The blast of flames consumed the hellhound from the neck out, leaving fine ash in its wake, and finally bringing to silence the explosion of violence which had ensued when a Sinner by the evocative name of Snalgras Rasputin decided that he wasn't going to repay a debt owed to one of the Ars Goetia. Sam took a step back, barely breathing hard, and then glanced around until he spotted Apoc, who was starting to put his crossbow away and put his affairs into order. "We're alright?" Sam asked.
"Better than expected, even," Apoc reported. "Did you get hurt? Snalgras is... was... fairly notorious for using Intoxinated weapons. We might need to –"
"They didn't even touch me," Sam placated his employer. Common parlance said that the only ways to kill a Sinner were to throw them into the Pride Wall, or to gut them with Seraphic Steel. The truth was there were actually several. The chief ways included Retroincineration and Intoxination. The former was what Infernal Talc did, burning you so thoroughly that you to some extent burn into the past, which created two possibilities. One, put you into violation of Lucifer's Law, which ended in the same result as going through the Pride Wall. An alternate theory was that destruction into the past reformed that as your new 'natural state', and defined what you would Regenerate into. And if you Regenerated into a corpse, so be it. Intoxination put such virulent poisons into a Sinner's body that they couldn't Regenerate for long enough that the body would begin to rot. There were probably others, but they were far more rare, even than those admittedly vanishingly rare options.
"That's good to hear. And I notice you've been a lot more spritely of late. Have you been getting some sparring practice in?" he asked, still tucking his things down. Then he turned. "Ah. You have some red on you."
Sam looked down, and saw that his wound had opened again at some point during the fight. Damn it, even seeing it now let him feel the pain of it. Why was it, that even in death, you typically didn't feel the pain of a wound until you were aware of it? That made as little sense down here as it did up there. Pain was supposed to be the body's 'something's wrong' signal. Careless of the fact that they were standing in an open air cafe mostly populated by the corpses of Sinners and Fiends (with one Hellhound for variety), he stripped off his shirt and pulled the bandages away. Okay, that stung. And the blood oozed out, red and vibrant against his wet-ash colored skin.
He only recently figured out why Seraphic Steel could injure the way it did. It imposed Reality on things. The wounds that Seraphic Steel created were fundamentally more real than the being which suffered them. Because of that, Regeneration – a fundamentally unreal force granted by Hell's unreal energies – couldn't touch the wound. You had to heal it the old fashioned way, which, given Hell, was extremely unlikely. Sam powdered some hemostatic onto the bandage before packing it into place, and redressing himself in his already smutted shirt. It stung like a bastard, but such was life after death.
"Do you have any idea why he did that?" Sam asked. "He was a lot more reasonable last time."
"Whatever reasons for losing his temper are upon his head. Which as you can see is now nailed to that wall," Apoc said, pointing idly to Snalgras' decapitated body, and the head pinned to the wall by a cooling spike of metal. "It's not our business to wonder as to why they decide to throw their second lives away. Only to collect them if they do."
"Tell me something," Sam said, as he began to drag the mostly incinerated bodies that he himself had created into a line. "Does it seem like more people are defaulting than usual? Is there some sort of trend here that I've not been in Hell long enough to see?"
"It's good that you're looking for trends. Pareidolia kept apes alive while they were trying to evolve into humans by jumping at shadows and running from the wind. Better to look like a fool than to get eaten by a tiger," Apoc said.
"And is there one?"
"Is this a typical trend for mid-year Hell, approximately 150 days until the next Purge? No. Is there another trend in play? Maybe," Apoc said, already starting to pile wallets and empty purses onto one of the tables. The staff of the cafe started to poke their heads out of the building which serviced this patio, Apoc tossed a wallet, sight unseen, to the server. "For your trouble. I trust you'll do as you do with the bodies when we leave. Oh, and could I have a black coffee, please?"
"Are you serious?" the fiend asked.
"Was 'please' not sufficient?" Apoc glanced to him. The fiend rolled his eyes and returned inside. "The trend you're looking for, I can't speak on, Sam. Something is brewing. I've been hearing rumors. Rumors I would prefer I didn't hear. I'm sure you know the ones I'm talking about."
"Wasn't my choice to offer revelation. And yet everything didn't immediately explode yesterday, so..."
"These rumors started weeks ago. Have you been less than careful?" Apoc asked, chidingly.
"What are you implying?" Sam asked, sotto.
"Until recently, your discretion was exemplary. Something changed, though. Right around the time you got stuck," he motioned to Sam's side. "I hope that you haven't been getting careless with your lips. You know what they say about loose lips."
"My lips are as sealed now as they've ever been," Sam said.
"Then somebody saw you do something you shouldn't be able to," Apoc said.
Which was correct.
"Rumors are rumors. They don't need to have any grounding in reality to grow a strong if twisted tree," Sam deflected.
"That is true, as much as I despise it," Apoc agreed. "And rumors can say whatever they wish to, all things considered. As long as the wrong people don't start believing they're fact, let the rumors say what they will. Just please, Sam; don't let Lucifer know about your ability. I shudder to think what the King of All Hell would do to you if he got his hands on you."
"I imagine it'd be pretty terrible. Considering I've spent my entire time in Hell flouting one of his precious laws..."
