ligatures on Tilliam¡¯s ankles and wrists. ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°You got a funny way of liking.¡±


    ¡°The only regret I have about how close we are to our goal,¡± Adaire says, ¡°is that I¡¯m running out of time to do that to every single one of your theocracy¡¯s rotten potentates. I¡¯ve mentioned this motivation to you, haven¡¯t I?¡±


    Caspar nudges Tilliam¡¯s twitching corpse. ¡°Not in those exact words.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a rotten potentate?¡± Peat tilts an ear. ¡°Sounds unappetizing.¡±


    ¡°If Tilliam awakens, our plan remains the same,¡± Adaire says. ¡°If not, we¡¯ll have to improvise further. Distraught Widow Rebecca Tilliam might still burrow her way into the Suzerain¡¯s chambers.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s lips purse. ¡°And then, when we¡¯re in there, we do what, exactly?¡±


    ¡°We overpower the feeble old man with the key around his neck, and take it.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be guarded.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯ll be enough of us,¡± she says. ¡°And we only need a moment.¡±


    Caspar leans forward. ¡°Do you have a plan to get out?¡±


    ¡°My plan,¡± Adaire says, ¡°is to be cut down by a hail of bullets, hopefully taking him with me. You can come up with your own, if you like.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°We can¡¯t just do what we¡¯re about to do and then leave everyone to clean it up.¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t clean it up. They can¡¯t clean it up. We are catalyzing a reaction that has long since built. We¡¯re dropping a match into a chamberful of fumes.¡±


    ¡°Metaphors ain¡¯t a plan, Miss Adaire.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s this for a metaphor? An asymptomatic terminal illness infects your civilization. An insidious disease that hides from sight, in the wrecked afterlife and your killing fields overseas. Like an apple seeming beautifully ripe, and on the first bite showing itself rotten and wormholed. But the symptoms are bubbling up onto the skin, now, and even without us, would continue to show and grow, and show and grow. Billions of decent people will do their best to live decent, quiet, out-of-the-way lives. But many will end up like you, Caspar, only without the kindness of an Old One. Do you know what¡¯s happening? All over the world? Outside of your provincial village?¡±


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re going to tell me.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s happening is that Pastornos is losing. Its crusades are longer and costlier every time. The fifth Sarkanian crusade isn¡¯t like the fourth. It isn¡¯t like Tabarka. You¡¯ve seen the streets emptying out. Your children are being fed to a machine that¡¯s starving to death.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s jaw sets. He isn¡¯t going to waste breath defending the leaders he no longer believes in.


    ¡°We are going to kill the ruler of the world, Caspar.¡± Adaire¡¯s gentle when she says it, like she¡¯s a doctor delivering a hard diagnosis. ¡°Pastornos will finally lose its war, the centuries-long war that pretends it¡¯s many wars. And the war will come home from across the oceans. This isn¡¯t a storybook. This won¡¯t be a glorious celebration. Not for many dark and deadly years. It¡¯s Heaven we¡¯re saving. The world we¡¯re throwing into the fire. By our hand, the edifice will collapse. Your people will behold the hollow core where they thought there was solid stone. And many, many, many will die. They¡¯ll die in droves. They¡¯ll kill each other, and the supply lines will stop and they¡¯ll starve, and the temples and hospitals will crumble.¡±


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°You want it, don¡¯t you? You told me that already. You want the collapse.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what I want. I told you that, too.¡± Adaire shuts the eyelids on Tilliam¡¯s stiffening body. ¡°You were a soldier of the Father. This should be simple for you. All the terrible lies you were told have become true again by the Sisters¡¯ hands. The way to life is death. The way to joy is submission. There is a divine love, and its love is violence, and the violence is just, and the enemy is inhuman. You were built to hold these things.¡± She tilts her head. ¡°I don¡¯t understand why you¡¯re leaking.¡±


    ¡°I have been told over and over,¡± Caspar says, ¡°that wanting the best for people is na?ve. I have proven my faith with gallons of blood. I kill and I kill and then people think I¡¯m afraid to kill when I want to stop. That¡¯s not what this is. I¡¯ve seen this before. I¡¯ve felt it, even. You¡¯ve had a lot of pain and now you think that pain is the only honest thing. But hurting is hurting. It¡¯s physiological, not philosophical. You can quantify it, you can minimize it. Sometimes virtue isn¡¯t foolish. Sometimes cynicism isn¡¯t smart. Sometimes it¡¯s just giving up. It¡¯s protecting yourself. It¡¯s not doing the work.¡±


    Peat is watching the exchange with the rapt awe of a boxing enthusiast at a title bout.


    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re right,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Probably you¡¯re right. Probably it¡¯s annoying to have this big lunk making it harder for you, for no reason. For sentimentality, I suppose you¡¯d say. And I am sorry, sorta. But I¡¯m going to keep at it. It¡¯s the field medic in me. If I see a way to make the world die easy, not terrified, I¡¯ll take it. That matters to me. The passage matters. You said yourself. Hurt. No time and no target, you remember that?¡±


    She nods.


    ¡°If you¡¯re as right as you think, then you¡¯re gonna be right anyway, and everything I do is going to come to nothing.¡±


    ¡°Keep at it, then.¡± She shrugs. ¡°Just don¡¯t let it slow us down, or I¡¯ll kill you.¡±


    ¡°You think you can?¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll try. I am nothing but this. I will become a person again when Heaven is ours and my people are in paradise. Until then, I¡¯m an instrument to destroy what must be destroyed.¡±


    Tilliam jerks upright. He scrambles to his knees, sliding on the pool of his own blood.


    He screams.


    Caspar takes a ginger step forward. ¡°Welcome back, warlock.¡±


    Tilliam shakes his head rapidly and staggers to the kitchen sink. He sticks his head into it and pukes his guts out. Then he crumples to the linoleum and weeps, head between his knees.


    Caspar circumspectly walks over. ¡°They convinced you?¡±


    ¡°I saw it,¡± Tilliam whispers. ¡°Father help me. I saw it.¡±


    ¡°Heaven, you mean?¡± Caspar crouches down. He¡¯s had such contempt for this pathetic, bloodstained little man. He isn¡¯t sure what to do with it now.


    ¡°I am evil. I am a profound evil.¡± Tilliam looks up. His eyes are rimmed with red. ¡°I am wretched. I¡¯m a servant of atrocity. This faith. It was the only right thing in my unclean life and it was all¡­¡± His voice fails him.


    ¡°All a lie,¡± Caspar finishes.


    ¡°Direct me.¡± Tilliam rises to his knees. ¡°Whatever you¡¯d have me do. Anything. My God, Caspar. How readily we abandoned you. With such smiles, as though we had not been abandoned in turn. My poor child.¡± He touches Caspar¡¯s hand. He¡¯s weeping again. ¡°All His poor children. That I might even begin to¡ªall the blood¡ªthe smell¡ª¡±


    A wet burp and he¡¯s on his feet, heaving into the sink again. Peat taps nervously up. Caspar gives him a silent headshake. They wait for Tilliam to glue the shaky shards of himself back into something freestanding.


    ¡°Your mark, Tilly.¡± Adaire leans on the kitchen island like she¡¯s having a side conversation at a cocktail hour. ¡°Show us.¡±


    Tilliam fumbles his button-down open. Bina¡¯s wolf-tooth crest lays on his chest, right over the heart. Just like Caspar¡¯s.


    ¡°I thought yours was a tattoo,¡± Tilliam says.


    ¡°A tattoo?¡± Adaire tsks. ¡°On me? Never.¡± She detaches from the counter and leans forward, studying the mark with an art-lover¡¯s intensity. She refocuses on Tilliam¡¯s face and smiles. ¡°Welcome to the light, Tilly.¡±


    She steps into the limp compass of his arms and kisses him, long and deep, careless of the taste of sick and blood.


    Caspar and Peat share another look. Ew, the fawn mouths.


    ???????????


    ¡°I¡¯ve decided it¡¯s on Bina,¡± Jordan says. ¡°She¡¯s got me bottoming now, and I¡¯ve lost my toppy viciousness. That¡¯s what got my ass killed.¡±


    ¡°That is so unfair,¡± Bina says.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± Jordan daubs the tip of her brush against her palette. She¡¯s painting the mossy tomb yard within which the four of us are gathered. ¡°I¡¯ve forgiven you.¡±


    ¡°Well I don¡¯t care,¡± Bina sniffs, ¡°Cause now I¡¯m not sorry.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s tearing at me is not going to the end of the line with you. Gone from this world-saving crisis thing and now I¡¯m just¡­ chilling.¡± Jordan shifts to let me by with a hot kettle of red bush. ¡°Reconnecting with the parents, being with Bean. Learning how to paint. With this colossal weight over everything, and nothing I can do about it anymore. Just waiting.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re healing,¡± Bina says. She manifests a stone mug off the edge of the bench they¡¯re sharing and passes it to me. ¡°That¡¯s not nothing, doll.¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡± Jordan sighs. ¡°But it¡¯s tough to shake. I¡¯m sitting on my hands like those chucklefucks over in the taphouse, no offense to them.¡±


    ¡°Hey, now,¡± Caspar says. ¡°Those chucklefucks have put in some serious work on that village of theirs. Dance hall¡¯s almost up, you know.¡±


    I place the full mug on the easel next to Jordan¡¯s canvas. ¡°You might think about dropping in on them.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Eventually. Think I¡¯ll sit tight in Bina for now. I feel weird that I shot half of them. All I mean is you¡¯re still in the mud and blood and I¡¯m painting happy little trees.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re talking like how I felt, after I got back from deployment,¡± Caspar says. ¡°It¡¯s all right, Jordy. My number¡¯ll come up soon. Plenty of afterlife to go around.¡±


    I kiss his temple as I fill his teacup.


    ¡°Afterlife.¡± Jordan shudders. ¡°Shit, man. That word.¡±


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s fine. It¡¯s not wrong. It¡¯s just¡­¡± Jordan rests her hand on her chest. A smudge of cedar daubs her cotton dress. She¡¯s wearing dresses more. ¡°My heart is still beating. No reason to expect it wouldn¡¯t, I guess. But I¡¯m dead and my heart¡¯s still beating.¡±


    Bina squeezes her around the midsection. ¡°It¡¯s not dead. It¡¯s just a different alive. That¡¯s what I keep saying, anyway.¡±


    Jordan sighs and leans back into her mistress¡¯s embrace. ¡°The longer I¡¯m torn up about it the more bullshit you¡¯ll let me sprinkle around the place, though.¡± She points at a mausoleum. ¡°Courtball hoop. Right there.¡±


    Bina blinks and there¡¯s an orange rim hanging off the edge of the masonry.


    ¡°Does anything feel different?¡± Caspar asks.


    ¡°Not physically, I don¡¯t think,¡± Jordan says. ¡°But there¡¯s like¡­ a realigning thing, mentally. When I was alive, it was hard to shake the feeling that this was all a dream. Go to sleep, kiss a werewolf, wake up and you¡¯re back in real life. But now real life is this. It doesn¡¯t go away anymore. I¡¯m not dreaming that my girlfriend is a werewolf. My girlfriend is a werewolf.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a creepy alien thing, not a werewolf,¡± Bina adds. ¡°Jordy only calls me that because she¡¯s trying to tease me. But you can¡¯t tease a thousand-year-old. I¡¯m unteasable.¡±


    Jordan chuckles. ¡°Did you know she made a statue of me?¡±


    One of Bina¡¯s tails thwaps Jordan¡¯s hip. ¡°Ohmygod babe don¡¯t tell him that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s weird,¡± Jordan continues. ¡°How little I miss all the stuff you think you¡¯re gonna miss. I mean, that¡¯s not the real sky. That¡¯s Bean¡¯s, like, ribcage. I don¡¯t really give a shit. It¡¯s pretty. Prettier, even.¡±


    Bina giggles and kisses the top of her head.


    ¡°Would you say¡­¡± Jordan smudges paint onto the canvas. ¡°No. That¡¯s too purply. Fuck.¡±


    ¡°Have you painted before?¡± Caspar stands behind the canvas. ¡°This is real nice.¡±


    ¡°Inspectorate required some extracurriculars for psych health. This one was mine.¡± Jordan gilds a headstone with soft silvery rimlight. ¡°It fascinated me, but I always thought maybe in the next life, Jordy. Too late for this one. And then it was off to the range or CQC training.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s actually so good.¡± Bina tightens her seatbelt grip on her warlock.


    Jordan smooths the fur along Bina¡¯s forearm, where it nestles against her. ¡°I¡¯m not the next Goreini or anything, but I¡¯m progressing.¡±


    ¡°You really captured that tree,¡± I say.


