Part 4, w00t w00t! a mild bit of OOC-age coming up, but all in good fun. Rated M for strong language. Reviews are loved!

Ghost Rider (c) Marvel (I own nothing)

Enjoy!!!

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"Shit man, I still can't believe you freakin' streaked through the Mall of America!"

Blackheart's knuckles split as they collided with the back of Gressil's head. "Thick as a brick," he growled, rubbing gingerly at the scraped flesh. With a rough sigh, he walked around the couch and seated himself beside the Earth elemental, who was quite content nursing a cold beer and grinning at the TV screen, where the News channel picked at the Broken Spoke Massacre of two days ago. Reports of "sulfur poisoning" and "a sudden lack of the strange disturbances that had plagued the bar since its construction began" only widened the elemental's leer.

"And twice as hard." He smirked.

Rolling ice-blue eyes, Blackheart shifted forward awkwardly on his seat. He was clad in dark jeans, grey Converse, and a black, V-neck tee, all compliments of the Nordstrom's he had rocketed into in an attempt to escape a large number of very angry parents. He was unused to the firm restraints of brand new denim, and compared to his usual silk the cotton of the shirt felt thick and heavy.

"How do you wear these things?" He finally wailed, plucking at the new pants.

"What, you've never worn jeans?" Gressil's eyebrows arched skyward in a shower of dust that made Blackheart sneeze. The earth elemental was clad in nothing but plaid boxers and his favorite pair of well-worn Levi's. The hems were shredded and darkened by mud, while the knees sported permanent grass stains. "You gotta break 'em in! And don't wash 'em too much. Man I've had these babies for a decade, and I've only washed 'em once and now they're all soft and comfy. Here, have a feel," he declared, thrusting one leg up in front of Blackheart's incredulous glower.

"I'll pass."

"Are ya suuure?"

"Knock it off Gressil, you're scaring the poor demon."

Abigor plopped down in a moth-eaten armchair, the seat of which was discolored by a mysterious stain that was better left unknown. Smoke trailed from the cigarette that dangled from his lips, and the ice in his scotch glass clinked lazily as he slapped a pile of water-stained, manila folders on the table before the demon lord. Curiosity flashing across his face, Blackheart flicked open the top file; inside ranged information from name and age to favorite ice cream flavor. Polaroid photos had been paper-clipped to the top of each folder's contents.

"That's all we could find. There may be a few more, but if we couldn't find 'em no one can."

One by one, Blackheart scanned through each folder, and with each passing second his stomach dropped farther in his gut.

Gressil growled deep in his throat. "Now she's a looker."

"And could make a block of asphalt look like Albert Einstein." Blackheart snarled. "Now would you knock it off? I think I'm going to suffocate on your libido." With a rough sigh, he leaned back in his seat, gently massaging his temples with the tips of nimble fingers as Abigor cocked his head to one side.

"Somethin' wrong?"

"Yes, actually. It's these!" He waved a peeved hand at the folders. "I know all of them, and they're all just… "

"Just…?"

"Let's put it this way; there's a reason none of them are married yet. For example," Blackheart drew one fat file out of the stack. "Belara of the House of Marlbeck. Total spoiled brat; she'd have my limitless funds gone within the week, then bitch me out 'till death do us part. Probably mine, when I lobotomize myself with a cork screw. Of course, with her IQ she'd probably continue to scream at my corpse until someone realized they haven't seen me in a while." He selected another folder. "And Sarnel of Homlen; saying she looks like a slug would be an insult to slugs everywhere." He continued to pull out files, until one by one they stacked up on the floor beside him. "Cremsa's too needy, Alora's a slut, Mibet's hideous, and Zeeba… well, Zeeba's just fucked up."

"So none of them." Abigor arched a dark eyebrow. "Maybe if you weren't so picky…"

"Dammit, Abigor, we're talking about my wife! The chick I'm going to be stuck with until the End of Days!"

"Well what do you want from me?" The wind Hidden was on his feet, hands gesturing to himself as he snarled at Blackheart. "I'm not God! I can't just magically whip you up a demon princess that'll be just to your liking! You've got one year, or you're dead. I advise you get over yourself and pick a fucking bride."

