by M. K. Gibson
“Good. And did you explain to him the time frame as we discussed?”
“Yes, Lady Bathin.”
“Excellent. Now, one more matter to attend to,” Bathin said, smiling at Maz’ael. During her reign thus far as archduchess of Ars Goetia, Lady Bathin had given the appearance of being fair and somewhat matronly. Approachable. It was time to change that.
Bathin summoned a small amount of will to power her innate gifts. As a Pride demon, she was gifted with Movement.
One moment, she was sitting in her chair, holding her razor-sharp steak knife. Then, in a swirling flash of condensed blue-white energy, she was behind Maz’ael, gripping his horns in one hand and pulling his head back while holding the razor edge of the steak knife against his throat.
Maz’ael held deadly still while Mastema and Gerhardt watched with shock and interest.
“Archbishop Maz’ael,” Bathin said coldly, “as one of my vassals, you are a representative of me at all times. As such, when you are beaten, I am beaten. If you appear weak, I appear weak. Do we understand one another or should I begin looking for your replacement?”
Maz’ael didn’t move. He only whispered, “I obey, mistress.” Bathin addressed Mastema and Gerhardt as well. “Flotsam is within my borders; this message is applicable to you as well.” Mastema narrowed his six eyes and nodded only slightly. Bathin was powerful, but she knew not to push the angel too far.
A flash of brilliant white light burst in the room and coalesced into Ricky sitting at the head position of the table. He chewed on his lit cigar and put his boots up on the table. In his human form he looked almost comical, like a child at a large table.
Yet no one dared laugh. Not at Ricky. Not at Lucifer Morningstar, the Lightbringer.
“Bathin, drop the knife, you made your point,” Ricky commanded, and Bathin hissed. Ricky put his arms overhead, interlaced his fingers behind his neck, and bounced the biceps in his thick arms. “If I have to tell you twice, you will regret it. I’m all for a little steel in your spine, but don’t confuse confidence with stupidity. Back in your chair. Now.”
Bathin obeyed this time. She did love it so when her lover was forceful.
“Now, is everything going according to plan?”
“Yes, Lu—” Mastema said, and Ricky gave him a look. “Rictus.” Mastema corrected himself. “I do not understand why you continue to use this persona.”
“Short answer, I’m not ready for the princes to know I am coming for them. Let them continue to see me as ‘Ricky.’”
“Shall we eat . . . Rictus?” Mastema asked.
“Not yet, still waiting on two more guests,” Ricky answered.
“Who?” Lady Bathin asked.
“One moment,” Ricky said, holding up his hand, silencing the archduchess.
From behind Rictus, Bathin saw the air shimmer for a moment. The air coalesced into the form of a creature with four wings, a lion-like face, talons, and a tail. Pazuzu, Babylonian Demon of Air and Rictus’s spy.
“Pazuzu,” Bathin said as the demon plopped down in an empty seat and began lapping at a glass of water.
“Evening, Bathin. Boss,” Pazuzu said as he quenched his thirst. “Man, it is hell out there, metaphorically speaking.”
“Thank you for keeping an eye on Salem all this time,” Ricky said to his loyal spy.
“No problem, boss. But that pet human of yours gets into so much trouble. You have any idea how hard it is keeping him safe? Altering air flows at split-second timing to ensure his survival is a full-time gig. I mean, he’s good, but no one is that good. Does he honestly think he’s that lucky all the time?”
“Yes,” Ricky said. “But his hubris is entertaining.”
“Whatever you say, boss. Can we eat now?”
“We are waiting on one more of my allies.”
“I am here,” a woman said as she walked though the dining room’s main door.
Bathin eyed her and did not recognize her. What was this human doing here? “A new pet, Rictus?”
“Don’t get jealous,” Ricky told Bathin.
The former Lord of Hell stood and embraced the new woman as she entered. “Ahh, Abigail. Right on time.” Ricky addressed the new woman. “Or do you prefer Vox?”
“While we’re discussing business, use my professional name.”
“Vox it is then,” Ricky said.
“Oh, aye, then should’n I be call’n yea M’lord Cernunnos then?” Vox asked with an Irish lilt to her voice.
“Oh, please. It’s been long, long time since I was the Horned One. Just Ricky.”
“Pardon, Rictus,” Gerhardt interrupted, “but isn’t she the reporter?”
“Yes, I am,” Vox said. “One of my identities.”
“Then why is she here?” Bathin asked, her tone showing her disapproval.
“Vox?” Ricky said with amusement.
Suddenly, Abigail Bird, Vox, slumped forward, hitting the ground. Her lifeless body lay upon the floor. From her corpse, a swirling mass of grayish black cloth and a skeletal face emerged, looming over the table, floating like a specter of death staring at the other guests with black, hollow eye sockets. A keening wail burst forth from the apparition and echoed across the room.
“A banshee?!” Bathin said. “How? They are . . . corrupted.”
“Not this one,” Ricky said. “That’ll do, Vox.”
The banshee nodded to her master and drifted along the floor, as she dissipated into gray-black smoke. The tendrils of smoked flowed into the body of Abigail Bird, who rose from the ground.
“Saints be. I need a whiskey,” she said as she took the final seat at the table.
“You never cease to impress,” Bathin said to Rictus. “But you often take too big a gamble.”
“I took a gamble dragging her Irish ass out of the Verdant Massacre. But I liberated Vox from the rest of her corrupted kin, no longer the twisted spawn of the Deep Ones. And hey, look how that’s worked out,” Ricky said. “Vox runs the most prestigious contract assassin guild in the city.”
“Speaking of which, you owe me for my dead man.”
