Val stood and said, “I’m finished. Let’s go. I want to show you my collection.”
Lucifer followed but responded, “I’m not passing up a chance to see a full set of Ember’s Demonica, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking the job.”
“Yes, it does,” Val smirked. “Hey, whatever happened to that boy you brought to the gallery? Are you two still a thing?” Val turned when she saw Lucifer had stopped following.
“No,” Lucifer said, her voice cracking. “That . . . didn’t end well.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Oh, he was cute, but Lucifer, you can do so much better than that boy. And you know what they say about there being plenty of fish in the sea.” Val sauntered up to Lucifer and slid her arm through hers. “Lucky for you, I just happen to be a master fisherwoman in need of a protégé.” Val pulled her along and continued, “But if you want, I suppose we could commiserate about the boys in our lives.”
“Like, what,” Lucifer said with a hint of skepticism, “over ice cream or something?”
“Ugh, god no,” Val said. “I have a friend who owns a lumberyard. Whenever I’m feeling down, he gives me thirty minutes and a chainsaw to do whatever I want. It’s surprisingly therapeutic.”
Lucifer couldn’t help but admire Val’s confidence and the way she held herself. She might look every bit the part of an art gallery owner, but Lucifer could easily imagine her buzzing her way through logs with a sawdust-flecked smile on her face. It was as if there was nothing in the world this woman couldn’t do, and she knew it. Lucifer liked her.
“Val,” Lucifer said. “I’ll take the job, but on one condition.”
“Doesn’t that make two conditions now?”
“Hey, cut me some slack. I’ve never applied for a job before.”
Val chuckled. “Fair enough,” she said. “What’s your condition?”
“You have to answer this next question honestly.”
Val stared at Lucifer, intently focused. “Of course, Lucifer. What’s your question?”
Lucifer took a breath and asked, “Do you really think my name is pretty?”
A broad, genuine smile spread across Val’s face. “Yes, Lucifer,” she said. “I really, really do.”
EPILOGUE
The Harlot patiently admired the collection of odds and ends displayed on her mantelpiece while her client relaxed on her couch, debating his next move.
“I think I can have you in three,” he said.
“No, darling, I don’t believe that you can.”
The Harlot ran an elongated finger along the mantelpiece, pushing a furrow through the dust with her finger until one of the items caught her attention. She took the amber jar from its perch and held it in the firelight. Inside, two shriveled orbs glistened in the thick liquid. The Harlot couldn’t help but smile at the memory of how those two spheres were once so black and beautiful.
“Your turn,” her client said.
The Harlot placed the jar back on the mantelpiece and returned to her throne. Her client, an older gentleman named Daniel Westinghouse, casually cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief, completely unperturbed by the sad state of the Harlot’s sitting room. Even in his fine navy suit, Mr. Westinghouse looked comfortable among the unkempt decor.
The Harlot took a sip of tea and then brought her focus to the chessboard on the table. Mr. Westinghouse’s pieces were arrayed haphazardly. Though he was a keen player, he was well aware of the Harlot’s innate ability to divine future events and was moving his pieces about randomly in a foolish attempt to confuse her. For some reason, she found it charming.
The Harlot slipped one of her pawns forward on the board. “Your move, darling.”
“Miss Harlot—”
“Just Harlot, darling.”
“Harlot,” Daniel said as he began studying the board anew. “The person I represent requires anonymity. Should someone come to you inquiring about him—”
“I will be obliged to produce that information, if my price is met. There are rules, Mr. Westinghouse.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, sliding his bishop to take one of her two remaining pawns. “Two moves, I’m afraid.”
“Oh my, but this is a conundrum.” The Harlot smiled to herself and made a show of contemplating her next move.
“As for the missing effects,” Mr. Westinghouse continued, “the person whom I represent is most eager to have them returned. I have come on his behalf to acquire their location so that I may retrieve them.”
“You will retrieve them? Darling, that way lies only sorrow. If you attempt to retrieve them, you will die. And I must confess, I have grown rather fond of you in our short time together. It would sadden me greatly if you perished in such pursuits.” The Harlot moved her pawn diagonally, taking one of Mr. Westinghouse’s own.
“Then what would you suggest I do?”