Blackheart's mouth hung open, incredulity scrawled across his handsome features. Silence meandered delicately into the room, smirking as Tension slipped in beside him. But they were roughly shooed away as the young demon huffed, "Where the hell's Wallow?"

"Back in the other room; he's lookin' for something in the books. I dunno what," Abigor added, at the confusion etched into Blackheart's gaze. After a moment the Hidden sighed, like a whispering wind across an open field. "Well what are you looking for in this demoness?"

Blackheart's eyes widened at the question. He'd never really thought about it; all he had pondered was what he didn't want. Cocking his head to one side in deep thought, he finally said, "someone who's intelligent; who I can actually have a conversation with. Of course she has to be gorgeous."

"No duh," Gressil interjected. Blackheart and Abigor both rolled their eyes.

"As I was saying," the demon growled. Gressil smirked. "Somebody who doesn't need me too much. But not totally independent. I want her to rely on me a little bit. And who won't bitch me out because I get back 30 seconds after I said I would. Someone wh-"

"I found it!" Wallow exploded into the room, water splattering across the floor as he sprinted over to the couch and roughly shoved the remaining folders to the floor. In their place he slammed down a thick, old tome, its parchment pages bound in thick leather. "Here!" He jabbed a finger at the page, sending a shower of rain across the book.

The page was covered in the handsome portrait of a demoness. Her ebony skin gleamed in the light of an imaginary candle, pitch black and accented by the thick, scarlet hair that draped past her shoulders. Eyes like fire smirked up from the page, and rubies dangled from her earlobes as she seemed to purr, "I know. I'm gorgeous."

"Olisha," Wallow grinned. "Haitian demoness of voodoo and black magic."

"Oh, I recognize her," Blackheart said. As a younger devil, he, like every other demon in the Hellian court, was once smitten with the princess Olisha; from the wave of fiery red hair that fell to her waist to her eternally crimson-painted toe nails. Even twelve years later, he could still perfectly remember her favorite, blood-red gown, stitched with exactly 300 rubies, the way she didn't seem to walk so much as glide when she walked, every little motion a dance. In 1282 they had waltzed at the Hellian ball, and he'd barely been able to keep up with her. Beneath his hands her skin had felt like the smoothest silk, and by the time the song ended his whole body trembled before her. She had kissed him then; just on the cheek, swift and soft, but so many centuries later he could remember it, her sweet breath on his face, the purr of laughter that had echoed up from the back of her throat.

"Blackheart…?"

The demon snapped back to reality, only to realize that he had broken out in a cold sweat. Slowly he clenched and released his hands several times before shaking his head to kick off the old memories. "I knew Olisha. But there's one itty bitty problem; she's dead. She married anyway. A human; lucky bastard."

"But that's it!" Wallow was practically beaming. "She had a daughter. It says so right there!" He gestured to the facing page.

"A daughter…" Bit by bit he picked his brain in search of memories to collaborate the water Hidden's claim. "Yeees…" He finally hissed, eyes wide in remembrance. "But they were killed," the demon said, turning back towards Wallow. "An assassination; the family was killed for mixed blood."

"That's where you're wrong." Wallow grinned, his sallow features melting in pride. "I have it on a very reliable source that, while Olisha was killed, both father and daughter successfully escaped back to Earth. Based on aging differences between planes, she should be a grown woman by now."

All eyes turned back to the portrait of Olisha. Abigor murmured, "Well, she was incredibly intelligent…"

"And independent…" added Wallow.

"Psh, yeah, and totally freaking gorgeous!" Gressil grinned.

"Hey, she's my wife, not yours!" Blackheart snapped.

"You haven't even met her yet! And this is her half-breed daughter, not her! Ha, I'd laugh if she was butt ugly. Or turned you down." At the thought Gressil smirked and brought his beer to his lips, only to have the can forcefully crunched into his face as Blackheart's hand once again collided with the back of his head.

"So, any idea where we can locate the late Olisha's daughter?" Blackheart questioned, turning back to Wallow. Behind him, Gressil was struggling to dislodge the can from his face.

"Well… no." The water elemental wrung his hands nervously at the piercing glower Blackheart shot through him. "But it can't be that hard! I mean, if we just keep workin' the sources, something'll come up. My lord, I can promise that girl to you within the week."