"Lucifer is not a kind ruler," Apoc agreed, starting to pile money onto the table he had chosen to sit at. As usual, four into one pile, three into a second, and one into a third; the standard divying of goods from Refusal. "If you show him something he wants, he will take it from you. So please. Sam. Be careful."
"I'm always careful," Sam said. And still, it didn't seem to be enough.
Chapter 19
Take What You Want, Then Pay The Price For It
The kitchen of the barracks was more in keeping with a cafeteria, but considering the aesthetic that the building was going for, perhaps a cafeteria was more appropriate than a dining room. This building had been built to house a platoon, sized for imps alone. That meant that the over-tall imp matron who was pouring them tea couldn't stand at her full height, but everybody else could zip around ideally.
There were too many children here.
Paranoia was quickly becoming Moxie's watch-word for life. Not even since the suicide-mission; from the day he got hired on to I.M.P. alongside Millie, Blitz had a way of imposing himself on them at the most inopportune times, so Moxie always had to keep a weather-eye on his corners, out of the windows, and in his fridge. How the fuck Blitz got into that fridge, Moxie still didn't know.
"And then after he left, I settled in here more permanently," Tilla continued, her story being listened to raptly by Millie, but Moxie's gaze kept the room as she talked about the life which led her from the stronghold of Lust Cruac, to a circus in Greed, then back to Lust and the Clan. Something was off. Dangerously. Beyond even the obvious eugenics cult stuff. But Moxie didn't know what.
"I still can't believe you're... back," Blitz said.
"And I can't believe you're still wearing my brooch," Tilla pointed out. Blitz clutched at it for a moment but gave a chuckle. "I didn't take you for the sentimental type."
"You. Fucking. Died. You died and I watched you die. And they didn't even bother to tell me and Barbie that they brought you back which..."
"Why am I only hearing now that apparently imps can bring people back from the dead?" Moxie asked, scratching at his head. This was altogether too strange.
"Most can't. Gramma-ma's cultists are just the right fucked-up kind of special to pull it off," Blitz said. "So they seriously didn't curse you with anything? You could just... walk out. And you didn't."
"It's not that simple," Tilla said.
"Is she gonna start trying to eat our brains?" Millie asked, pitched extra quiet. Blitz turned to her, a flash of fury in his eyes, but he restrained himself, clenching his fist, then holding up one finger.
"It don't work like that," he said. Then he turned to Tilla once more. "I still don't get it. You coulda just dropped your sprat off at an orphanage and come back to me and Barbie. Nobody'd say boo about that. 'Sides, you were making good money out there!"
"As part of a freakshow," Tilla's humor curdled a bit at that. "'Come and see the horned-human, summoned through a fiend-portal from the foul depths of the Living World'. Balor, I heard," Blitz interrupted her and peevishly corrected his name, again. She continued, "that bark so often that I wanted to cut his tongue out. I've always hated how... how up here, I am. And every penny that got passed to me for being as tall as a human was just... it was mocking me, Bal... Blitz, imagine everybody fixated on some part of you that you couldn't change, mocked you constantly for it, and made money off of it. How would you feel?" Tilla asked. She then leaned back, expecting a furious refusal. Instead, Blitz sighed and wilted a bit.
"Yeah. Yeah I guess you're on the money on that one. I'm sorry, Tills. I just never thought about that," he admitted. Tilla leaned even further back than his explosive temper would have called for, a look of abject confusion on her face.
"Since when do you ever admit that you've insulted somebody and that it was wrong?" she asked. It was like she didn't know whether to treat Blitzo as a child or as a sibling. But considering that she looked to be the same age as him – now that he'd lost a decade to the Human World – it was understandable.
"What? I did some growing up out there," Blitz said, kicking his feet up onto the long table to put mockery to his words.
"He's got stolen years waftin' on him. Dug deep like the stink of the Human World," Morgan piped up from the door.
"Shouldn't you be running away right now, just so I can find you huddled up a tree hiding from the Bog Necks?" Tilla asked.
"Fuck you!"
"Don't use that language with your mother!" Tilla snapped.
"Fuck you Ma'am!" Morgan corrected.
"Slightly better," Tilla admitted.
"Still, this doesn't seem like you, you know?" Blitz said. "We were happy out there."
"You were happy out there. Barbie was happy out there," Tilla said. "But me? I was a miscegenated freak. My siblings were my children. All because Papa believed in Gramma-ma's demand to create more bright-blood. I was somebody for the crowds to point and laugh at. At least in here, people don't care that I bang my head against doorframes."
"That's a low fuckin' bar to set for yourself, Tills," Blitz said, leaning forward and grasping her hand, looking uncommonly tender. "Just 'cause they don't say mean shit to your face don't mean they're not saying it behind your back. And the only reason they want you to stay here is 'cause they want your uterus to keep pumping out wizards. The Tilla I knew from back then had bigger fuckin' dreams than that."
"Maybe I've come to accept a smaller dream," Tilla said, rubbing her belly. "This is likely to be my final child. No magic nor medicine can hold the clock at bay forever. Soon all I'll have is their futures."
"That's not... his, is it?" Blitz asked, visibly uncomfortable.