    ¡°Nah. I fucked the colors up. Beany just tweaked it after. Which is cheating, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Sorry.¡± Bina scratches Jordan¡¯s scalp. ¡°The form¡¯s great.¡±


    ¡°Form¡¯s easy. The colors is really the part that gets me. Anyway, I still got work to do once the key¡¯s ours. Just not until then. Then it¡¯s fixing heaven, and then it¡¯s¡­¡± Jordan trails off.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how much of this I can rightly say.¡± Caspar glances my way. ¡°But apparently there¡¯s a next step after that.¡±


    ¡°Did you tell him, Irene?¡± Bina hesitates. ¡°About the, uh. The thing.¡±


    Caspar clears his throat. ¡°The egg?¡±


    Bina¡¯s ears rise. ¡°Egg?¡±


    ¡°That Heaven¡¯s an egg,¡± Caspar says.


    ¡°Oooh.¡± Bina rubs her muzzle. ¡°That¡¯s a way better metaphor.¡±


    ¡°Bina called it an oven,¡± Jordan says.


    ¡°An oven.¡± I shake my head. ¡°Bean, really? When we¡¯re fighting a maneater?¡±


    Bina shields herself with a defensive hand. ¡°I self-corrected!¡±


    ¡°Tea¡¯s done.¡± Caspar straightens up. ¡°Suppose I better get back to it.¡±


    ¡°All right, darling.¡± I sigh. ¡°The sooner you¡¯re gone the sooner you¡¯re back.¡±


    He gives me a peck on the forehead as he passes the mug to me. ¡°That¡¯s right. Soon.¡±


    ¡°Cas. Hey.¡± Jordan stands up and grasps his hand, pulling him into a tight half-hug. A few seconds in and she reconfigures it into a full one. ¡°I should have been there. To the end of the ride.¡±


    ¡°You will be,¡± he whispers. ¡°I¡¯m carrying you with me. You¡¯re the one who taught me to be a hardass, remember?¡±


    She laughs. ¡°I¡¯ll be watching and yelling at you whenever you puss out. Just imagine you can hear it.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± She slaps his back and pulls away. Her eyes are wet. She wipes at their corners. ¡°A bitch dies and suddenly the waterworks get hooked back up. Fuck.¡±


    Caspar keeps his hand light on her shoulder. ¡°I miss you down there, Jordy.¡±


    ¡°Ah, it¡¯s all good.¡± Jordan makes a show of sniffing her snot loud and obnoxious. ¡°Get this shit done, save the universe, and then step in front of an eighteen-wheeler for me. Ain¡¯t got no meatheads to make fun of up here. Need my brother back.¡± She returns to her canvas, vision fixed firmly on her landscape subject to try and dam her tears.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let Adaire push you around.¡± I step into his arms and rub the nape of his neck. ¡°If she ever tries to tell you you¡¯re outvoted, remember you¡¯ve got a big scary vote right behind you. And I have a lot of arms to raise.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not worried,¡± Caspar says, and I know that¡¯s a lie, mostly to himself. But I won¡¯t call it out.


    We kiss. And then he¡¯s gone.


    I stand before the little depression his feet made in the grass and watch the blades straighten out once again.


    ¡°Urgh.¡± Jordan taps her brush rapidly against the lid of her muddy-dyed water jar. ¡°This shit is not coming together. Bean, can you reset the canvas?¡±


    ¡°You said that¡¯s a shortcut.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± Jordan winks. ¡°But I like when you make me feel short.¡±


    I turn back to them and resume my seat. I drink my tea and watch my sister and her warlock talk and laugh and be together.


    I feel very lonely.


    ¡°I was thinking about this while I talked to Caspar. Wanted to run it by you.¡± Jordan daubs phthalo blue over the newly blank canvas. ¡°I think, when it comes down to it, I don¡¯t really give two shits enough about humans to be part of that whole scene. Cas and my family excepted, I never really loved them, people.¡±


    ¡°We need all of you, Jordan,¡± I say. ¡°Can¡¯t just leave you behind all alone. I think you¡¯ll feel differently once you¡¯ve had enough time.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re all a bunch of people turned into one person, right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Bina says.


    ¡°And I wouldn¡¯t lose myself, right? I¡¯d just gain the perspective of the whole. Which sounds fucking weird, but you seem confident it¡¯s nice.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s very nice,¡± I say. ¡°We promise.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Then I want to be part of Beany instead.¡±


    What?


    ¡°If all of humanity is gonna form one big person ball, I would like to excuse myself. Is there room in Bina?¡± Jordan points her brush at my sister. ¡°I like Bina better.¡±


    A few dozen incredulous sentences jostle for an exit from me. I look at Bina, at the confused awe on her face, and shove them back down. ¡°Can you¡­ give us some time to conference about that?¡±


    ¡°I know it¡¯s weird.¡± Jordan starts in on her clouds. ¡°But it¡¯s how I feel.¡±


    ???????????


    ¡°That was Benji. Thank you, Benji. You were very¡­ uh, brave. Up next¡ª¡± The emcee checks his beer-stained signup clipboard. Abraham. Abraham, are you still here?¡± He scans the neon-tinted dim. ¡°We have Abraham? Abe?¡±


    A table shuffles out of the way as the next singer approaches the stage.


    ¡°Whoa, yes we do!¡± The emcee makes a routine out of adjusting the microphone stand further up. ¡°We have a lot of Abraham.¡±


    The big man smiles good-naturedly as he takes the spotlight.


    The music starts with a squealing smash of feedback, and resolves into a thundering dude-rock rhythm. ¡°This one goes out to my sister,¡± the man they¡¯re calling Abraham says. ¡°Jordy, you better be watching.¡±


    A few cheers and whoops from the crowd as they recognize the song. They sing along with Abraham on the first verse. Everyone knows the words.


    And maybe a few of them ask themselves, as he rounds the corner into the chorus, why this broad-shouldered baritone¡¯s face glistens with tears as he sings Not Just Yet by Temple Tower. It¡¯s not exactly a lament or a ballad. But the veterans¡ªand there¡¯s more than a few in the room¡ªdon¡¯t wonder. They know what it looks like when a militiaman sings to someone who can¡¯t hear them anymore.


    What they don¡¯t know is that a dimension away, there¡¯s a taphouse full of souls joining in, and that Jordan Darius is standing on her seat as Bina hastily props it up with a pseudopod, that she¡¯s laughing and crying, and she¡¯s singing that stupid chorus right along with him.

 38. The key

    Caspar sits up on his sofa. His crocheted blanket, his lumpy cushions. He¡¯s bathed in the stormcloud static of his crummy old television set. Lying on his chest is the paperback he was reading the night before his life was taken from him.


    He lifts its crinkled cover. It¡¯s right where he left off.


    Wren¡¯s violet orbs shone in the dying sun. ¡°I think you¡¯ve never truly felt love for anyone but yourself,¡± she uttered. ¡°Not for Harriet, and not for me.¡± With this leaden pronouncement, and a rustle of skirts, she turned from Andre and made for the train car door.


    A tight grip on her wrist stopped her in her tracks. Her reach went like lighting for the pistol under her sash.


    Caspar turns the page.


    Hey stud. I don¡¯t know what happens next, either. I was reading this over your shoulder. Sorry!!!


    I¡¯m in our room. Come hang out ?;)


    XOXO Irene


    The rest of the spread is blank.


    Caspar stands up. It¡¯s his apartment, to a T. The photo of his unit on the mantel. The bookshelves Ernie carved him, one crooked brass nail in the burl. His hydrangeas in the window.


    He goes into the kitchen. His chipped mug next to the teakettle has been joined by a delicate ceramic cup and saucer, both violet. The hand towels stuffed into the oven handle have been straightened and folded. His utilitarian sugar bowl has been replaced by one shaped like a little ceramic peach, its lid a stylized stem. He notices the little touches. The sunny encroachment of femininity on his bachelor¡¯s living space.


    He opens the icebox. The pound cake is nestled next to the remains of Salome¡¯s thank-you cake.


    He opens the door to the bedroom. I¡¯m laying across his quilted comforter, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of tall, knitted socks, fumbling with a crochet hook. A ball of periwinkle fabric yarn nestles between my knees where they stick out of his oversized tee.


    ¡°Hi, hubby.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s perfect,¡± he says. ¡°Curtains in here were blue, but it¡¯s perfect.¡±


    ¡°The purple curtains,¡± I say, scooting over to make room for him, ¡°are what made it perfect.¡±


    He slides into bed next to me and I raise my project off my lap to let his arm close around my stomach. ¡°What are you working on?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Originally it was gonna be a coaster, and then I got ambitious and it became a potholder, and then I fucked up like five times and now it¡¯s gonna be a washcloth.¡±


    He chuckles. I lay a light slap on his wrist. ¡°It¡¯s my first try! Gimme a break.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that. It¡¯s just you went and copied this whole place, no flaws, and now you¡¯re crocheting a, uh¡ª¡±


    ¡°Washcloth.¡±


    He eyes the lumpy agglomeration of purple cradled in my lap. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m getting ready,¡± I say. ¡°For life with you. Gotta get good at some lazy day activities.¡±


    ¡°You can make a potholder fast as I blink,¡± he says.


    ¡°Sure. But this is a fun thing to do with my hands. Even though I¡¯m awful at it. And I know you, dude. You like your quiet evenings in. Put a serial on, read a book, get some cooking and some tidying done.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a bit boring, I know. In Heaven, I promise I¡¯ll get out more.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to promise anything,¡± I say. ¡°This is what I¡¯m most excited about. The whole time we¡¯ve been together, it¡¯s been crisis, crisis, crisis. But I¡¯ve been watching you your whole life, remember? I¡¯ve seen all the quiet, cozy moments. I want those.¡±


    His stubble rubs my neck as he cuddles up to me. I squirm further into the cavity of his arms.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong,¡± I say. ¡°Most of the time, I intend to be draining you dry. But I imagine I¡¯ll need additional hobbies unless you want me to mutate that pesky refractory period out of you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d miss the crossword, gotta admit.¡±


    ¡°When we¡¯re in charge, you can do dictionaries of crosswords. You can have all the lives you imagined having. You can be a hot-shot pilot. You can climb mountains in the tundra. You can have a fleet of those gaudy cars you and Jordan like.¡±


    ¡°Temple Cruiser?¡±


    ¡°Temple Cruisers, aerostats, motorcycles, whatever you want. But it doesn¡¯t have to be all champagne swimming pools and lobster tails. Heaven can be everything you had and lost. Heaven can be can be coming home in the evening to a cute little apartment in the countryside, and a cute little wife in your cute little bed. Well.¡± I stretch a stripy-socked leg out and there¡¯s a scraping sound as the bed expands from a twin to a queen. ¡°Maybe not that little. You¡¯re not a bachelor anymore.¡±


    ¡°Do you need closet space?¡±


    ¡°Nope. I make all my clothes on-demand. Out of skin.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna make you a closet anyway,¡± he decides. ¡°Woodworking. That could be nice to try. Maybe I could rent a workshop in town.¡±


    I set aside my crochet and fold myself onto my side. ¡°And you could come home smelling like varnish. And I could say, how was your day, baby? And pretend like I don¡¯t already know.¡±


    ¡°Kind of a tough one today,¡± he says. ¡°Maybe not as tough as tomorrow. But tomorrow¡¯s its own kettle of worms.¡±


    ¡°A whole kettle of them. Gosh.¡± I spin the crochet hook in my fingers and transform it into a strand of tendon for a moment before it¡¯s a hair tie. I bind my hair tendrils into a wiggly ponytail as I slide further onto my husband, nuzzling up between his legs. ¡°I think I have a way to make you feel better¡ªoh shoot.¡± I watch the yarn ball drop off the bed and roll into the living room.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get it.¡± Caspar starts to rise. The coverlet slips around his leg and tugs him gently back into bed.


    I giggle. ¡°That¡¯s me, remember?¡± The yarn ball reverses course, and winds itself up as it rolls its return into the room. For a moment, I turn enough of it back into twitch muscle fibers to make it motile, and it hops onto the bed again.


    Caspar settles back. ¡°Nice trick.¡± The nature of this place doesn¡¯t alarm him anymore. The bed, so perfectly copied from his cold and foreclosed apartment, is me. He doesn¡¯t mind. In fact, he¡¯s curious: ¡°Can you feel this?¡± He tickles a bedpost.


    ¡°Kinda. Not in the typical way, but I have a sense without a name in your tongue. One that keeps me abreast.¡±


    He pokes it. ¡°How¡¯s it feel?¡±


    ¡°Muted cognitive pressure. Sort of like how I feel when you get touched. More like reading about a touch than a touch.¡±


    ¡°You can feel when I get touched?¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm.¡± I lift the hem of his shirt. ¡°I feel this.¡± I kiss the dusting of hair above his waistband. ¡°I feel this, too.¡±


    His hands stray across the back of my neck.


    ¡°And this.¡± I rub my cheek on the growing hardness waiting for me. ¡°But you know what I really had to try firsthand to appreciate?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    I slip up his broad chest and whisper into his ear. ¡°Taste.¡± I slide back down to my seat between his thighs. ¡°You wanna see another trick?¡±


    His open, deep-breathing mouth curves up at the edges. ¡°Always.¡±


    Two of my tendrils slip the hair tie and cling to his waistband. They pop the button of his fly. ¡°Ta-daaa,¡± I singsong, as they tug his zipper down.


    Be right back, reader. I know I sometimes share these moments with you. But this one might be the last one.


