by Peter McLean
Armand was my Papa, which in Haitian Vodou means he was my spiritual teacher. That meant, in the etiquette of Haiti anyway, that if I saw him somewhere I had to go over and interrupt whatever he was doing and say hello. It would have been unforgivably rude not to. That aside, I really wanted to know how he was getting on with the lovely Menhit.
“Of course,” Trixie said. “I’ll come with you.”
I nodded and we both threaded our way through the crowd to the craps table.
“Hello, Papa,” I said.
Papa turned and grinned at me. “Don-boy, how you doin’? Zanj Bèl, always a delight to see you.”
Menhit regarded me with her glowing golden eyes.
“Mother,” I said, perhaps a little belatedly. “Honour to serve.”
Obviously I should have spoken to her first. I realised that now. Too late, admittedly, but at least I realised it, you have to give me that much. I told you I was shit at the formal stuff.
“Keeper,” she said.
“Honour to serve, Mother,” Trixie echoed me.
Menhit nodded to her. “Guardian.”
Now that we had finally finished swapping titles and platitudes it seemed no one really had anything to actually say. Menhit towered over all of us, magnificent in a dark red designer evening gown that looked like it had been eyewateringly expensive. Her fingers glittered with diamonds, and there was a thick rope of gold and emeralds around her neck.
I touched Papa on the arm and leaned close to whisper in his ear.
“Are you all right?”
He grinned and nodded. “Fucking good,” he said. “I feel eighteen again, wi’ a cock like iron.”
“Um, right,” I said. “Good.”
That was a little bit too much information really. I dread to think what the two of them had been up to but it obviously hadn’t done him any harm, which was all that really mattered. Of course he must have been spending a fortune on her, but then he had a fortune so I supposed that was up to him.
“And Menhit?”
“She still adjustin’ I think,” he murmured. “The world not how she remember it, Don-boy.”
“No, I bet it’s not,” I said.
I winced as I heard her barking orders at a waiter, then at the croupier and even at the customer beside her, her fingers snapping imperiously to emphasise her frequent demands.
“People not quite how she remember them either,” Papa chuckled. “It goin’ take time, and lots of shopping I don’ doubt, but we get her there.”
I laughed, and he gave me a wink.
“Where your other friend,” he asked after a moment, “the one who likes guns?”
Damn it, Papa, did you have to?
Trixie was close enough to have heard that, and being reminded of Adam was the last thing she needed right then.
“He’ll be back before we know it,” I said, forcing a smile I didn’t feel.
* * *
Adam was back before we knew it all right – the wanker was waiting for us in my office when we got home that night. I nearly bit my tongue off when I saw the look of joy on Trixie’s face.
“Adam!” she said. “Adam, you’re alive!”
He did look a bit the worse for wear, truth be told, but there he was all the same. Oh sure his suit was ragged and burned, and he had a long cut under his left eye that only served to make the bastard look even more rakishly handsome than usual, but other than that he was as hale and hearty and annoying as ever.
“It was such a joy to see my adopted home again,” he said dryly. “I see you both survived. How?”
“Menhit killed the Dominion,” I said. I didn’t honestly feel like I owed him any more explanation than that.
“I see,” he said. “And where is our delightful goddess of slaughter now?”
“Fucking Papa Armand’s brains out, if I’m any judge,” I said.
Adam snorted laughter despite himself.
“Silly old man,” he said. “She’ll eat him alive. Literally, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Trixie gave me a bewildered look.
“I thought she was joking about that,” she said.
I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh,” she said, and Adam laughed again.
Trixie blushed and went to use the bathroom, and I found myself face to face with Lucifer once again. This was getting to be a habit, and that was something I never thought I’d get to say.
“You crawled back out of the pit again then?” I said.
Adam gave me a cool look. “I am a duke, in Hell,” he said. “That is not without its benefits.”
I sighed. I supposed it wouldn’t be, at that. I really didn’t like the bloke but credit where it’s due and all that. He was certainly connected.
Tosser.
“See any Dominions while you were down there?”
Adam showed me a cold smile.
“Just the one,” he said. “It was screaming as it burned.”
I realised I had never asked Adam why the Dominion had fallen, so I took the opportunity to pose the question.
“A war in Heaven, as I said,” he told me. “Trixie’s Dominion sought to bring Menhit through to use against the opposing faction, which was something of a desperate measure I think. A nuclear option, you might call it. To do that, to bring down the walls she had erected around herself, it had to summon Bianakith.”
“Yeah, I know all that,” I said. “But why did it fall?”
“It summoned Bianakith,” Adam said again, and gave me a level look. “That’s diabolism, after all.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And?”
“Diabolists go to Hell, Don.”
I swallowed. Oh wasn’t that a cheery thought, and that was without the Burned Man slowly eating my soul as well. I nodded slowly.
“I see,” I said.
“Go and feed your pet nightmare,” he said as Trixie came back into the room.
The bastard knew damn well I didn’t need to, but it was as good a way as any to get rid of me for ten minutes so he could talk to her in private. I walked through to the workroom and shut the door behind me. I put the light on and sighed, and ran my hands back through my hair. It was late and I was looking forward to a good long sleep. I still wanted to read Mazin’s book but it would have to keep until the morning now. Everything could keep until then, as far as I was concerned. I sat and leafed through one of my grimoires, killing time while I waited.
I was thinking so much about how good that sleep was going to be that I really didn’t give any thought to what Adam might actually be saying to Trixie out there in my office. Not until the door suddenly banged open and she marched into the room, anyway.
She froze in the doorway, her long evening dress swirling about her ankles. My heart crashed into the pit of my stomach as I saw the stricken look on her face. I slowly turned my head and followed the direction of her gaze.
The fetish of the Burned Man stood on the ancient altar at the end of my workroom where it always had, only now it hung lifeless in the tiny chains around its wrists and ankles. It was inanimate and thick with dust, and obviously hadn’t moved for weeks.
I swallowed hard.
Trixie stared at me.
“Oh Don,” she breathed. “Oh Thrones and Dominions, what did you do?”
Of course the bloody Burned Man chose that exact moment to wake up and take over again. I lurched to my feet and grinned at her.
“Hello, Blondie,” I said.
Acknowledgments
I can’t believe it’s only been ten months since Drake came out.
There’s a lot you can do in ten months, if you follow the advice of my old Sifu: “Do the work.” So I want to say thank you, Sifu, for that most practical of all advice.
I’d also like to thank the following for helping to bring Dominion into the world:
Nila and Chris, for beta reading once again – I’m sorry but the ingredients are here to stay!
My editor, Phil Jourdan at Angry Ro
bot, for his guidance – he doesn’t always hate everything, after all.
And of course Diane, for everything else. All the way around and back again.
About the Author
Peter McLean was born near London in 1972, the son of a bank manager and an English teacher. He went to school in the shadow of Norwich Cathedral where he spent most of his time making up stories. By the time he left school this was probably the thing he was best at, alongside the Taoist kung fu he had begun studying since the age of 13. He grew up in the Norwich alternative scene, alternating dingy nightclubs with studying martial arts and practical magic. He has since grown up a bit, if not a lot, and now works in corporate datacentre outsourcing for a major American multinational company. He is married to Diane and is still making up stories.
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talonwraith.com • twitter.com/petemc666
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He’s on the throne
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An Angry Robot paperback original 2016
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Copyright © Peter McLean 2016
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UK ISBN 978 0 85766 611 6
US ISBN 978 0 85766 612 3
Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 613 0
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