“I will give you the name of a person who can help you. Her services won’t be cheap, but they will be effective.”
Mr. Westinghouse repositioned his glasses on his nose and asked, “And what price must I pay you for this name?”
“You don’t need to pay me anything. The person whom you represent, however, does. Once this person returns the items to you, your client must express his gratitude to her. Personally.” The Harlot leaned back and motioned to the board. “Your move, darling.”
Mr. Westinghouse, committed to his strategy, quickly maneuvered his bishop into position. “I’ll have you in checkmate in one move, Harlot. As for your price, it will be very difficult. But not out of the realm of possibility. You have a deal.”
Mr. Westinghouse extended his hand. The Harlot grasped it with her own, but when the man pulled his hand away, a piece of paper rested between his fingers.
“What is this?” he asked.
“The name.”
Mr. Westinghouse nodded with a courteous smile and read the piece of paper. His smile sagged on his cheeks. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Harlot, but is this meant to be a joke?”
The Harlot took the paper from his hand, read the name, and said, “No, that is correct. Oh!” She slapped her knee and laughed. “I understand your confusion now. No, the person you seek is Luci Jenifer Inacio Das Neves. However, she prefers to be called Lucifer,” the Harlot said as she handed the paper back to Mr. Westinghouse.
“That is . . . unusual,” he said.
“Ah, the great Aether itself couldn’t hold all that is unusual about that girl.”
Mr. Westinghouse stood and bowed. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Harlot. And I enjoyed our game.”
“Sit, Mr. Westinghouse. Our game isn’t finished.”
Slowly, the man sat back down on the faded couch. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve lost. I’ll have you in checkmate in the next move.”
The Harlot examined the board. Mr. Westinghouse’s pieces were scattered, while the few pieces the Harlot had in play were isolated. She couldn’t help but notice how seven of his pieces seemed to form a misshapen circle, their long twisted shadows lying eerily across the board. But they were inconsequential now and no longer a part of his strategy. It was his queen that held the Harlot’s attention. It was a statue of flowing elegance, a white figure of carved alabaster that sat at the edge of the board, seemingly waiting for her moment to strike.
All the Harlot had left was a rook, a pawn, and her king. The pawn was at the top of the board, small, dark, and insignificant. The piece had been worn smooth from countless years of handling, but for a single scratch toward the top.
Almost where its shoulder would be.
The Harlot touched her pawn with a delicate finger and slid it into a square at the far end of the board. “Checkmate,” she said.
Mr. Westinghouse leaned forward, confused. “But I don’t understand?”
The Keeper of Secrets leaned back in her throne and said, “Your king is in line with my pawn.”
“Yes, yes, I see that,” he said. “But ho
w does that give you victory?”
“That is the beauty of this game, darling. If it can survive the journey,” the Harlot leaned forward and whispered . . .
“. . . a pawn may become a queen.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Books do not magically appear, no matter how much we might wish them to. Were it not for the indispensable help of these wonderful people, the book you now hold would still be lost among the secrets of the Aether. . . .
First and foremost, I must thank Johanna and Ross Richie for . . . well, everything. Their constant encouragement and support over the years is the reason I’m the writer I am today. Thanks to Carey Malloy and America Young for not only sharing their creative insights and professional criticism, but also for their invaluable friendship. Many, many thanks to Lou Anders for spearheading this project and to Rene Sears for getting it across the finish line, and to Matt Gagnon, Eric Harburn, Chris Rosa, Filip Sablik, and the whole BOOM! crew for helping bring the Hexed universe to life.
Lastly, thank you to my mom and dad for filling me with a love for words. For that, my life is infinitely richer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photo by Johanna Richie
Michael Alan Nelson was born in Portage, Indiana, and grew up in a small farming community before moving to Los Angeles in 2002. He is the winner of the 2004 New Times 55 Fiction contest for his short-short “The Conspirators” and was awarded the 2011 Glyph Comics Award for Best Female Character for the character Selena from his series 28 Days Later. Michael is the author of the critically acclaimed comic series Hexed, Dingo, and Fall of Cthulhu. He lives in Los Angeles. Visit him at his website michaelalannelson.com, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/michaelalannelsonwriter?ref=hl, or on Twitter @roquesdoodle.
Hexed Page 27