    This one I¡¯m keeping for myself.


    We lie together after, tangled in one another and in Caspar¡¯s soft cotton sheets, and I decide it¡¯s not a big deal. And I won¡¯t cry or bring any great weight to it, to his body warm on mine and the way his palm rests on my heart. This isn¡¯t the last time. There will be no last time. This is eternity. I must keep believing that.


    I can¡¯t be distempered, because I know he is. One of us has to have our shit together.


    ¡°What Adaire said.¡± I rub his chin with a tendril and draw that agate gaze back to me. The ring of Irene-gold around his irises has grown. ¡°It¡¯s still disturbing you.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°I worry about where we¡¯d leave everything,¡± he says. ¡°Diamante. Pastornos. I don¡¯t know. Just knocking off the Suzerain, not bothering to put anything up in his wake. Feels off.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± I ask it softly, even though I¡¯ve already heard it.


    ¡°And I guess I¡¯m scared. Of how it¡¯ll be when they identify my body, of the way they¡¯ll talk about me and treat the people who knew me. And¡­¡± I watch the Adam¡¯s apple work under his skin. ¡°And I¡¯m scared of dying. Did it once already, and I didn¡¯t want to be scared, but I was. And even now, now that I know and love what¡¯s next. I¡¯m scared anyway.¡± The stubble of his close-cropped hair rasps on the pillowcase as he turns his head to me. ¡°Damn foolish of me, I know. But I¡¯m still hoping to find a way out.¡±


    ¡°What if¡­¡± I start it and can¡¯t finish it.


    His fingers interlace with mine. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°What if I asked you not to?¡± There¡¯s a lump in my throat.


    I hear the soft membranous sound of him blinking. ¡°Not to¡­¡±


    ¡°Not to find one.¡± I roll my chest onto his. I feel his heartbeat. ¡°To leave that place. To come to me.¡±


    ¡°To die?¡±


    ¡°Maybe we could get you out of there, to somewhere they wouldn¡¯t find you. And then the next time you fell asleep, we could just¡­¡± I feel a prickling behind my eyes. ¡°You could just not wake up. And I could keep you.¡±


    He gazes at me in contemplative silence.


    ¡°I¡¯m tired of saying goodbye every morning. I¡¯m tired of watching you get hurt and being unable to take care of you. To touch you. I¡¯m tired of sharing you with Diamante.¡± The tear I¡¯ve been keeping back escapes. ¡°I¡¯m trying so hard to be patient for you. But I see Bina and Jordan, and I want that. I want you to stay.¡±


    Something resolves behind his eyes. ¡°Okay. Yes.¡±


    My body tenses. ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he repeats. It settles like a stone in him, in that immobile resolve at his core. I would die for Irene is the load-bearing pillar of his existence. I would becomes I will. The fear goes away.


    And he kisses me, and I command time to stop, and it doesn¡¯t. I can slow it to a crawl, I can block it from my mind, I can fill it with sweet things and loving caresses. But I can¡¯t stop it. I can¡¯t stop the morning that¡¯s coming for us.


    ???????????


    I really wish that the dead people were not calling this whole shindig the End of the World party, but Caspar laughs when he finds out about it. I don¡¯t share your resilience, I guess, faced with peril. Something else to admire about humans. I hope I¡¯ll have the time to.


    The dance hall is ready. It¡¯s bright and loud and full of laughter and the scent of pine. I¡¯ve given them that jukebox they begged and pleaded for after extracting a promise that, should we survive, Sam will finally stop putting off learning drums in order to give poor Hollis someone to jam alongside.


    (I could study the bass, Kai thinks. Bass goes good with drums.)


    ¡°I remember shaking your hand like this before you went away to Tabarka.¡± Edgar solemnly clasps Caspar¡¯s hand. ¡°I thought I was proud of you then. I taught that boy right. I hope neither of us are being the same blind bastards we were back then.¡±


    ¡°Hope not, Ed.¡± Caspar squeezes his hand. ¡°Y¡¯know. If you really trace everything back, I mean if you really think about it, what you did was really the¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please.¡± Edgar ahems. ¡°Please do not try and make me feel good about it. There is only so virtuous virtue can be and stay on the right side of idiocy.¡±


    Caspar grins. ¡°I know. Just yanking your chain.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Tilliam says. ¡°Perhaps after we¡¯ve taken the key, and things are better, we could¡­ not start over. But start somewhere.¡±


    Rebecca gives him a sad smile. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Paul. I really don¡¯t. If it was down to this moment, I¡¯d tell you: not a chance, not in a million years. But if you manage it, we do have forever. So who knows?¡±


    Paul tries to hide the spark of hope that kicked off. ¡°All right. Well. I best be getting on. Saving the world has to improve my chances, right?¡±


    Rebecca titters. ¡°Didn¡¯t say that. Can¡¯t hold me to it.¡±


    ¡°I just don¡¯t get why you want to learn to shoot so bad, kid,¡± Jordan says. ¡°You got acid. You¡¯ve got the best acid out of all of us. You¡¯re a little assassin with that stuff.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the point,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°I don¡¯t think I wanna be a deer monster. I wanna be a person. And all the people I know use guns.¡±


    ¡°That, uh.¡± Jordan pinches the bridge of her nose. ¡°That¡¯s a uniquely troubling thing to hear a kid say.¡±


    Peat Moss blinks. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°Not your fault, Peaty.¡± Jordan crouches to his level. ¡°Look, you¡¯re already way more of a person than I was at your age. Even in deer years. And you¡¯ve had a tough go, your first couple weeks. You get through, me and Caspar will teach you how a life is actually supposed to be.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°More pastries,¡± she says. ¡°Fewer gunfights.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Peat Moss tilts his head up and gives her scratches access to his chin. ¡°That sounds nice.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s time, Mr. Moss.¡± Adaire waits where the light ends, in the lengthening dark at the celebration¡¯s edge. She¡¯s already collected Caspar and Tilliam.


    Jordan pats Peat¡¯s head and slaps Caspar¡¯s back and gives Paul an enjoyably (for her) mean stare. She walks with the warlocks to where the sisters await. ¡°Feels weird to be on this side of it,¡± she murmurs to me, as Peat and Adaire are awakened from the dream and disappear from the evening.


    ¡°You¡¯ll behave.¡± Bina towers over Paul Tilliam, her arms folded.


    ¡°Of course, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°And if you need to, you¡¯ll get shot and killed.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Maybe jump in front of Caspar,¡± she says. ¡°He¡¯s the most valuable player. Absorb some bullets for him.¡±


    ¡°Surely the armor would do that, ma¡¯am?¡±


    ¡°Look, mister. You¡¯re the one who wants redemption. I¡¯m just making suggestions.¡±


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t be crying. I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m crying.¡± I scoff at myself. ¡°I¡¯m being so ridiculous. We¡¯ve done this so many times now.¡±


    ¡°So many times,¡± Caspar agrees. ¡°But this is the last. No more goodbyes.¡±


    ¡°No more goodbyes.¡± One way or the other.


    He winks at me. ¡°Be right back, baby.¡±


    I laugh through my tears. I kiss him and he¡¯s gone.


    ???????????


    His Sacredness Armos Pastornos CDXXXI is having another one of those itchy days. Itchy on the inverse of the skull, which is tricky when you think it¡¯s on the outside and spend half an hour scratching your scalp. He blames the cold. It gets colder earlier every year. He¡¯s sure of it. Damn cold in the throne room, that¡¯s for certain. Drafty old basilica. They budget too much for gargoyles and cherubs and not enough for proper insulation. That¡¯s the Temple for you, though. In all its spleen and bravado to leave the flesh behind. All well and good when you¡¯re young. But he supposes the young take up their own yoke on the wagon.


    Take Arthur and Octavian here. Two good doughty boys for sure. He¡¯s not sure why they¡¯re here. A reason, surely, but not one he recalls at the moment. They ought to be enjoying one of the last nice days before the cold really starts in on Pastornos, and here they are in their great big suits. Glamorous things, for certain. They must get their picks of the ladies, if they could ever figure out how to get those shiny metal trousers off. Easy, now, Armos. Perennials 14:21. The joys of the flesh are joys espousal.


    ¡°We¡¯re here early, yes?¡± he asks Cardinal Wyreth. He adjusts the chain around his neck. Heavy old thing, the Key. All scraping metal edges and bubbled-up glass. But ceremony is unsparing.


    ¡°Yes, your Sacredness. It¡¯s ten o¡¯clock.¡±


    ¡°And the liturgy is at ten thirty. So we¡¯re here early.¡±


    ¡°As you say, your Sacredness.¡±


    ¡°Good. Good.¡± He leans into the Cardinal¡¯s atmosphere. ¡°Why are we here early?¡±


    ¡°Archbishop Tilliam, your Sacredness. He wishes to present a bishop in bellicus, to be made a full brother in cloth.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Of course. Well, we ought to get started, then.¡±


    ¡°We have, your Sacredness.¡± Wyreth subtly points.


    Armos squints. ¡°Ah.¡± He chuckles. ¡°So we have. Joyfully received, pilgrims. Kindly announce yourselves for an old fellow, hmm? The Father welcomes us gradually back into His kingdom, and for His own secret reasons, He was rather keen on a reunion with my eyesight.¡±


    ¡°Paul Tilliam, your Sacredness.¡± The fellow in black removes his cavalier hat and kneels. ¡°Archbishop of the Chamchek diocese. And my better half, Rebecca. We had the pleasure of attending your last Grand Covenant.¡±


    ¡°Ahh, Paul. My boy. With the joke about the cactus.¡±


    Tilliam smiles, he thinks. Faces are tough from all the way up on the throne. ¡°That¡¯s right, Sacredness.¡±


    ¡°How are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been vexed, your Sacredness; I¡¯ve had the kind of long night that lasts a few long nights. But I¡¯m happy to tell you the light¡¯s back on me.¡±


    ¡°And your wife¡ªRebecca, yes?¡± Even a memory as patchwork as his has room for Rebecca.


    Paul¡¯s wife smiles. ¡°Never better, your Sacredness. Never stronger. Oh¡ªand Paul forgot Petey. Say hi, Petey.¡±


    Petey barks. Armos Pastornos sits up a little and rests one varicose hand on his chest. His look of surprise melts into a smile. ¡°Well, hello there, brother Petey. Venturers 16:17. My visage might be seen even unto the fundamental beasts of nature, by those whose hearts reflect Me in all things.¡±


    ¡°Amen,¡± his guests chorus.


    ¡°It gives me so much pleasure, your Sacredness, to introduce my friend here.¡± Tilliam gestures. ¡°This is Bishop in bellicus Peter Darius. He¡¯s been instrumental in getting my feet back on the ground after my high-flying crisis.¡±


    Armos munches over this. Crisis, crisis. ¡°Crisis?¡±


    ¡°The hostage-taking, your Sacredness. I was trapped on my airship.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Ah, yes. I remember this now. I remember hearing about it. How frightful it must have been. And thank the Father you had a brother-in-the-light to help you through.¡±


    ¡°Yessir. And we were hoping you might see to granting him his official peacetime commission.¡±


    Armos¡¯s rheumy eyes settle on the Tilliams¡¯ bulky companion. ¡°You¡¯re a big fellow, eh?¡±


    ¡°The Father saw fit to bless me with a martial frame, Sacredness. To serve best where I was put.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s your name, my martial friend? Remind me?¡±


    ¡°Bishop Peter, Sacredness. Peter Darius.¡±


    ¡°Peter. A sturdy name. And so similar to the Tilliams¡¯ furry friend.¡± Armos Pastornos CDXXXI chuckles.


    The bishop joins him. ¡°Yes, Sacredness. They¡¯ve given me some good-natured ribbing about it on our way around.¡±


    ¡°Tell me, Bishop Peter, what worthy crusade granted you such a solemn commission.¡±


    ¡°The Tabarkan, your Sacredness.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡ªand which Tabarkan crusade, again?¡±


    ¡°The Third Tabarkan crusade, your Sacredness. The second was before my birth.¡±


    ¡°Ahh, of course. Of course. Before mine, almost.¡± He tuts at himself. ¡°Forgive an old man his little slips. As the years gather round you, their faces have a way of melding, like the brothers and sisters you meet along the way. You see the same ones again, sometimes. In the spirit if not the flesh.¡± Armos Pastornos leans forward, tightening his grip on the silver bulb of his cane. ¡°Let¡¯s have a look at you, then, Bishop Peter. Come a little closer.¡±


    Caspar stands.


    He takes one final encompassing glance around the throne room. He looks back at the half-dozen templar guards. He looks forward at the two hulking dominions flanking their frail leader. He wishes he weren¡¯t so scared. He wishes the windows were larger. He wishes they showed more of the sky he¡¯s leaving behind.


    Adaire¡¯s focus is steely behind her plastic smile. Tilliam¡¯s forehead shines with sweat. Peat Moss licks his chops.


    In Heaven, our prime forms assemble before the Kingdom gate. Its seven hundred and seventy-seven spokes extend miles into the filthy sky. Its grand lock has seven hundred and seventy-seven chains that span its horizon like a great rusted spider¡¯s web.