"No. No it is not. Neither is Morgan, nor Nexzum nor Plureae," she said. "Gramma-ma said 'new blood was needed'."
"Why do you listen to that constipated old bitch?" Blitz asked.
"Because here I mean something to someone," she said. She was cut off by Morgan returning to her side. She accepted a cup that was handed to her. "And at last you act like a dutiful daughter."
"I'm still leaving," Morgan pointed at the door. This was so odd to Moxie, who might have had a couple of fanatical Satanists for parents, but still was... well... not this. Blitz was so visibly uncomfortable around this Tilla, unwilling to call her 'mother', despite that obviously being what she was to him.
"Who's standing in your way?" Tilla taunted. Morgan got a very Blitz-like look of furious frustration on her face, but moved to sulk in a corner. "I get that you want to look out for me. After Papa vanished..."
"Don't fucking call him that. He's a child rapist. And he's dead? God fucking damn it, I wanted to rip his goddamned dick off for what he's done to this entire fucking fucked up fucking family! FUCK!" Blitz stood and kicked the table hard in its leg. And since it didn't break all he did was hurt his toes.
She gave him a stern glare as she sipped her tea. "He might be. I hope you're doing alright out there. You seemed so... adrift... before we parted. Like you were losing hope. You never did say what you were doing out there in the wider world."
"Killin' people for money," Blitz said, dropping himself back into his chair.
"Who would want imps as assassins?" Tilla asked.
"Dead people with grudges," Blitz said.
"So you do have money coming in. From the van, I thought you might be living in it," Tilla said. "Any children yet?"
"Just my Loonie," Blitz said with a smile.
"He adopted a hellhound," Moxie clarified before things got out of hand.
"And he's got a boyfriend, too!" Millie cut in. Tilla sighed and rolled her eyes.
"So not only do you not have children, you couple with men exclusively? Blitz..."
"Not exclusively. Got trim from a human woman just a day or so ago," Blitz said with a prideful grin. Tilla just stared at him. "Don't tell me you're looking for grandkids, Tills, cause that's kinda too weird for me, not gonna lie. But yeah, I've had some, um... relationships. They ended, well, they ended. And as for Stolas. He's... He and I, we... you see there's this book, and to get it I... I, uh..."
Just like always, whenever you tried to nail down what Blitz was doing with the demon royal, he sputtered and ground to a halt.
And then Tilla tipped face first into a pudding.
"Finally. I had worry I hadn't enough in there," Morgan said from the corner, shedding her petulance like a snake-skin.
"Tilla? Tilla what's wrong? Mo... Tilla! Come on!" Blitz said, pulling her now vacant face out of the pudding.
"She will be insensate for a short while," Morgan said.
"Is it safe to drug a pregnant imp?" Moxie asked.
"No. But know you what is far worse for a pregnant imp? Staying here," she pointed down at the ground she was standing on. "I had plans on escaping this place long before now. When I heard that Balor Nuckelavee had returned, my plans grew rather more immediate."
"What the fuck are you saying, kid? Between your accent and the fact that my SISTER IS FUCKING POISONED I'm havin' a hard time understanding you," Blitz said.
"It was always my intention to seek you out," Morgan said without a whit of shame, as she locked the door to the kitchen behind her. "And to hire you with all that I could scrounge together for a rescue mission."
"A rescue mission? For who?" Millie asked.
"Myself, my mother, and my two siblings, excluding apparently you," Morgan said.
"You want... Fuckin FINE! How much you got?" Blitz demanded. Morgan opened her bag and began rummaging through it.
"Four black brains, a fist's worth of Phosphor of Abharrhim, two drams of purified Stygium, and a box of contraband from the human world," she pulled out a box of packaged pastries from the bottom.
"Oooh, brown-sugar cinnamon. Those are the best ones," Blitz snatched the box away from his niece and began to peel and consume them. "Alright, consider me interested. Why you so desperate to get away, considerin' you've never seen what's out there?"
"Few things out there could be worse than what awaits me here," Morgan said.
"What do you mean by that?" Moxie asked.
"I have seen sixteen years, and that ages me into the breeding program," Morgan said flatly. She turned a significant look from Blitz to her mother and then to Moxie. Oh.
"Fuck that noise," Blitz said.
"Fuck that noise indeed," she agreed. "I could have been a wonderworker. My blood is twice as bright as it must be, and yet by Gramma-ma's hubris instead they see only my womb as having worth. I will not spend my days coupling with cousins if not siblings in the name of 'blood purity'. So to the Abyss with them. I will take their magic and steal it away! As dearly as I love my mother, I have no desire to become her. If I can through hook and crook see her safely out at my side, then I will be so much the better."
"Well, since I was plannin' on kidnapping Tilla and getting her out of here on my own, I will accept your piss-poor price for saving my sister from this cult of lunatics," Blitz said around a mouthful of human pastry.
"Piss poor?" Morgan asked.
"I could get that shit for like two hundred souls. Last time I did a kidnapping, it was for, like... ten times that," Blitz said. Which was not just a lie, but a painfully blatant one, because for the black brains at least, Moxie had no idea how to price them. But they had to be pretty dear. And technically the last 'kidnapping' they'd done was for fifty times that.
"Look, Morgan, we can talk about this later. Could you grab your mother's shoulders?" Moxie cut in.