    A decade, at least, since I¡¯ve laid eyes on the gate. And then I had nothing but ambition. Now I have my sisters and I have Caspar, and I have hope.


    Bina hasn¡¯t blinked in minutes. Ganea stands silent as a pylon. Salome¡¯s pacing. Even Saoirse is paying attention, despite the grasshopper climbing across her nosebone. Jordan leans forward by my side. ¡°Come on, Cas. For all the marbles, motherfucker.¡±


    Caspar is halfway to the dais when he leaps. Adaire, Peat Moss, even poor Tilliam. They¡¯re all up as well. But my husband is close. Blessedly close. Close enough that it counts. His hand opens and snaps toward the key to the Kingdom in its place around the Suzerain¡¯s neck.


    His palm slams into black chitin.


    Armor is spreading across the Suzerain¡¯s chest. His yellowing smile widens as he stands. His cane is abandoned. His skeletal hands are as firm as steel where they seize Caspar¡¯s arm.


    His mind changes. Expands like a jet-black airbag. I¡¯m pushed from his skull. A block over him, suddenly. The block a sister can put over a warlock.


    ¡°Welcome to the end, Caspar Cartwright,¡± His Sacredness Armos Pastornos CDXXXI says.


    No.


    No, no, no.


    The chains snap.


    The spokes scream.


    The gate to the Kingdom opens.


    The world beyond it is full of teeth and hunger.


    Eight says:


    Sisters.

 39. A servant

    Caspar has a one-word reply to Eight¡¯s chiefest warlock. Its echo thunders across the basilica floor, guttering the candles, clattering the burnished relics against the walls, bursting the massive tempered glass windows into a jagged multicolored hailstorm.


    He goes rocketing from the Suzerain¡¯s grip as the old man slams backward into his throne, denting its brass backing and reducing the joined wood of its body to splinters. The unfortunate cardinal by the Suzerain¡¯s shoulder, whose stricken look made it clear he didn¡¯t realize his master¡¯s allegiances, is hurled from the throne platform and dashed against the far wall.


    The dominion guns flare to life, but even in their insulated armor, and even with their warlock healing factors, the guards have been knocked loopy by Caspar¡¯s evocation. The roaring autocannons go wide, tearing rents in the polished masonry.


    Caspar sprints for one of the massive columns that dot the room. Adaire follows, dragging a blinking and bewildered Tilliam. The goo responsible for his balance is flowing out of his ears. A templar with a submachine gun, likewise destabilized, steps from behind the pillar and fires a wild burst toward them. She¡¯s gone through half the magazine when a Peat Moss acid glob catches her full in the face. By the time Caspar¡¯s reached her, her brains are sliding out of her nasal cavity. He seizes the gun from her twitching hands and empties its remaining bullets toward their attackers as he slides into cover.


    His three companions pile in after him. Adaire rapidly shakes her wigged head. ¡°What in the Sisters¡¯ name was that?¡±


    Caspar finds the extra magazines on the templar¡¯s corpse and slots one in. ¡°My last trick.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Cartwright,¡± the Suzerain calls. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine this was how you visualized your first meeting with me. I¡¯m sure there were many sweeter versions in your head over the years. Why don¡¯t you come out, and let¡¯s talk. Let¡¯s see if we can¡¯t find a different tenor.¡±


    ¡°Hear you fine from here, milord.¡±


    ¡°Really? Even over the¡ª¡±


    His final word is cut off by another buzz-saw choir from the dominions at his side.


    ¡°That¡¯s brother Arthur and brother Octavian,¡± the Suzerain says, once the ringing¡¯s settled. ¡°Thank you, brothers. And the gentlewoman you killed in the initial exchange of fire, in case you¡¯re wondering, was sister Velouria.¡±


    I see the star of sister Velouria¡¯s soul disappear into Eight¡¯s maw. That wasn¡¯t a warlock¡¯s soul she just claimed. The Suzerain is telling the truth. I''m not strong enough to pull Caspar in if he goes.


    The great pillars of bone and sinew and masonry close toward us like the fingers of a tectonic-plate sized hand. The ground itself rises in spinning chunks of shrapnel stone and floating, twitching flesh.


    Her warlock has the Key. Heaven is hers. I thought the hunger had maddened her; I never imagined she could bide her time so thoroughly. But she played us. The whole time we were ambling into her trap. If we¡¯d known, if she¡¯d given us cause to suspect, we could have scattered; we could have fled into the void, like Alexandra. But now we¡¯re all here for the harvesting, and our warlocks are being dangled over the abyss, and we¡¯re going to lose.


    Ganea¡ªwondrous, strong Ganea¡ªcharges. Even with her massive, panzer-plated form, she¡¯s a third of Eight¡¯s size at most. She catches Eight¡¯s prime form as it begins to emerge from the gate and digs her dewclawed heels into the ravaged earth before it.


    But that 150 second calculation she made never included the Key¡¯s power. She¡¯s not just keeping Eight at bay, she¡¯s keeping the whole fucking Gate. It¡¯s uprooting, peeling out, sharpening into spear points that harpoon into Ganea¡¯s back.


    Eight¡¯s war-forms cascade out from the newly hewn openings. Great gibbering abyssopelagic beasts, some nearly my size. My body is still healing. I¡¯m nowhere near strong enough to do a goddamn thing about them. Still, I add my paltry war forms to my sisters¡¯ armies as they meet the ocean of teeth.


    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful here.¡±


    I turn. Milinoe¡¯s black dress trails across the meadow. Curled, dead leaves stray in its train.


    ¡°Irene.¡± She spreads all six of her arms out for a hug. ¡°Hi.¡±


    I stand stock-still, staring at her. ¡°Alexandra said you were around. I only halfway believed her.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± A soft laugh. ¡°It¡¯s true. Eight can¡¯t bring herself to manifest something this¡ªpetite. Or to speak this limited language. So she¡¯s let me out to do it for her. I¡¯m here to say sorry to you. And because I don¡¯t want you to be afraid. It¡¯s gonna be all right. You won¡¯t disappear. Eight doesn¡¯t want that. She wants her sisters back. Just¡­ like this. Like me.¡±


    ¡°What are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m everything you see here, and nothing else.¡± She does a little turn. The tuille of her dress rustles. ¡°Like a human, sort of. Like Caspar. It hurts at first¡ªlike the dickens¡ªbut once most of you has burned away, it¡¯s¡­¡± She smiles. ¡°It¡¯s kind of nice. It¡¯s quieter. Less going on all the time. You said you admired their simplicity. She heard all that, y¡¯know. Perks of Godhood.¡±


    ¡°Milinoe¡ªthat can¡¯t last. You know it can¡¯t. Not forever.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± she says. ¡°This last part of me will be ready, eventually. To merge with her. Just like the first time. Maybe this is what¡¯s supposed to happen, Irene. Maybe a re-conglomeration like this is what¡¯s next.¡±


    ¡°There is no next, Milly. We¡¯re supposed to be eternal.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± She shrugs. ¡°Then prove it.¡±


    ¡°She holds the Key, Caspar.¡± The Suzerain¡¯s in televised sermon mode, chummy and smiling. ¡°My mistress. Your enemy. She¡¯s tearing yours apart. If you die here and now, without surrender, you won¡¯t go to your goddess. No, sir. The Key¡¯s mine. My mistress is God. That¡¯s with a capital G, son. You¡¯ll go to her. And she, well.¡± He chuckles. ¡°She¡¯s hungry.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s eating you, too,¡± Caspar calls. ¡°Hope you people knew that when you signed your names. The Father¡¯s dead. You go, you¡¯re gone.¡±


    ¡°The Father is dead. Yes.¡± He tries to track the Suzerain by sound, but the hall is too echoing. ¡°And we must remake Him. This is the deal I have struck with the being you call Eight. The greatest test we will face. When you learned of the Father¡¯s death, your faith broke. Mine is not so fragile.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s mad,¡± Adaire breathes. ¡°He¡¯s mad.¡±


    ¡°We must bring Him forth, Mr. Cartwright.¡± The Suzerain¡¯s voice is smooth, musical, almost. ¡°From our souls. But our souls are not their souls. The deviant, the invader. The Tabarkan, the blasphemer, the sorcerer. The blueprint is already in place. We know His precepts. We will apply them to humanity, past and present and future, and we will cull the sicknesses from His heart. The foreign hordes will bend the knee, and their souls will be saved. Or they won¡¯t. Ah, well.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s using you,¡± Caspar calls. ¡°She won¡¯t let anyone go.¡±


    ¡°She will.¡± The Suzerain corrects him like a patient schoolteacher. ¡°I¡¯m under no illusion that it will be most of us. Even half of us. Once we¡¯ve found our true adherents, we might even number in the paltry thousands. But it¡¯s all for the good. Like the Hirudo Leech. She¡¯ll suck the bad blood away from the Sacred Body. We will update the Temple. We will make it all true. And when we have harrowed Heaven, and removed the chaff, we will have the golden substrate.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°There¡¯ll be no one left for your new God to rule.¡±


    ¡°Not on Diamante, perhaps. But the void is full of souls. Souls He¡ªsouls We¡ªcould shepherd into the light. Think of the God at whose feet you grew, Caspar. The fine man you became. Think of the glory we could bring forth.¡±


    ¡°What about the sisters? What about Irene?¡±


    (As he asks it, I¡¯m wrapped in Saoirse¡¯s coils. Her prime form is shielding mine from the worst of it.)


    ¡°Right. Your ¡®wife.¡¯¡± He chuckles. ¡°Her greater being would give succor to my mistress, yes. Would merge and be absorbed. But the Sisters needn¡¯t die, Mr. Cartwright. Not really. This is the mercy we offer. The mercy they never offered our God. Eight would let some small piece of her family remain. A manifestation each. To be together once again, and free. Free to be with you, Caspar. In the Kingdom.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a goddamn lie,¡± Caspar calls.


    ¡°No sir, Mr. Cartwright. No lie. There will be many lost. Many who don¡¯t believe, or don¡¯t believe hard enough, or who only pretend to. But that was never you. You had the love in you. It was real. There¡¯s a place for you, and for her, if you can teach her piety. A manifestation given free rein to be with you. To walk Heaven¡¯s ways. I¡¯d even officiate the ceremony myself. Truly. So that you can be an actual husband, an actual wife. A pure and good love in His eyes. Those who have strayed may return to the fold, Caspar. You loved the Father. You can love Him again. And provided you live by His precepts, you can have it all back. Your friends, your community. The Kingdom you were promised with Mrs. Cartwright. You can have her, too. No longer her servant, but her keeper.¡± He chuckles. ¡°Her equal, even, if you like. I know how progressive the kids can be. That¡¯s fine. Up to you.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all some horseshit,¡± Milinoe murmurs to me. ¡°No way is Eight gonna let some cult make you a sister-wife. You and Cas can live in her, with me. With everyone. I¡¯m sure she¡¯d be willing to manifest a place like this for you. It¡¯s lovely here.¡±


    ¡°Milly. Stop.¡± I hold my hand up. ¡°Go, please. Leave.¡±


    She looks like she wants to step in and embrace me. But she hangs back, wringing her hands. ¡°Okay. I have some other sisters to visit, anyway.¡± She gives me a sad smile. ¡°I guess we¡¯ll see each other again soon, Irene. One way or another. It would have been lovely, if you¡¯d managed to save me.¡±


    She melts into a puddle of iridescent oil. It hisses as it evaporates.


    Caspar passes the gun to Adaire, who touches it like it¡¯s boiling hot.


    The Suzerain tries again. ¡°Why don¡¯t you come out from behind there, son?¡±


    Caspar makes eye contact with Adaire. She mouths don¡¯t.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you come out, and let¡¯s talk. You abhor the killing. I know you do. It was all duty for you. Service. You¡¯re a born servant. Simple and strong. Serve your mistress best, Caspar. Mine is confronting her at the gates to the Kingdom, as we speak. Both of you, in two fights you cannot win. Your heathen, your beast, your traitor. Stand and speak with me, and I¡¯ll spare them. They¡¯ll get the chance to find their redemption and save their souls from oblivion.¡±


    Ganea¡¯s run out of limbs. Her jaws close around Eight and she holds fast as great waterfalls of her blood seep into the ruins, but she can¡¯t keep my sister immobilized any longer. Eight¡¯s prime form ripples sinuously as it squeezes the rest of the way out of the Kingdom gate. She joins the flood of her war forms.


    Caspar steps out from the ravaged pillar.


    The Suzerain¡¯s smile is wide and genuine as my warlock approaches him. ¡°There, now,¡± he says. ¡°I know we¡¯re¡ª¡±


    Caspar punches His Sacredness Armos Pastornos CDXXXI in the face. He staggers back and Caspar follows. The dominions¡¯ guns swing his way, but he¡¯s cinched the Suzerain against him in the crook of his elbow.


    ¡°You son of a bitch!¡± Caspar pulls back and hammers another fist against him. ¡°My life was for you! My whole life!¡±


    He sweeps the Suzerain onto his back. His claws shunt out and he tears and grapples like a rabid animal at the cuirass that covers the Key.