"Don't call me 'Morgan'. It was a name the Crone bestowed on me weeks before I was born," the girl said with obvious distaste. "I have intention of selling it at my first opportunity, much as he did."
"Then what should we call you?" Millie asked as she took one of Tilla's feet, while Moxie took the other. The girl seemed a bit at a loss for that, as though she hadn't thought that far ahead – which proved beyond any reasonable doubt that she was related to Blitz.
Then, she grinned.
"You can call me Krieg," she said.
The day was long, and the Snarglas Rasputin was not the only one to fight back rather than honor their word. And despite having to fight with an already reopened wound, Sam wasn't even particularly tired. Instead, his muscles had a gentle hum in them, the likes of which more athletic people would ascribe to exercise. Sam had never had time to take part in any regimens during his life. It was work, survival, and sleep, in that order.
But after the third scrap, which ended just as abruptly and one-sidedly as the previous two, Apoc seemed to have run out of patience for Pride and took a taxi through the Pride Wall. Distance really was a funny thing down here. The Ring of Pride was massive, in terms of surface area, but only had a few cities on its face. Apparently, its population had plummeted with the century of Purges, to the point where most cities across the continent of land were outright abandoned, with Pentagram City and Imp City being notable outliers to the trend. As long as you stayed on the road, you could cross from one side of the land-mass which was roughly the size of Eurasia in less than 10 hours. But if you strayed from the road, you could be walking for months. And the same magic was on the highways throughout the rest of hell, keeping the other Rings within a reasonable reach. They'd only spent an hour in Greed before they passed beyond it, across the Greed Wall and into Envy. Half an hour from there, and they were into Wrath.
And the whole ride, Apoc seemed more pensive than usual.
"I'd ask a penny for your thoughts, but I know you value them higher than that," Sam said.
"It's just... it's been a while," he said.
"Since what?" Sam asked. He paused. "Celeste?"
"I find myself thinking of her these days," Apoc nodded. "You would have liked her, Sam. She had a way with words. Had a way of making people believe in themselves," he hung his head for a moment, resting his horns on the back of the seat ahead of him. "It was like she shouldn't have come to Hell at all."
"Maybe she wasn't supposed to," Sam said, sliding the panel between the passenger compartment and the driver closed so that the fiend wouldn't be able to eavesdrop. "When got wounded, I found myself able to remember the Judgment. Do you know how it works?"
"I imagine that Ma'at weighs your heart on a scale against a feather. And if it weighs more, it's devoured by a crocodile," Apoc said, still staring into the footwell.
"I'm serious, Apoc. Although nice aside to Egyptian antiquity, I've gotta say."
"Fair enough. Tell me about your Judgment," Apoc said, sitting back and facing him.
"What does Michael pull out of your heart when he Judges you?" Sam asked.
"Pardon me?" Apoc asked.
"When I was found lacking, he cut some sort of fire out of my heart before kicking me into Hell," Sam said. Apoc stared at him, his brow furrowing. "Did Celeste mention anything like that?"
Apoc stared, then his gaze drifted, flitting around as though he were rummaging his mind for memories. Which, given the Goat of the Apocalyse's long durance in Hell, there may have been a fair few for him to dig through. Then, he looked up and stared.
"The nightmare," he said. He sat forward. "She always said that she had a recurring nightmare, of somebody ripping her heart out and kicking her into Hell. You obviously remember more. You say there was something cut out of your heart."
"A white, cold flame," Sam said. Apoc leaned back at that. "Do you recognize it?"
"Do you know what souls are made of?" Apoc asked.
"Don't change the subject," Sam said.
"This is germane," he placated. "The fact is, nobody knows what a human soul is made out of. It's one of the four great mysteries of Creation, along with where God came from, why God would allow something so obviously awful as the Abyss to still exist, and where Yaldabaoth is hiding. I've asked Purson myself. Maybe Penemue does, but I don't exactly have the ear of the Grigori. Fiend souls are made of a wet, hot gas, like steam. Imps' souls are made of the same black tar that comprises the Abyss. It flows through their veins. When they bleed to death, they die because too much of their soul is literally outside their body. Hellhounds are like fiends, but the gas is desert-dry. And the souls of angels are made of song, and cold, sterile white flame."
"Like your own," Sam said. Apoc's eyes narrowed. "For a while, I was fairly certain you were an Elder Devil, but between the things that you've said and the company you keep, you're actually from the other place. Most of the Ars Goetia have a strong public profile, but not all of them. And I'm presuming you're one of those outlier few."
"This seems like a bit of a stretch," Apoc said, expression guarded.
"And if I were to guess your real name... Andromalius, maybe? Although you seem very content with your goatish form."
"Sam," he said sternly. "You are a friend. So as a friend, I will ask you politely. Stop."
Sam paused. "If this is a sore subject, consider it dropped."
"It is," Apoc said.
"Then it is dropped," Sam said. Well that was abrupt. But then again, Sam had gone all this time without finding a single nerve from the goat. Reason stood that whatever triggers Apoc would have could well trip with a breath, given they were barricaded behind mile-thick walls. He then had a thought though.
"As long as that furrowed brow isn't about my past, I'm still willing to talk," Apoc said.