    The cataclysmic dome of flesh and stone is closing above us. Saoirse¡¯s been pulled off of me by a thicket of suspension-bridge chains. She thrashes against them, corroding them to rusty dust, but with every second, more hiss outward from yawning windows and broken doors. I¡¯m busy trying to fight off twenty mutant war-forms and a crumbling statue the Key brought to life. I only learn later what Eight does next. Two dozen warlocks die simultaneously across the surface of Diamante, blooming out like corpse flowers. The only servants she has left are in the throne room.


    All the power she¡¯s brought to yield on your planet¡ªall the power of those dead warlocks, whose souls she digests in a heartbeat, and all their fellows¡ªsinks into the Suzerain. His armor thickens and slides across his body until he¡¯s as encased as a statue. His roar is so charged with vicious eldritch might that it barely sounds human. It resolves itself into a word.


    I taught my warlock a syllable. Eight taught hers two:


    Submit.


    The explosion of eldritch energy breaks most of the bones in Caspar¡¯s body.


    Every single non-warlock in the room is killed instantly. The templars land in piles of twisted limbs. Poor Cardinal Wyreth is reduced to claggy pulp. The dominions¡¯ shells and their warlock strength saves them, but only just¡ªblood seeps from the joints in their armor.


    The Suzerain¡¯s arm cracks and crackles as it reforms enough for him to lean on it. The bones in his legs fuse and the tendons lash to them. It¡¯s all so fast. So horrifically fast. Caspar¡¯s ribs are still in pieces as the Suzerain rises to his feet.


    He approaches Caspar.


    In Heaven, Eight has reached Salome; one of her largest mouths is trying to swallow her whole. My sister sparks and twists, digging extruded spikes into the roof of Eight¡¯s mouth, desperate to stay out of her gullet. Before I can stop her, Bina¡¯s dived into the maw, lashing her tendrils to Eight¡¯s teeth, straining along with Salome against the deep-sea-trench pressure of Eight¡¯s jaws.


    They¡¯re losing. It¡¯s winching shut.


    The Suzerain lifts Caspar¡¯s broken body and strides to his ruined, twisted throne.


    ¡°How about I send¡ª¡± He slams Caspar, neck first, into its metal backing. ¡°Your sorry ass¡ª¡± Another smash. The throne deforms further. ¡°To your heathen Goddess¡ª¡± Smash. ¡°And you can take her order.¡± Smash smash smash.


    He drops Caspar in a broken heap onto the remnants of the seat. My husband bleeds and coughs and blacks out.


    His eyes open. He¡¯s in my arms, cradled at the burnt-orange edge of my forest. The sun has gone out¡ªI can¡¯t maintain it. Night has come to Autumn.


    I kiss him with weeping desperation. ¡°Caspar. Caspar. Oh thank you thank you.¡± I don¡¯t even know who I¡¯m thanking. ¡°You¡¯re here. Stay here. You can¡¯t go back there. He¡¯s telling the truth. If you die, you¡¯re gone.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t surrender, baby,¡± he says.


    ¡°I know we can¡¯t. I¡¯d never do that. But we can¡ª¡± I cradle him. ¡°We can run, Cas. We can get out. I could merge you into me, like Jordan and Bina, and we could find a place. We could get away.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d come for us.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d run again.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t leave them. All the people we¡¯d abandon.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°Send me back, lover.¡±


    No, I can¡¯t. I won¡¯t. I can run with him, away from this dimension. I can leave you to Eight and her servant, and take my sisters and escape, and take Caspar with me.


    But even as I weep and shake my head, I know he¡¯s going back. If I stole Caspar away, I wouldn¡¯t be the woman he loves. And if Caspar wanted to run, he wouldn¡¯t be the man I love.


    And you, reader.


    I love you. Not in the same way I love Caspar, but these aren¡¯t just words. Your virtues, your flaws, your dreams, your potential, your light. I can¡¯t just let it all disappear. If we fail, if we¡¯re devoured and there¡¯s nothing left of me but some strange, broken piece inside of my apocalyptic sister, and nothing left of you but some lobotomized handful of cult-souls, I pray those pieces will remember one another, somehow, and love that memory, and mourn for what could have been.


    ¡°I¡¯m right in front of him,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m where I need to be. And I got to see you.¡±


    ¡°I was supposed to have you forever,¡± I whisper.


    He closes his hands around the side of my face. ¡°You have me right now,¡± he says.


    I kiss him, and Eight¡¯s teeth scythe into my side, and I kiss him, and the war forms are dying in droves now, their bodies littering Heaven or disappearing down Eight¡¯s gullet, and I kiss him and if I don¡¯t stop it will be too late. It¡¯s already too late. It¡¯s all too late.


    I awaken my husband and doom him. He disappears.


    I scream in rage and sorrow and fear.


    Caspar¡¯s eyes open again, to ruin. The throne room is cracked and disintegrating under its second and third syllables of the void tongue. Back in his Diamante body, slumped on the remnants of the throne in a joint state of wreckage. Bones protrude from the skin of his limbs. His breath rattles and bubbles.


    The Suzerain stands before him, in chitin as massive and monstrous as the dominions that flank him.


    ¡°Welcome back to the land of the living.¡± He smiles. ¡°Welcome to your second chance.¡±


    ¡°I.¡± Caspar tries to sit up. His legs don¡¯t work anymore. ¡°I am a servant. You¡¯re right.¡±


    The Suzerain nods. ¡°And what says your mistress?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a servant.¡± Caspar inhales all the air his punctured lungs will allow him. ¡°You don¡¯t know what that means. You can¡¯t do what servants do.¡±


    The Suzerain¡¯s wrinkled brow lowers. ¡°What are you talking about, Mr. Cartwright? Is it a yes or a no?¡±


    ¡°Hail Irene.¡± Caspar says my name, for the final time.


    ¡°No.¡± Armos looks into my husband¡¯s steel-girded stare and realizes what he¡¯s about to do. ¡°No!¡± He lunges forward. ¡°Shoot him! Kill him!¡±


    My entire manifold wails his name. Reality ripples.


    I was supposed to have him forever.


    Caspar¡¯s eyes close. ¡°Hail the Old Ones.¡±


    My mark flares on his heart. The seal breaks. The careworn flesh gives way.


    Caspar Cartwright opens.


    I step through.

 40. Caspar

    My love is gone.


    I will kill you all. I will spare none of this rotten world. For all the hurt you dealt my husband. For bringing him to me and taking him away. I will not stop until this civilization is scoured clean.


    The first dominion I pluck apart, limb by limb, until he¡¯s a screaming, exsanguinating trunk. One clawed foot lands on the thrashing tin-can torso and crumples it flat. Tracer fire from the second blasts chunks of black flesh from my hide. I barely feel it. I barely feel anything. The tentacles burst from the floors, the walls, his eyes, his mouth, and he tears and pops and bursts and is gone, is a quivering inverted soup for the heartbeat it takes him to expire.


    I rage. I break. I stain the Father¡¯s house with the steaming effluvia of his children. It intermingles with the scraps of my warlock. The useless pieces of what used to be my husband.


    In Heaven, Eight has barely slowed down. Her control over the dimension has slipped from her, but the goliaths and beasts of her horde are still enough to finish us on their own. My more analytical shoals flood as much urgency as they can into the mainframe¡ªI have to get back to the fight. But it¡¯s all stopped up. It¡¯s finished now. I¡¯m immobilized with grief.


    I don¡¯t even know the noises my Irene Cartwright manifestation is making where she¡¯s curled on the grass. Gut-wrenched and throat-cracked and full of wound.


    I was supposed to have him forever.


    ¡°I caught him!¡± Salome is sprinting across the grass. ¡°Irene. I caught him.¡±


    ¡°What.¡± I rise to my knees. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in Eight¡¯s mouth and I¡¯m stretched out trying to hold on to her teeth and he was going in and he went past me and¡ª¡± She gulps a breath. ¡°I caught him. I had to harpoon him, but I caught him.¡±


    ¡°Who.¡±


    ¡°Who the fuck do you think, girl? Look.¡±


    All but one of Salome¡¯s spikes have hooked into Eight¡¯s maw. The last one is dangling further into her depth.


    A flickering soul clings to it, like a dying star.


    ¡°I¡¯m holding on and so is he,¡± Salome says. ¡°But I don¡¯t know how he hasn¡¯t been digested yet, and she¡¯s pulling so hard.¡±


    I have five seconds left on Diamante. Caspar might have even less.


    ¡°The Key, Irene,¡± Salome says. ¡°We need the fucking Key.¡±


    Somewhere in the massacre, I killed Armos Pastornos. I don¡¯t even remember how. When the last Pastornist stops moving, I take one of my priceless seconds to realize. I only recognize him because of the Key hanging around the twisted gristle of his neck. A claw severs it from his remains.


    I flicker in a cloud of blood and sinuous tentacles to the pillar behind which Caspar¡¯s friends hide.


    Tilliam falls, babbling and weeping, to his knees. Peat Moss stares with fearful awe at my handiwork. Adaire stands unsteadily.


    ¡°Lady Irene.¡± She manages a bow.


    My gory fist slaps into her trembling hand and opens.


    The Key, smeared and sticky with the blood of its last holder.


    Adaire¡¯s eyes go wide. What color there is on her pale face drains. ¡°I hear her,¡± she whispers. ¡°My God. I hear¡ª¡±


    Like a bungee cord pulling taut, I ricochet out of reality.


    A clear, high tone, a perfect buzzing sine wave frequency, emerges from Salome¡¯s prime form.


    Heaven is hers.


    Her quicksilver exterior shivers. The gate spikes, the great blocks of cyclopean masonry, the broken pillars and pedestals. They spring forth and slam into our eldest sister. A tower block wedges into the maw constricting around Bina and Salome and scissor it open. Bina and Salome tumble from their toothy confinement.


    Caspar Cartwright¡ªor what¡¯s left of him¡ªis catapulted from Eight¡¯s gullet. He goes arcing across Heaven¡¯s wreck and lands on its dusty surface. Another precious second of maddening exposure before I reach him and pull him desperately into my prime form.


    I ignore the war forms that break from Eight¡¯s horde and set upon me, swiping and gnawing. Only in retrospect am I grateful to Salome, as a dome of rubble and lumber spars builds itself around me, keeping my fragile body from being ripped asunder. For all my vast and manifold mind, I can¡¯t think of anything else. Anything but Caspar.


    I drop him into Autumn, into my Irene Cartwright manifestation¡¯s shuddering arms. He¡¯s been exposed to the twin shocks of Eight¡¯s hunger and Heaven¡¯s madness for nearly a full minute. A broad shock of silver has slashed through his dark hair like a lightning bolt. His face is crusted with dried blood from his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his ears. He¡¯s red and raw, like he¡¯s been scoured by steel wool.


    How much of him is left? Is he even Caspar any longer? How long will it take to repair him, if I can repair him?


    ¡°No no no no.¡± I cradle him. His eyes are wide and unfocused and leached of their color. The hazel is gone, replaced by a clouded slate. The ring of gold at the edge is tarnished and bloodshot. His hands have closed so tight his nails have cut bloody half-moons into his palm. I open one fist¡ªits fingers part lifelessly¡ªand lay my hand atop his. ¡°Cas. You¡¯re here, baby. You¡¯re here with me.¡±


    ¡°Caspar. Oh, shit.¡± Bina¡¯s manifestation is the first to reach us. She crouches by us. ¡°Is he gonna be okay?¡±


    ¡°Oh, my dear.¡± Saoirse peers over my shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m so very sorry.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how much of him Eight took,¡± Salome says. ¡°I don¡¯t know what he remembers. Whether there¡¯s anything left in there.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s still in there.¡± I caress his chest. ¡°I¡¯ll fix him. I¡¯ll get him out. You hear that, Caspar? You¡¯re not off the hook, mister. I own your eternity, remember? I¡¯m gonna collect. We¡¯re gonna live together in your little apartment and you¡¯re gonna take me to my first barn raising and we¡¯ll have a river out back and we¡¯ll have more of Salome¡¯s weird cake¡ª¡±


    He twitches. ¡°Ch.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± My eyes widen. I frantically put my ear-spiracle to his vacant mouth. ¡°What did you say, lover?¡±


    ¡°Chicken parm,¡± he says.


    I scream and weep and rock back and forth with his head laying in my lap. ¡°You¡¯re okay,¡± I sob. ¡°You¡¯re okay, you¡¯re okay.¡±


    ¡°Holy crap.¡± Bina crouches next to us on the grass. ¡°It took me weeks to get anything close to a word out of Mr. Darius.¡±


    Caspar¡¯s voice is like a creaking hinge on an opening door. ¡°I¡¯m good. Just uh.¡± His breath whistles in through his nostrils. ¡°Chicken parm and. And some rooibos.¡±


    Ganea stares uncomprehendingly. ¡°How did it not scour your sanity? How did your soul withstand it?¡±


    Caspar¡¯s cracked lips close and reopen as he tries to gather enough moisture into his mouth to speak again.