"I just had a wonder," Sam said. "If Angels are by their nature sterile, how did the Grigori have their children?"
"It is the angel's nature to be infertile. It is the human's nature to be fruitful. The latter trumps the former, as it turns out," Apoc said.
"Then how is it that the Ars Goetia have children?" Sam asked. Apoc raised a finger, then paused.
"That... is a very good question. One I will need to give some thought on," Apoc said. The cab zipped down an off ramp, then dove off into the parking lot of a motel. It was the kind of sleazy dump that people usually came to in order to cavort with other people's spouses, plan heists, or get murdered in the shower by Oedipal psychotics in drag. The signage was very much on point, claiming 'that guy that tried 2 kill u def isn't here'.
"And this is our rendezvous," Apoc said. He popped out of the cab and Sam, as was custom, was at his back. The door opened with a creak of just enough volume that it would waken anybody sleeping within. But there was nobody asleep on that pair of beds. Instead, there was an imp.
A one eyed, one armed imp with disassembled handgun parts arrayed on the end-table.
Sam grabbed Apoc by the shoulder and outright hurled the smaller being behind him, calling up the flame in him as the lighting of the room instantly transformed from moody orange to harsh electric blue. "You!" Sam said.
"What in Heaven's name did you do that for?" Apoc said, trying to round the Sinner who now blocked his path.
"I'd say 'howdy', but that probably don't exactly cover what's goin' through your mind right now," the impish assassin said. He didn't seem aggressive, and his gun was in pieces, so he didn't have a lot of obvious offensive options. But Sam knew from experience that this servant of Satan had more than just lead up his sleeves.
"Sam, knock on the head, now," Apoc said. "This is our client."
"He's..." Sam began.
"Obviously there's some sort of history between the two of you, but remember, SAM, that you are my employee in this, and I will not allow you to besmirch my good name as a Dealmaker. Whatever your problem with him, until I'm through with him, you will bury it. Is that clear?" Apoc demanded, dragging Sam's attention away from the imp and down to the goat.
"...fine," Sam said, his eyes moving back to the imp. He stepped aside and let Apoc enter.
"Thank you. Please forgive my bodyguard's impropriety, Striker. While he very usually remembers whose reputation is on the line here, sometimes even the best of us lapse," he said. "So what brings you to my office, so to speak?"
"Well, that requires a bit of explanation," Striker said. With his one hand, he started to slowly put his revolver back together. "Y'see, I was hired by someone to unravel a little mystery. Specifically, I was told to find evidence against the Radio Demon so that my recruiter could unleash all manner of nasty upon him."
"I see," Apoc said.
"I s'pose you do. Nathan Birch, he loops me into his feud against Alastor by telling me that the Radio Demon can cross the Pride Wall. And he tells me to find out how he's doing it, and to stop him by whatever means I see fit."
The Goat of the Apocalypse stiffened slightly when those words hit the air. He very pointedly did not glance back at Sam, because in the lack of all other things, Apoc was a professional.
"So I do my duty, as mandated by my Patron Satan. I do some reconnaissance. Interrogate some people. And what I find was... well... your man, there," Striker said, spinning the cylinder now that it was mounted once more into the frame.
"Explain," Apoc said.
"Well, do you know exactly who it is you've got standing at your back? 'Cause if you don't, you might want to look for another man. I've got a bad feeling something's gonna come for this one," Striker said, arduously slotting the last pin holding his pistol together into place. "Did you know that this one is actually a Sinner, not a Fiend? Elemental, even."
"I am aware of his nature," Apoc said.
"Well that explains the fancy piece of work on 'im. You put it there yourself?" Striker chuckled. Apoc stared flatly. What did he mean by that? "Anyway. I paid a heavy price to learn that, no, Alastor had nothing to do with the Pride Wall or passing through it. Birch just wanted me to hurt his enemy for him. And since Nathan Birch lied to me from the outset, I'm a touch irked by having to lose my arm and my eye for no fucking reason."
"Are you claiming that Birch proposed a Recruitment In Bad Faith?" Apoc asked.
"I am. And as evidence, I offer the ash under that one's fingernails, that once was a pound of my flesh," Striker nodded toward Sam. Sam rolled his eyes. He had showered since that fight, obviously. There wouldn't be anything of 'Striker' still on him. But when Apoc raised his hand and clenched his fist, Sam felt his left thumb twitch. With an incredibly odd sensation, something came out from the edge of his fingernail, packed against the skin. It was only a few grains of grey, but Hell wasn't a big stickler for quantity when it came to certain things.
"Be it known that on this day, Striker, Gun of Satan, Proxy of Satan, and assassin, levies a claim of Recruitment in Bad Faith against Nathan Birch, Proxy of Lucifer King Of All Hell, with the implied permission of the Great Sin of Wrath," Apoc said, his voice gaining the legion. "Terms stated were offence against Alastor, called also the Radio Demon, an adversary of the Defendant. Defendant is charged with knowingly calling upon Striker, the Pleadant to assail his adversary under the guise of doing shared duty to Satan and Lucifer. Evidence remitted grants that the target de jure of the Defendant was not Alastor, called also the Radio Demon, but instead an unidentified third party, and that this was not an error of ignorance but instead omission. Do you swear upon the oaths to Luciferean Law and upon the sanctity of your own name and body that this charge is accurate to the best of your awareness and understanding?"