    ¡°Faith,¡± he says.


    The Key isn¡¯t in Eight¡¯s possession any longer, but the countless souls she devoured, and the pieces of Milinoe and of Ganea she ate, still empower her. Even with Heaven itself arrayed against her, the eldest Sister of the Void is still a horrifying and mighty power; her war-forms still flood from the Kingdom gate, still seek to tear us apart.


    She is still hungry. She is hungrier than any being has ever been. Ganea¡¯s trunk thrashes with rage as Eight¡¯s horde flenses her. Saoirse¡¯s destroyed so many that she¡¯s awash in a veritable ocean of rot and decay, but more keep coming, scoring weeping wounds in her with the seconds they have before they erupt with florid tumors and melt into the morass.


    I wish I could say it was my plan, what happens next, but I¡¯m too busy crying and shaking Caspar¡¯s shoulders to think straight. This one¡¯s all Bina, who babbles it to Salome while, in Heaven, her arm¡¯s being pried off. Any credit I can take is from my vociferous support for it and my efforts in convincing Salome, who really doesn¡¯t like it.


    But it¡¯s her warlock with the Key, and the shifting face.


    Twoscore templars breach the Suzerain¡¯s throne room. A dozen laser-sighted autoguns dance their dots across a scene of carnage.


    The Suzerain is stooped in the middle of a splatter-painting in shades of red, leaning on his cane.


    ¡°Out,¡± he says. ¡°Get out and guard the door.¡±


    ¡°Your Sacredness¡ª¡±


    ¡°Out,¡± he screams. ¡°Prepare my address. Five minutes.¡±


    The templars behold the gore. They behold Paul Tilliam, face pallid, curled by a column and holding his ears. They behold a fawn, stooped by a body turned into foul ribbons by some catastrophic trauma, crying its eyes out with the voice of a child.


    ¡°Sacredness, are you¡ª¡± A templar takes a shaky step past a smear of gray matter. ¡°Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°Your Suzerain adjures you.¡± Armos Pastornos CDXXXI holds his Key aloft. ¡°Leave. All will be divulged. Prepare my fucking address.¡±


    The moment the Templars are out, Adaire sheds her frailty and hurries to where Peat curls before the remnants of his surrogate father. ¡°Peat.¡±


    ¡°He was gonna teach me to whittle,¡± Peat sobs.


    She squeezes him. ¡°Peat, he¡¯s all right. I hear Salome. It¡¯s the Key. Caspar¡¯s safe.¡±


    Peat draws in a sharp breath. ¡°What? What? How?¡±


    Adaire steps past the bewildered little fawn and gives Tilliam a nudge with her toe. She gestures to her own ears and mouths Evoke.


    ¡°What?¡± Tilliam bellows.


    ¡°Evoke, Tilly. Fix your ears, dammit. I need you.¡± Adaire tries her best to straighten the crumpled brim of the Suzerain¡¯s cap. ¡°We have a television debut to make.¡±


    You¡¯ll remember, later, where you were when Armos Pastornos delivered the final Suzerain¡¯s liturgy. Most people who are alive at the time do.


    Maybe you¡¯re in the daily crowd outside the balcony, cheering when the golden banner was draped from basilica and the distant figure appeared on the balustrade. Or maybe your radio is playing it, or the loudspeaker atop your village¡¯s temple. Maybe you see it on television, where (if you have a colored set) you realize, before anyone else, that something is different about this one.


    First:


    Armos Pastornos CDXXXI is early. He¡¯s barely ever early. Often he¡¯s late.


    Second:


    Archbishop Paul Tilliam of Chamchek is sharing the platform with the Suzerain. It¡¯s likely you recognize him, if you¡¯re well-informed.


    It¡¯s possible you know there have been perhaps a dozen liturgies where a Suzerain has shared the platform. And those have been great heroes, or tyrants, or the authors of pivotal moments in Pastornist history. Paul¡¯s all three.


    Third:


    Hundreds of Suzerains have preached hundreds of thousands of liturgies across the history of Pastornism. Nobody¡¯s ever delivered one covered¡ªcovered¡ªin blood.


    The Suzerain¡¯s robe, more red now than white. The blood dripping from the key around his neck.


    ¡°Brothers. Sisters. Children of the Father. I bring glad tidings. Tidings of change. I bring you word of a new era. For you, your friends, your neighbors. For the world.


    ¡°I bring you word the Father is dead.¡±


    Silence in the crowd.


    Every station that wasn¡¯t playing the liturgy now is.


    ¡°He is dead.¡± The Suzerain¡¯s arms rise. ¡°Paul?¡±


    ¡°That¡ªuh¡ªthat¡¯s right, folks.¡± Tilliam¡¯s television grin has never been quite this sickly, but the man is a professional. ¡°Seen it myself. Dead and gone.¡±


    ¡°Be full of joy. Know that you have a new God. A Goddess. A Goddess who is listening, even now, to your prayers and vexation. A Goddess to whom you all must pray, starting now. Right now. A Goddess whose name you already know.¡±


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    His smile gleams through the crimson mask on his face.


    ¡°A Goddess whose name you can count to on your fingers.¡±


    My prime form speaks the black tongue, then, to my eldest sister. A sentence of rage and its abatement, of enmity and charity, of contempt and compassion. A sentence encompassing all she and I were and are, and all I wish we will be again.


    Let me humanize it for you:


    It¡¯s all for you, Eight.


    The mindless hunger was the coal firing Eight¡¯s engine. The terrible need for more. Billions of you are too stunned or confused or horrified to let a prayer to her pass your lips. But millions of you, at least, obey your Suzerain. The sudden warmth of worship, that craving light, flows through you and into her.


    She falters. She shrinks back. Her war-forms are stilled. I like to think that, maybe, she¡¯d have spoken to us, then, given up on her own terms.


    Sorry, Eight. Jordan Darius taught me about the risks you take on when you leave things to chance and compassion.


    We spring upon her, my sisters and I. Heaven turns against her. We rip her open and unspool her entrails across the kingdom we¡¯ve taken from her. We rend and smash and amputate until we know beyond doubt she can¡¯t hurt us.


    Now, then. Do me a favor, reader, and pray to your maimed Goddess. Sate her, if you can. She¡¯ll need your faith if she¡¯s going to recover from the mythic asskicking her pissed-off family has just dealt her.


    We collapse, all of us, in the massacre we¡¯ve made. Broken open, spilled and smeared across miles. The Sisters of the Void bleed together.


    Our lesser manifestations gather atop my autumnal hill.


    ¡°The Key is mine.¡± There¡¯s a scabbard-sound scrape as Salome crosses her arms. ¡°I believe it¡¯s time to reopen negotiations on the future of Heaven.¡±


    The bottom drops from my stomach. ¡°Sal¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m kidding.¡±


    Bina lets out a pinched sigh. ¡°Salome, come on.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± Ganea says.


    ¡°I¡¯m kidding! It¡¯s a joke!¡± Salome throws her hands in the air. ¡°Are gods not allowed to joke?¡±


    ???????????


    My husband¡¯s eyes have turned gold.


    The hazel never came back. The rings around the edges just leached in to fill the irises. ¡°I hope you don¡¯t miss it too much,¡± he says, when I bring it up to him. ¡°Maybe there¡¯s a way to get it back.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s dope,¡± Jordan says. ¡°Like a cat-man.¡±


    ¡°You have a fetish for anthropomorphic animals,¡± Ganea says.


    ¡°What the hell?¡± Jordan gesticulates with her beer, which suds over. ¡°Defend me, giant wolf girlfriend.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna fight you, Ganea,¡± Bina says.


    ¡°My prime form has no arms or legs,¡± Ganea says.


    ¡°They are lovely, Mr. Cartwright. No matter the color.¡± I kick my other heel off the rest of the way as my legs dangle from his lap. ¡°My only reservation is that people might think we¡¯re related.¡±


    His tawny hand nests under my inky claw. ¡°Always a risk, Mrs. Cartwright.¡±


    ¡°The hair is quite dashing, though.¡±


    He scratches his new silver stripe. ¡°I was thinking maybe dye it.¡±


    ¡°No way, Mr. Cartwright. You look like a sexy skunk.¡± I lay my forehead against his. ¡°And I want it there to remember the sacrifice. What you did for all of us.¡±


    His lips start to close around mine. I flick his ear.


    ¡°Augh.¡± He pulls back and cups it. ¡°Baby.¡±


    ¡°And I want it there to remember to yell at you,¡± I say, ¡°for scaring the shit out of me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± He cups my waist and pulls me further into his lap. ¡°But I got a long time to make it up to you.¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm.¡± I trace his jaw up to his chin with a claw, and tug him back into that interrupted kiss.


    ¡°Get a rooooom.¡± This from Jordan, who¡¯s seated next to us at the bonfire drinking a stout. She¡¯s wearing a shorter, racier version of the maroon dress she had on at Tilliam¡¯s soiree. The dancing flames, and their twins dotting the night, illuminate the banner that the citizens of Little Paradise never bothered to take down from the End of the World party. Someone just painted CANCELED across it.


    I flick my wrist and a brick wall shoves up from the ground between us and her.


    Jordan gasps. ¡°You got dirt in my beer.¡±


    ¡°It chafes me that Eight is getting so much of the worship,¡± Salome says. ¡°I¡¯m God, you know.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all gods. We¡¯re a pantheon.¡± I bubble more wine into her glass. ¡°As the religion settles itself, it¡¯ll spread out. We¡¯ll naturally wean her off, I hope. But it looks like she¡¯s going to be the head of the pantheon. Publically, anyway.¡±


    ¡°That is so unfair.¡± Salome blows a tinkling raspberry.


    ¡°Maybe you can be Goddess of Justice or something,¡± I say.


    ¡°You¡¯re joking,¡± Salome says. ¡°But I¡¯m honestly considering it.¡±


    ¡°I would be honored to be warlock of the Goddess of Justice, mistress.¡± Adaire has brought a small doggy bag full of charcuterie and shrimp. She is not touching the hot dogs.


    Caspar leans past my wall. I zip it back into the ground for him. ¡°How¡¯s it going on Diamante, Adaire?¡±


    Adaire nibbles some summer sausage. ¡°Everything¡¯s on fire, naturally. As I told you, it would be.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t help but notice, though,¡± he says. ¡°You¡¯re out here acting like the suzerain. Trying to put it out.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t read too far into it, Mr. Cartwright,¡± Adaire says. ¡°I¡¯m still an agent of destruction. But, oh. I don¡¯t know. I suppose you moved me. Enough to see what I can get finished.¡±


    ¡°Everyone has their warlock to have and to hold,¡± Salome mutters. ¡°And mine is still frolicking around half the time, playing realpolitik. I blame Caspar.¡±


    Caspar takes a sheepish sip of his beer.


    ¡°You¡¯re strictly an employer of hers, Salami,¡± I say.


    ¡°Well, yes. Of course. But now you have your little toys around all the time and I¡¯m sitting here doing the crossword.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not toys, Sal,¡± Bina says. ¡°Don¡¯t be gross. Caspar is Irene¡¯s husband.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m down to be a little toy.¡± Jordan sips her Jungle Bird.


    Bina flushes furiously.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Mistress.¡± Adaire tastes another coconut shrimp. ¡°With the reforms I intend to tout, I daresay I¡¯ll only have a few weeks before someone assassinates me. I shall destroy the Key on my way out.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯ll have power over Heaven, then?¡± Caspar asks.


    ¡°Nobody,¡± Salome says. ¡°So: everybody.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still calling myself a God.¡± Bina takes a bite of Jordan¡¯s hot dog. ¡°I wanna be Goddess of the Hunt.¡±


    ¡°Babe.¡± Jordan scoots another chicken wing into her muzzle. ¡°Have you ever been hunting?¡±


    ¡°Uh-uh.¡± Bina bites down; her canines crack the wing¡¯s bone. She swallows. ¡°But I like meat and day-drinking and hanging out. That¡¯s like seventy-five percent there.¡±


    Jordan giggles. She¡¯s been giggling a lot more lately.