Apoc held out his hand, which now crackled with green light, sparks of lightning dancing along the walls and ceiling. Striker stared for a moment, then took Apoc's hand. There was a bass thud that shifted the frames of every picture hanging on the wall. "Upon my name, my body, and my oaths to Satan, I state these claims are true."
"Then they will be judged by Naked Law. If you are found a liar, ruin will come to you. If you are found true, ruin will come to the defendant, upon his name, his form, and his oaths. This matter is hereafter considered to be closed, and shall not at any point in the future be contended," Apoc said. There was another loud snap, and the grinding of glass cracking on the blindered window to the parking lot. Apoc stared heatedly at the imp who's hand he held. "I trust that you have a good reason not to run screaming to the hills about what you saw that day, during your little incident?"
"Lucifer ain't my master. I ain't going to tell him shit, nor anybody who'd pass the word to him," Striker said, easy as you please. Then a hard look came to his eye. "So there's no reason to kill me with that knife you've got palmed in your other hand."
Sam's brow rose, as he noted that yes, Apoc was holding his left hand oddly, behind his back. "You don't get to make my decisions for me. But if this is the way of things, then I suppose there is no point in giving room-service a harder job than they already have," Apoc said. He yanked the imp a bit closer, eyes hard on his. "Where are you going to go now? I don't imagine Satan has much use for a crippled Gun."
"You might be surprised," Striker said. "But for the moment... I think I need to do a bit of rethinking things. My little tussle with your man taught me that I needed a shot of humility. Might be I have to take a bit of a trip down a different path for a bit."
"See that you walk it in a different direction from me," Apoc said. Striker nodded easily, and Apoc finally let him go. Without another word said, Striker picked a duffle off of the floor next to the bed, slung it over his shoulder, and started toward the door. Sam watched him the whole time he left, but Striker didn't for an instant look back.
"What now?" Sam asked.
"You are an insanely lucky person, Sam," Apoc said to the now emptied room. He turned a look back at him. "See that you don't become too dependent on that luck."
"That was never my method, nor intention," Sam said.
"Good. Now we've got a few more people to deal with in Wrath before we call it a day. Hopefully they're less bellicose than our Pride-born contracts."
"Knowing Wrath, little chance of that," Sam noted. Apoc sighed, and bid them out of the room.
This house was ancient. The manor of Lucifer's Chosen Proxy was as old as many of the palaces of the Ars Goetia, far less splendorous than those vaunted halls but certainly something aspirational for the teeming masses. There was a reason he didn't just pick one of the Ars Goetia for the position as his chosen voice. The lunatic hunger of the smallfolk made them much more useful, in certain ways.
Lucifer lounged in the chair usually reserved to the lord of this manor, leaving Birch to sit in the far lesser, more uncomfortable chair that he imposed upon his 'guests'. Not that anybody sane would come to this place. It was known far and wide that if you enter the house of Nathan Birch, you don't come out whole. Lucifer was staring somewhere behind and to the left of Birch's head as he yammered on and on about various bullshit that Lucifer hadn't assigned to him and didn't particularly care about.
The Great Enemy cracked his knuckles, loudly, actually breaking the bones and reforming them for maximum crunch. The noise got Birch to pause in his dry, unnecessary monologue. He was trying not to be cowed. But Lucifer made sure to ripple the skin across his avatar in just the most unsettling way to get the prim little shit to blanch. It was always fun to fuck with these lesser beings, a joy that he just couldn't get bored from.
He spared a glance at the female who was wearing rags that still left her more than half naked. According to his Overlord Report that he got at the end of each Purge, she was a former kingpin, an ex-nun who decided to partake in every vice the world above had to offer, before such excesses brought her to a place where she could truly spread her literal wings. It was even more pathetic than humans usually were to see Overlord O'Daire, once feared throughout Pentragram City, reduced to this. Her once muscular form had atrophied. Her scales, once bulletproof, now looked like skin blemishes and were about as protective. Her wings were tattered and stunted. She was a trophy to waste and abuse. And as far as Lucifer was concerned, that was her own fault for putting herself into a shitheel like Birch's cross-hairs.
"I'm hearing a lot of wasted time and wasted effort on petty bullshit," Lucifer interrupted and talked over him. And Birch, for all his pig-ignorance, knew enough to shut the fuck up when the adult was talking. The once-Overlord recoiled, but not from Lucifer. It seemed there was no fear left in this human for The Great Enemy, since it all belonged to Birch. "I told you specifically to find the Sinner who left Pride. I gave you that order months ago. And what do you have to show for it after all that time? Somewhere at the intersection of 'fuck' and 'all'. I am not impressed."
"Please, your grace, these things take time," Birch said genially. "As edifying as it is to string up the first scapegoat you find, it could damage your reputation if the person I bring forth gets turned to dust, only to have the Pride Wall be breached again. Better to be patient, to get it right. After all, there's nobody else who knows about this transgression against you. When the time comes, you will have your criminal knelt in front of you, to do with as you wish."
"Calls for patience are but one of the many straws that broke the back of Lucifer the Loyal, Birch. Even more so from my underlings, who I told to do their fucking jobs, only to have them pipe bullshit at me. I would almost start to believe that you were trying to buy time. And that makes me wonder... for what?" Lucifer said, imposing himself on Birch, expanding himself and contracting Birch so that to the Sinner, it was as though a giant were glaring down at an ant.
But something unexpected occurred. As he was preparing to mobilize the most furious parts of himself to properly show this insect his place, he felt the machinery of the Law that he'd put into place creak, and then Birch let out a gasp of pain. He tumbled from his chair, clutching at his face as the Law settled onto him. Lucifer turned away from his avatar, looking to the machinery he'd built into the fabric of Hell. So the prideful little turd had tried to hire somebody in LUCIFER'S NAME to attack a personal enemy? A genuine, if gruesome grin came to his avatar's face as he watched the skin of Birch's face split, from ear to ear across the bridge of his nose. Blood rilled from the wound, and skin retreated both north and south until there was nearly an inch of brown, shiny chitin showing through in the wound. And while the wound would have continued, to deglove the face that Birch had so foolishly clung to, Lucifer thought a more complete humiliation would be to show all of Hell that he was not just a fool, but a failure as well. With a twist of his will, he stopped the machine, leaving Birch to show just a hint of his true, verminous nature through his fleshy exterior.
"It seems that your time has not been spent as well as you're claiming," Lucifer said. He stood, glaring down at the partially unmasked human. "The next time I come to you, you will have this resolved. I will not allow any more wasted time or wasted effort. And if I find that you have propped up a scapegoat, as you've cautioned against, then your suffering will be sevenfold. Now. Go. Do your F̵̨̜̬̺̙̲̤̺͌̿̀͒ͅU̵̡̻͙̪̝̺̭̱̔̂Ċ̸͙̰͔̻̝̋̐̊̔̊̀̃̏̄̕͜͜Ḱ̸̺̞̊̂̎̚͠Į̸̡̰͎͇̫̯̖͔̓̄̽̿̉̅̈́͂Ņ̶̨̛̜̫̝̞̫̳͊̋̂͛̓̋́̓̕͜͝͝Ḡ̶̨̧̛̜̜̲̯͈̣͚͉̄̐̈́̂̔͋́̆̀̈̾͆ ̸̧̢̛̺͈̗̙̝̩͚͎͎̜̻̩̯̈́͊͆J̴͚̀̓́͗̄̈́́̿̀͂̽͝͝͠O̸͈̲͒͊̈́̂̚B̶̧̛̠̀̌̒̌͊̀̃͋́͠!̵̧̬̙̜̘̬͇̼̱̅̌̿̓" his last words were in an antediluvian roar. In that instant, Lucifer released control of his avatar, and let it burn down into liquid enmity, flaming ego, and a pile of rapidly dissolving, putrid flesh.
The relief that Moxie felt when they finally exited the swampy hell that they'd had to navigate through was palpable, even though it meant they were back in the muggy heat. Tilla was still out like a light in the back bench of the van, her children playing with various toys that they'd insisted on being brought with. Was this what I.M.P. was becoming? A snatching service? Doing it once was just bad luck. Doing it twice – intentionally that time – was worrisome. Now, Moxie was starting to think there was something of a trend that'd started.
"See, everything's fine. Stop being such a little baby about this shit," Blitz said.
"I would not be so sure of that," Krieg said from the passenger seat. She was staring at the rear-view mirror. "Go faster."
"Relax, the road is almost empty!" Blitz claimed. And then his wing-mirror exploded into shards of metal and glass as a golf-ball sized chunk of lead slammed through it from behind. Moxie stuck his head out of the window, and saw a portal had appeared behind them, cutting a car in half lengthwise and emitting a pair of what looked like military vehicles onto the spellwoven highway.
"Faster!" Krieg said, as she, too, stuck her head out the window. While the van did slam into its highest gear and raced down the late-night road, the vehicles in pursuit were catching up so easily that they may as well have been staying still. "I warned you they would notice our exit!"
"M&M, don't let 'em get my sister!" Blitz demanded. Moxie grumbled under his throat, but reached for the crossbow which was hanging from the ceiling. Most of his guns were back at the office, so he'd have to make do. "And don't fuckin' kill them!"
"That doesn't leave me very many options!" Moxie shouted at him, as the vehicle rammed into the back bumper of the van. He didn't lose the crossbow, but he had to pull himself in as a trio of Cruac Imps launched themselves down their own bonnet and onto the roof of the van.
Millie, though, didn't hesitate for an instant. Fast as a blink, she was out her window, and pulling herself up onto the roof with the intruders by tail-locking one, then with an easy twist of her body, hurled the imp into the ditch they raced past.
Moxie hooked his tail through the holes in the front bench seat, leaning well out of the window and taking a shot at the calf of one of the now pair of imps that were trying to flank and shank his wife. The bolt released with a muffled thwoop, only to have the bolt shudder to a halt next to the imp, then dropping down onto the roof to clatter away onto the highway. Of course they used Mage Armor.
The vehicle behind them rammed again, and another imp jumped onto the van, bringing the total back to three. The third took a glance at Moxie, idly aimed a flintlock at him, and fired.