    Bina has been all over Milly since she came back. But she¡¯s also all over Jordan as usual, and the magnetic urge to never not be touching both of them has led to multiple overexcited Bina manifestations inadvertently knocking things over with their tails. Bina number 2 is shepherding Milinoe to the bonfire, Peat Moss and Saoirse at their heels. ¡°And then Saoirse came out of the stoner guy,¡± she¡¯s saying. ¡°And oh it was just crazy.¡±


    ¡°It was nice to get out and stretch my legs,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Lovely little constitutional. Irene can testify. We really ought to get down there more often.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s how I was born,¡± Peat Moss says. ¡°And now Caspar¡¯s gonna teach me to whittle.¡±


    Caspar chuckles. ¡°I am?¡±


    ¡°Jordy says that the thing to do when you have hands is whittle, not shoot a gun. And I said can you teach me to whittle and she said no but Caspar can because he¡¯s a hayseed.¡±


    Caspar gives his sister a look.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to keep summarizing, Beany.¡± Milinoe laughs behind her hand. ¡°Adrienne and I watched the whole thing.¡±


    Bina blinks. ¡°Adrienne?¡±


    ¡°Like¡ªEight. Eightrienne.¡± Milinoe points out into the sky. ¡°That¡¯s what she¡¯d like to be called now. She knows it¡¯s a little ridiculous. And she can¡¯t show her face, just yet. She¡¯s rather ashamed. And disemboweled. But once she can. Adrienne.¡±


    ¡°Adrienne.¡± I take Milly¡¯s hand. ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s ridiculous. I think it¡¯s a beautiful name.¡±


    ¡°She wanted her sisters.¡± Milly folds her delicate claws around mine. ¡°She didn¡¯t think there was another way back, after what she¡¯d done.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re family.¡± I rub her bony palm. ¡°There is always a way back.¡±


    Her limpid eyes blink back a tear. ¡°Can you forgive her?¡±


    ¡°How about she spits the rest of you out,¡± Salome interrupts my fond affirmation. ¡°And then we¡¯ll talk about forgiveness.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m digging myself out, bit by bit.¡± Milinoe rubs my arm. ¡°It¡¯s going to take time. But we have all the time in the world.¡± She looks around the circle. ¡°Where¡¯s Alexandra? Her prime form¡¯s hovering around, I know.¡±


    I point out into the darkened forest. ¡°In the trees, still. She¡¯s embarrassed, I think. I told her the door¡¯s still open, but I guess she needs time.¡±


    Salome raises a chrome brow. ¡°If Adrienne can make an an appearance through Milly, she certainly can.¡±


    Ganea stands from the bonfire and paces into the night.


    ¡°Where are you going, Gan?¡± I call.


    ¡°I am going to rip her manifestation in half,¡± Ganea says over her shoulder. ¡°For the feathers.¡±


    I get to my feet and give Caspar a kiss on the forehead. ¡°I should deal with that.¡±


    He squeezes my upper arm, which is chilly from the late evening. ¡°Go on. I¡¯ll be right here.¡±


    The party filters inevitably toward the dance hall, coaxed in by the new jukebox¡¯s tuneful strains. Caspar doesn¡¯t move with the rest of them, just looks out into the night.


    Jordan walks over and stands by him.


    ¡°You reckon when they write the history book, they¡¯re gonna put your name in it?¡± she asks. ¡°And everyone who comes in is gonna want to meet you? I bet they¡¯re gonna want to meet your wife.¡±


    ¡°Lord, I hope not.¡± Caspar¡¯s knuckle rubs the rim of his beer. ¡°I¡¯m not a big spotlight fella.¡±


    ¡°You are a hayseed, man.¡± She chuckles. ¡°I bet you do know how to whittle.¡±


    He grins. ¡°So what if I do.¡±


    ¡°Hey.¡± She nudges his arm. ¡°Brother. You fucking did it.¡±


    ¡°We did,¡± he says. ¡°You were more of a warrior than I ever was. Just got my ass handed to me and tagged my wife in. I cede my page in the book to you.¡±


    ¡°We gotta work on how humble you are, man. It¡¯s unbecoming of a world-savior. If I was you¡ª¡±


    A fluffy tentacle wraps around Jordan¡¯s waist and pulls, like a crook yanking a hack comic. She spills into her girlfriend¡¯s arms; Bina turns it into a rakish dip. ¡°Let¡¯s dance, boo.¡±


    ¡°Bean, c¡¯mon.¡± Another one of those femme giggles from Jordan. ¡°Throwing me around and shit.¡±


    ¡°You like it.¡± Bina¡¯s big pink tongue licks the side of Jordan¡¯s face. ¡°You coming, Caspar?¡±


    ¡°Eventually.¡± He puts his beer in the grass and his hands in his pockets. ¡°Reckon I¡¯ll stay out here a while longer. Look for fireflies.¡±


    ¡°All right, man.¡± Jordan extricates herself from her handsy Old One long enough for a quick hug. ¡°You okay?¡± she murmurs into his ear. ¡°After the close call? And the spill into Heaven?¡±


    He nods. ¡°I¡¯m here, now. I¡¯m good.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡± She squeezes him. ¡°Make sure you party, yeah? We¡¯re gonna have to go back to work soon fixing the damn place. Bina¡¯s been telling me about some of the relicts we¡¯ll be hunting.¡±


    He chuckles. ¡°What, you¡¯re trying to be a warlock up here, too?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, motherfucker. And you are, too. I know you are. Dutiful ass.¡± She punches his shoulder. ¡°You better be. Need my brother.¡±


    She lets a giddy Bina drag her away.


    Degmar and Alys dance laughing, drunk and dissolute. Sam and Kai dance uncertainly. Neither of them know the steps they¡¯re trying with one another. Florin is doing a significantly more chaste dance with his chortling mother, who picked just the perfect time to die, as far as party-planning is concerned.


    Peat Moss is dancing with Jordan, at Bina¡¯s grumpy agreement. She laughs as his little hooves click and slide on the hardwood. ¡°This sucks,¡± he says.


    ¡°It don¡¯t suck. You¡¯re just not good at it yet. You suck.¡±


    Paul Tilliam shuffles across the floor toward his wife, who¡¯s having an animated conversation with Saoirse. My sister''s advanced state of fungal dessication seems not to bother her whatsoever.


    ¡°They are just so finicky,¡± she says. ¡°I feel as though I have one for days and it starts rotting.¡±


    ¡°The trick, darling, is not to give them a drop of water until the soil¡¯s dry,¡± Saoirse says. ¡°Otherwise they rot.¡±


    ¡°Well these are just lovely.¡± Rebecca messes with the string-of-pearls vines that make up the manifestation¡¯s hair. ¡°I¡¯m going to be relying on you, I think. Gardening was always the thing I thought, yes, and tried, and just fell on my face.¡±


    Paul takes an adventurous step forward.


    A hand taps Rebecca¡¯s shoulder. Edgar has his hat in his hand. ¡°I don¡¯t want to cut anything short,¡± he says. ¡°But perhaps you might like to dance with me, Miss Wallace?¡±


    Rebecca gives him an inquisitive smile. ¡°You know what?¡± She deposits her cup of punch onto the appetizer table. ¡°Why not?¡±


    She catches Paul¡¯s eye as the schoolteacher takes her hand and leads her to the dance floor. She gives him a little smile and a nod.


    He returns it, and pours himself some punch.


    The prologue is over. It¡¯s chapter one.


    Caspar sits in the grass. His beer¡¯s finished. He lets its glass roll down the hill. The fireflies have come out, after all. He watches them loop and corkscrew.


    Three steady lights appear among the flitting thicket at the edge of the forest, and steadily grow.


    I walk barefoot across the grass and sit next to my husband.


    I rest my head on his shoulder. He puts his hand in my lap.


    ¡°That¡¯s that,¡± he says. ¡°That was my life, I suppose. Shorter than I thought it would be, somehow. Despite the wars and the hedge magic and all the troubles.¡±


    I lay one of his hands on my manifestation¡¯s heart. He¡¯s never paid close attention to my pulse; now he feels its strange, slow, two-part beat. I draw him down into the waving grass and curl into the crook his body forms between chin and knee. My thigh rests on his. ¡°Do you feel dead?¡± I whisper.


    I kiss his collarbone. My tendrils stray along his neck, cup his jaw, boop his nose. He chuckles and smooths them against my dusky head. ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°I feel¡­¡±


    He isn¡¯t a poet, my husband. The love and the peace and the benediction flow across his mind on their way to his heart, and his efforts to catch and hold them in a spoken word are like cupping a waterfall in his hands. The greater part escapes, undiminished, to a bottomless and fundamental joy.


    ¡°I feel good,¡± he says.


    My smile is so big my face hurts. ¡°I feel good too.¡±


    He caresses my spine. I arch it, trying to get closer.


    ¡°Let me see that mark.¡± I rest my hand on his pectoral. ¡°I can get rid of this.¡±


    He grasps my fingers and lowers them. ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°You¡¯re holding on to yours?¡±


    I slide the fabric of my dress up, until the golden initials peek from the hem. ¡°For all time.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯m keeping mine.¡±


    I stand from the grass and wipe its stray blades from my sundress. ¡°Hey.¡± I give him a gentle tug. ¡°C¡¯mere.¡±


    He gets to his feet. I shuffle into his arms and hug him around the waist, leaning forward into his chest. He inhales my scent, fills his head with rain and sweet stone fruit.


    ¡°Mine, now,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Yours, now.¡± He runs his knuckles up and down my back. ¡°Forever.¡±


    Mine forever.


    A warm breeze rustles my skirt and whirls the flame-colored leaves around us. I let it carry my steps, loosing myself from Caspar¡¯s arms until only our fingers connect us, interlaced, the metal of our engagement bands kissing.


    ¡°Dance with me, Caspar,¡± I say.


    ¡°I¡¯m not exactly¡ª¡±


    ¡°My husband is home from the war,¡± I say. ¡°And we won. And now I want to dance with him.¡±


    He gives me a hangdog smile. ¡°As my mistress commands, I guess.¡±


    We dance, slowly and uncertainly at first. Caspar kicks his shoes off. ¡°I¡¯m nervous I¡¯ll step on your toe.¡±


    ¡°When we first met,¡± I say, ¡°you bit my finger hard enough to hit bone.¡±


    ¡°That was your idea.¡±


    Music rises from the field around us. I grow bolder, throwing in some of the sly and weaving steps Rebecca taught me. Caspar¡¯s dusty laugh fizzes in my chest as he meets me, matches me.


    Caspar doesn¡¯t talk about this, much. And he hasn¡¯t had cause to use it in a long time. But he is an excellent dancer.


    We two-step and spin across the night, framed by the fireflies. I twirl into his sure grasp and let him dip me low. I come up in another spin and this time, I stick to him, staying where I am, my arms crossed over my body and my hands in his.


    Slowly I move again to the music, but closer this time. Close enough to feel his kiss on my neck, and his heartbeat on my back, and his growing desire nestle against the curve of my butt (His COCK, reader. I¡¯m talking about his cock).


    I reach my hand out, and suddenly we¡¯re in the forest, the lights of the dance hall a gleaming distance from us. I plant my palms on a tree in front of us, and bend the graceful arch of my back low.


    I give him a playful swivel of my hips. ¡°You wanna fuck your wife in the woods, Mr. Cartwright?¡±


    ¡°Mrs. Cartwright.¡± His thumb hooks into the band of my thong. ¡°I wanna fuck my wife everywhere.¡±


    And as my husband opens me, and loves me, and holds me up and holds me down, and kisses me, and makes me sing his name, I see into the infinity that awaits us. I see spontaneous, passionate lovemaking on the kitchen counter. I see furtive, giddy fingerfucking in the car. I see elegant feasts and greasy takeout. I see tentacles binding arms and hands clutching necks. I see our wedding. All our friends, old and new. I see us together with our family¡ªthe one we found and chose for ourselves. I see slow, sleepy mornings in bed, our skin kissed by the light of our repaired afterlife. I see the eternity I asked for, and Caspar brought to me.


    We¡¯re on the ground before it¡¯s done, breathless and giggling, the dirt and leaves in his hair and stuck to my shining skin, and when he comes in me I come with him, and the world breathes with us. And this is forever.


    My back undulates as the lithe muscles inside me squeeze and slide and coax, and it¡¯s only moments before he¡¯s hard again.


    ¡°The hell?¡± he murmurs.


    I flex greedily. ¡°Welcome to my idea of Heaven, Cartwright. Refractory periods are for mortals.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s agree that you only get to mutate me once a century,¡± he says.


    ¡°That was the last one.¡± I roll on top of him. ¡°I swear to Me.¡±


    My mighty warrior. My eternal plaything. My master; my servant; my husband; my warlock.


    I am so small in his arms, and I am so vast all around him. The night time drifts away. The ground fades. A darkness deeper than any night any human has ever known envelops us, lit only by my eyes, three blazing stars bathing him in gold, tracing the faintest contour of my body, and it¡¯s as if he¡¯s being held by the abyss itself. By the infinite blackness.


    Caspar submerges. Into a darkness so complete it would terrify any mortal who beheld it, but he¡¯s not mortal any longer. Into unfathomable eternity. Into his new death and his new life. Into the void.


    And the void holds him close, wraps him in a warm, shivering embrace, and as it draws another gasp from him, it whispers his name, and in this moment, and every moment thereafter, for the rest of time, it says: I love you, I love you, I love you.


    I love you.

 Epilogue

    Something that confused me about humans, when we first found you, is how many of your stories end with ¡°and they lived happily ever after.¡± Ever after. It¡¯s reprinted and repeated enough times that its meaning has leached away. You read those words and you don¡¯t think of their true meanings. ¡°Happily ever after¡± just means the same thing as a fancy-fonted Fin or The End.


    You draw the curtain over the rest of the story when you say ¡°happily ever after.¡± You don¡¯t want to think about the sad and strange ways that love and time and mortality and eternity interlink. You don¡¯t grasp their import.


    Try it out for me. Divorce these words from the shibboleth you know them as, and take each, when you read them, with the truth of that which they represent:


    Caspar and I live happily ever after.


    At some point, you make it to Heaven. By this I mean you, humanity in totality, but also you, reader. You die and we meet. Hi, there. I hope it was a long, fulfilling life and a short, comfortable death. My condolences and salutations.


    Like I told Rebecca, I didn¡¯t sign up to be the psychopomp of the pantheon. It just ended up being delegated to me because I have the most experience and I enjoy meeting new people. If you were a worshipper of the Goddess of Love and Death, then it¡¯s such a pleasure to finally say hello, and I hope I don¡¯t disappoint. If you weren¡¯t, no hard feelings. Welcome to Heaven.


    Humanity lasts another ten thousand years. We don¡¯t need to dwell on how it ends; it¡¯s a sad, boring story. Don¡¯t feel too put out, okay? None of our mortal races lasted all that long, once we split the atom. It¡¯s the species-level equivalent of smelling burnt toast before a stroke.


    It gets funnier and funnier to see people show up with a cavalcade of newfangled religions only to realize that post-pastornism was right the whole time. Tough to break it to the reincarnation guys that they¡¯ll never go back as a mole or a fish or what have you, although a greater transformation awaits, and then you¡¯ll look however the hell you like.


    As agreed, Saoirse is given rein over the remains. A different species inherits the world. Probably not the one you¡¯re thinking of, but that¡¯s time¡¯s little surprises for you. Maybe some day they¡¯ll get far enough along that they¡¯ll form their own heaven. It would be nice, but we won¡¯t stick around to see it. Maybe some day we¡¯ll be back, but that¡¯s deep time. And we¡¯ve got shit to do.


    Me, my sisters, and our warlocks have enough misadventures rebuilding the place and clearing out the old relicts and anomalies that I could probably fill an encyclopedia set¡¯s worth of pages with them. Distance gets as odd as time does, in a dimension like the one you and I now share, but Caspar and Jordan still insist on driving to every job in a Temple Cruiser, and Peat Moss quickly grows to love that garish automobile as much as they do.


    ¡°My car made it to Heaven, too,¡± Jordan says, and it¡¯s great credit to Bina¡¯s continually growing understanding of humanity that she doesn¡¯t correct her.


    It takes longer than expected for you to tire of paradise. Longer than my sisters expected, anyway. I¡¯ve spent a good amount of time replicating those pretty meat automata you steer. So wonderful, the sensations you can get from such a simple little construct.


    Caspar and I spend every second of those millennia together. All the time he lost and all the lives he never led. All the promises I made. He gets them all, and he gets them with me, and I get them with him.


    I convince him to adopt a ¡°try anything once¡± rule, but unlike most of you we don¡¯t extend that to other partners. At all the ecstatic orgies he and I are off in a corner, making love and trying not to laugh. And when the novelty wears off, we mostly stay away from the golden pleasure palaces and the swimming pools full of sangria. We have simpler delights. We settle in a valley not unlike the one I made for his dead guys (many of whom become our neighbors). We call it New Rogarth owing to Caspar¡¯s sentimentality for the yokels who hanged him. Don¡¯t ask me, I don¡¯t get the dude either.


    Harvest festivals, barn raisings, dance halls, county fairs. Mr. Cartwright is a fixture at them. As is Mrs. Cartwright, who everyone agrees is quite beautiful in an alien sort of way, in her violet sundress, arm linked in his, a laugh on her shadowy lips.


    Not to say we don¡¯t have our champagne tastes. It turns out Caspar absolutely adores Tabarkan Sturgeon caviar. We first try it at one of Adaire¡¯s weekly salons, and he ends up eating enough of it within a month to equate every crown he ever earned on Diamante.


    ¡°You know,¡± I tell him. ¡°Back when I was the hwuarch, we had roe. I bet I can remember how to make it if you really want to follow through on the anything once rule.¡±


    To my lovely husband¡¯s credit he does give this his sincere consideration before he says ¡°No, thank you, baby.¡±


    The first time he takes me on an aerostat ride, I have something of a freakout. ¡°You¡¯re telling me you¡¯re the size of a mountain and you¡¯re afraid of heights?¡± he asks, when I finally allow myself to be untangled from him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not, but I am.¡±


    He chuckles. ¡°Every time I think you finally make sense to me, you pitch a curveball.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an Old One. We don¡¯t have to make sense.¡± I peep through the cabin and squirm further into his lap when I see the rainforest stretching out below us. ¡°I¡¯m ineffable, okay?¡±


    Sometimes, late at night, when he holds me close in a cocoon of my tendrils, I think about the families we see together, some dozens of generations deep. And I feel a niggling sorrow for my man. He never bothers seeking out the parents he forgot. No descendants of his ever arrive in Heaven for the joyful reunions we witness so often.


    Every time, he sees the thread of melancholy in my golden eyes. And every time he kisses my forehead and tells me: ¡°You are everything I will ever need.¡±


    And every time, I know he means it.


    Besides, he has Peat. He and Jordan spend a month teaching that kid how to orienteer, a skill I didn¡¯t realize mostly meant hiking in big circles, eating chocolate chips, and calling it ¡°trail mix.¡±


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Little by little, the parties and the orgies and the feasts and celebrations and dream vacations blend together for you. The beauty, the bacchanalia. At some point, each of you becomes the self you¡¯d always dreamt of. You finally read all those novels you swore you¡¯d read. You finally make the magnum opus you were sure you¡¯d be able to with unlimited time and unlimited freedom. You have that talk with that friend you fell out of touch with. You forgive each other. You are, all of you, perfected.


    My sisters watch your progress with the awe of a first sunrise. I resist telling Salome I told you so. You are not fundamentally flawed, reader. You are not ontologically evil. All you needed was love. Love and time. Saoirse loosens her grip on her human garden and the tough nuts are released. We keep them isolated and observed at first, but the loopiness of being a mushroom farm has taken a lot of the sting out of their tails. After a lifetime or so of remonstration and repentance, they¡¯re let back into the larger whole.


    We need all of you, after all. All of you to be ready.


    Except for Jordan, who flips the rest of her species the double birds and merges with Bina after a few thousand years. They have a cute little ceremony for it. She fits in seamlessly, and spends most of her time as a manifestation, the better to make out with the rest of her, though Jordan and Bina sharing one conscious mind makes my little sister even harder to corral. I always know which jokes are Jordan¡¯s because the rest of Bina can¡¯t help but giggle at herself when she tells them.


    I tell her that she¡¯s her own girlfriend now, which makes her relationship masturbation. She tells me to stop being nasty.


    It takes a while after the last human crosses over for the idea to truly take hold across the collective, but even after the first millennium, some of you are asking yourselves what¡¯s next?


    And that¡¯s okay. That¡¯s normal. Nothing lasts forever. To the human mind, anything stretched out for eternity becomes its own kind of Hell. Even Heaven.


    You reach the saturation point of your lovely, limited minds. You obtain the most perfect bliss that a human, freed from the strictures of mortality and time, can countenance.


    It¡¯s time to be born.


    Caspar is ready, like, way ahead of schedule. I have to preach patience. It¡¯s a big change, going from the singular ¡°you¡± to, well, You. And not everyone¡¯s as into tentacles as I¡¯ve inadvertently made him. We talk about him merging his consciousness into mine instead, the way Jordan and Bina did, but he¡¯s worried we¡¯d end up missing each other, which is the sort of limited perspective that I¡¯ve always found so cute and irresistible. Besides, you¡¯re going to need him. He¡¯s too good a boy to deny you his presence in your gestalt.


    Oh, that reminds me¡ªPeat Moss was hoping he could come along, too. He¡¯s as human as you, at this point; he just happens to be a deer. I hope you don¡¯t mind.


    One day, your final holdout awakens from a lonely night surrounded by flower petals and champagne, and says: I¡¯m ready.


    And that¡¯s the story of you, my sister.


    There¡¯s an ugly duckling phase for sure. The first century, I gotta say. Woof. It¡¯s tough. You take a while to shed the illusion of the self. To recognize yourself as you. Whole and one.


    It¡¯s a long and painful adolescence. It¡¯s a tough young adulthood, too, sometimes. Sometimes, on the ego-quake days you can barely hold your gestalt together, you ask me if this was all a mistake, if you¡¯re deficient somehow. Never, I tell you. Never ever.


    But you get through it. You do so good. You become one of us.


    Diamante, you call yourself, in memory of your mortal home. Sister Diamante. But I can¡¯t help calling the whole collective entity Cas every now and again.


    You¡¯re beautiful, from your crown to your claws. But Caspar is still my favorite part. And the only part I love like a human loves. I promised him that, and even though now he¡¯s you, I keep that promise. Illogical, maybe, but I enjoy being illogical. It makes me feel human.


    Even Salome begrudgingly admits that you¡¯ve turned out beautifully. Bina helps you design your prime form, and it¡¯s the perfect combination, in my mind, of adorable and eldritch.


    Eventually, you find your void-legs. And eventually we finally convince Saoirse to stop fucking around with the overgrown world you left in your mortality, though she insists on taking so many species and samples that we all spend a harried century collecting them for her.


    The world¡¯s served its purpose, and the kingdom of Heaven has too. As I swore I would, I take you with me, into the void. We go to explore the endless yawning existence beyond Heaven, its myriad dimensions.


    It¡¯s going to be boring, a lot of it. The void¡¯s a void, after all. Whole lotta nothing between the somethings out there.


    But you¡¯ll find that boredom is different when you¡¯re like me. More optional. There are other worlds, other realities not even an Old One could imagine. Maybe we¡¯ll find another ruined Heaven out there somewhere, another little sister in the throes of her cradle. Or some other new experience, something beyond anything I could put to paper here. I mean, I didn¡¯t know what making love was before you, and now that¡¯s half of what me and Cas do all day.


    And until we find the next place, I¡¯ve got you. And you¡¯ve got me. And we have eternity.


    You¡¯re ready for that now.


    I think Bina is a little jealous that she¡¯s not the baby anymore. And throughout our voyage, our sisters make fun of us, how inseparable you and I are. But they¡¯re used to it by now, after I stuck to you like glue all throughout your Old One education. It¡¯s like I told the little piece of you that¡¯s Caspar. I love you.


    I love you so fucking much.


    The bit of you that¡¯s Caspar and the bit of me that¡¯s Irene Cartwright stay untethered. Unlike most of humanity, his lover isn¡¯t in the new gestalt being. I¡¯m on the outside, and so (mostly) is he. We prefer it this way. It¡¯s quieter. More private. And we get to have humanoid sex, which has never, ever gotten boring.


    We¡¯ve gone back and forth with all kinds of configurations and physiologies, from simple swaps to weird experiments I won¡¯t scandalize my poor husband by expounding on. But after each one, we always drift back to what worked for us from the start. Big gentle Caspar and perky little Irene.


    Everything changes. But the secret I¡¯m finding out about eternity is that some things are just perfect the way they are.


    We have a cottage on an extraordinarily pretty ridge of your spine, outside a town of fellow manifestations who, now and then, miss their own egos enough to untether with us. It varies in size as people come and go and return again. Even now, in your newly completed form, you¡¯re still so charmingly human when you dither in this way.


    We regularly convince Jordan Darius to manifest back out of Bina, though she forbids us from calling her either Jina or Bordan, both of which I thought were clever. Oh well. It¡¯s very cute how impatient she always is to re-merge with her girlfriend/self. ¡°You give a bitch a body the size of a city and fill it with sexy werewolves,¡± she says, ¡°you can¡¯t get tight when she¡¯s itchy to get back to it. Everything looks too fuckin¡¯ big from here.¡±


    Jordan doesn¡¯t find comfort in feeling small and out-of-the-way. Caspar does.


    And okay, he still takes some coaching to get used to the fact that he¡¯s my ¡°sister¡± but we¡¯re still lovers. It¡¯s metaphorical, I keep telling him. He acclimates, but he asks me politely not to call him sister to his face whenever we¡¯re using your old language (which we often do, for kicks). That¡¯s fine by me.


    I lay my shadowy head on your shoulder, Caspar, and you rest your hand on my thigh. And from our front porch, we watch Heaven shrink into a static-channel mist below us.


    ¡°All that work getting it and fixing it,¡± you say. ¡°And now we¡¯re leaving.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well.¡± I let the smell of the strudel you¡¯ve baked lift me to my feet. ¡°All the important parts we¡¯re taking with us.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re talking awful confident that wherever we end up is gonna have gelato.¡±


    ¡°Like you can¡¯t just manifest gelato, dude. I¡¯ve seen you and Peat. Eating yourself. You ever think you¡¯d be so comfortable doing that?¡±


    You shrug. ¡°I¡¯m delicious.¡±


    I kiss your cheek. ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Still.¡± You breathe the sigh of a craftsman watching his tools rust as I pull you up with me. ¡°Took forever to fix the place up.¡±


    And I laugh and I kiss you, Caspar, as we climb the steps to the little home we share. Because for all your new knowledge, and all that you have become, you still don¡¯t know what forever means.


    Neither do I, to tell the truth.


    We¡¯ll find out together.