Moxie yanked hard with his tail, and got out of the way of the bullet, then swung the crossbow up and in an arc, hooking it behind the imps heel. With the van's roof dappled with drizzle, and Moxie's superior leverage, he was able to heave and pull the leg out from under him and cause him to flop and cling to the side of the van. Millie ducked a knife-thrust, hooking her tail 'round the other imp, then using his footing to grab the one who'd tried to shank her, and hurl him over her in something of a suplex, albeit one that ended with her releasing him to an unpleasant fall to the middle of the road. The other car had to swerve to avoid hitting him.
Moxie tried kicking the Cruac imp that was holding his grasp, but the red-and-white imp didn't even seem to register Moxie's paltry blow. It wasn't until he looked past Moxie, and saw Krieg that anything came to his face. And that something was alarm. Krieg grabbed Moxie by his horn and levered him as flush against the van as she could get, then held out her hand, and spoke a word of power. When she did, a wall of prismatic force flickered into being at the point that his ankle dove into the van, and then, since it was stationary, it swept the imp off of the side with a sickening crunch and a splat of black blood.
"What are you fuckin' doing back there?" Blitz demanded. "If you kill them, their death-curses will buttfuck the lot of us!"
"I can undo a death-curse, have no fear!" Krieg countered.
"Really?" Blitz asked. Moxie could see her nod eagerly. "Well then fuck it! Kill 'em to your heart's content!"
Moxie quickly pulled a new bolt into place as Krieg let him swing out again. He gave a moment's aim to helping Millie, but considering the footwork she was putting in, there was an unacceptable chance of hitting her. So instead, he shifted his view to the other van, which was trying to zoom past and box them in. Thwoop, and the driver's window shattered, the imp driving causing the vehicle to swerve. It didn't crash, though, and Moxie could see another throwing the first imp out of the way and getting behind the wheel, before it started to accelerate again. The crossbow wasn't going to cut it.
"Krieg! Glove compartment!" Moxie shouted. The client nodded and opened the glove box... and then pulled an anti-materiel rifle out of it. A year ago, Moxie had questioned how Blitz got a van with a Glove Box Of Holding. Now he was just glad that he had. The gun was passed to Moxie who chambered a round and aimed, not even bothering to attach the scope. The lady-imps in the car that sped toward him held out their hands, one of them saying words of power and manifesting a prismatic sheen across the windscreen, no doubt to deflect bullets. Moxie wasn't aiming for them.
He aimed lower, and pulled the trigger.
The vehicle immediately went from overtaking to flagging, with Moxie's recoil swinging him into Krieg's window. She pushed him back out, and he took another shot into the engine block, shattering the other set of cylinders. Black smoke belched from the vehicle as it essentially started coasting to a halt. Millie, having finally gotten out of the imp on the roof's grasp, twisted his arm so hard that it snapped, and then used his own hand to stab him to death with his own knife, then kicked his body onto the highway.
"We can't hold them off forever," Moxie said as he pulled himself back into the van.
"We shall not have to," Krieg said. She then took a knife and punctured the back of her hand, and flicked the blood onto Blitz's steering wheel, again intoning the words of power. The landscape began to streak past in terrible fashion, as though they were travelling faster than sound. Moxie looked behind, but saw that while that had given them a number of van-lengths, it hadn't left the Cruac imps behind. Millie pulled herself back into the van.
"What'd I miss?" she asked.
"Just get to Pride," Krieg said.
"That's a three hour drive we ain't got enough gas for, ya know?"
"Three minutes, more like," Krieg said. And true to her word, they shot through the Wrath Wall, then through the Greed Wall beyond it no more than seventy seconds between them. The Cruac vehicle was catching up again, though, and the people hanging from the windows now had wicked looking swords and axes in hand.
Then, there was the shifting sensation of passing through the Pride Wall. Blitz slammed on the brakes and drifted the car to a halt just past the checkpoint, which at this time of night was barely manned. On the other side of the wall, the Cruac Imps slammed their breaks even harder, fishtailing themselves to a halt facing the other way. The imps who were still holding on glared hard at Blitz and his van. But though now only a hundred feet separated them, they all spat on the ground, pulled themselves back into their vehicle, and glumly drove away without another thing said.
"Why didn't they come through?" Millie asked.
"This is where the Radio Demon lives," Krieg said. "And Cruac has learned not to trifle with the likes of him. Now please, take us to where we can get my mother somewhere more comfortable to awaken. Today has been taxing."
"You'd better be worth it to me, kiddo," Blitz swore.
"Oh, I don't doubt I will," she said with a grin very much like his own. "Now if you don't mind, before we go to where we may rest, could we swing past a clinic? There is a chance I am pregnant and I will need that dealt with at once."
Theft is the greatest display of weakness a demon can show. It is a broadcasting to all who see that they have nothing but violence by which to pay for their desires. It is proof in point that they are without guile, without skill, without respect, and without means. Charity, therefore, is the greatest exercise of personal power. It tells the realm that one can give away what one has to no personal benefit, because it will weaken one so negligably. To be a demon in Hell in Good Standing, remember always to take what you want... and to always thereafter pay the price for it, in whatever currency you have.
Spasms 2:19 of the Biblica Iracundia, on the topic of Good Standing.