Ricky waved his arm in dismissal. “You have plenty of his copies left. Speaking of, I am going to need a lot of them for the next phase. So, up production. Now, Maz, what’s the status update?”
Maz looked at his portable holo-terminal, nodding at the information. “Salem has already broken into the complex and retrieved the children,” Maz informed Rictus. “And, allow me to say, thank you for including me in your plans, m’lord.”
“Stow that m’lord shit for now. You can genuflect later. When Salem succeeds, a whole new world is going to begin. So I need your heads in the game and not worrying about pomp and circumstance. And I sure as shit don’t need any infighting. From ANY of you, understood?” Ricky asked, eyeing everyone at the table and each of them nodding their acquiescence.
“Good, now let’s eat. I am starving,” Ricky said as his form shifted and grew into a much larger version of ‘Ricky.’
Once the dinner was complete, Gerhardt invited the group to his office for brandy. There, the group relaxed and enjoyed a glass of the nephilim’s liquor and made small talk. Bathin was sitting on a chaise lounge, the picture of elegance, while the archbishop attended her.
Mastema stood like a silent sentinel at the far end of the room while Pazuzu had his muzzle in a large-rimmed glass of alcohol. Bathin found the lapping disgusting, but Pazuzu himself was effective and comical.
Inside, she was burning to ask many questions of Rictus, as was everyone in the room. Rictus himself stood by the bay window behind Gerhardt’s desk, looking out on the remaining chaos over the island.
“Heh, Salem sure did a number on this place.”
“Indeed, Lord . . . Rictus,” Gerhardt said, opening his box of cigarettes.
Rictus eyed the box and sniffed the air, then smiled. He then walked over to take a seat in a leather chair.
“Too bad about Gh’aliss. And her children.”
; “Nothing to worry over,” Gerhardt said. “We have already collected the body of the older daughter. With some work, I think I can turn her into a very special weapon. Too bad the other was blown out into the bay. No doubt consumed by the Deep Ones.”
“The spawn of the whore were merely a distraction. Spies sent by Dantalion,” Mastema rumbled.
“Danny is nothing,” Rictus said. “That level of planning and research was done by his father.”
“Belphagor?” Bathin gasped. “The Prince of Sloth? He is involved?”
“Without a doubt,” Rictus confirmed. “Bell is a helluva planner. Anything Danny came up with, Bell was behind it. Of all my princes, Belphagor might be the most dangerous.”
“Over the other princes?” Mastema asked. “Surely Amon the Prince of Wrath, or even Leviathan, should he ever be seen again.”
“Angry and big they are. But nah, Sloth is the hidden danger. The one who shows up when you least expect it.”
“If you say so,” Mastema said, shrugging.
Bathin noted that Rictus was still smiling. And she knew when the Devil smiled, bad things soon followed.
“So, does this current body suit you?” Ricky asked Vox, who came to take a seat next to her lord.
Bathin watched their conversation and seethed inside. The familiarity between them was . . . unsettling. She could never confront Rictus about it. Not directly. He would accuse her of being jealous, which of course, she was not.
“For now. ‘Abigail Bird’ has her perks as a journalist,” Vox lightly laughed as she spoke to Rictus. “It gets me into places where I can dig up the juiciest intel on almost anything. Good for my contracts as well. But when she is no longer of use, I’ll change. The best part of being a Wailing Spirit of Death is I can change meat suits as one changes clothes.”
“Indeed,” Ricky agreed.
“Oh, one last thing. The lightrunner. I asked him out and he said yes. Then you ensured he went to prison. Bad form, Old Scratch. I’m still waiting on that date.”
Ricky snubbed out what was left of cigar, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t hold your breath for that date. If he is to be my sword, then his edge needs to be tempered. We’re only a few moves away from introducing him to the real enemy. The one who truly stands in our way. The pain and suffering for Salem has just begun. What comes next for him is far beyond what he has already been through. In fact, he is going to beg for his time in prison compared to what is coming. “
“Rictus, may I ask, why the children?” Bathin asked. “Surely Salem would have done it without them.”
“Because,” Ricky began as he lit a new cigar between sips of his brandy, “when you set the hero on his journey, you need to give him the tools to succeed. Otherwise, he is doomed to fail.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not supposed to. Trust in me. Remember, I have done this before. Setting the stage for the players to act out your grand vision is a delicate art. A nudge here, a nudge there. Now drink and relax. Things are going exactly as planned.”
“Of that, we have no doubt,” Gerhardt said as he took a cigarette from his box and put it in his mouth. With a flick of his lighter, he lit the cigarette.
Instantly, the cigarette exploded, blasting away the nephilim’s face. The force of the blast propelled Gerhardt’s body through the bay window and onto the courtyard below.
“What the shit was that?!” Pazuzu yelled between his lapping slurps.
Everyone leaped to their feet and rushed to the broken window. Everyone but Rictus, Bathin noted.
“Heh, so glad I taught him that trick,” Ricky said, snubbing out his cigar. “Too bad it takes more than an exploding cigarette to kill Rasputin. But it was a good try, kid.” As he took a final sip of his brandy, Lucifer vanished in a flash of brilliant white light.
About the Author
M. K. Gibson is a husband, father, a retired USAF MSgt and a lifetime geek. Ever since he saw the Rankin-Bass The Hobbit movie in 1980, all he ever wanted to do was create and tell fantastical stories.
M. K. Gibson lives in Mt. Airy, MD with his wife, and first-line editor, Valerie, their son Jack, their schnauzer Murphy, newfoundland Sully and their cat Mini.
Follow M. K. Gibson on Twitter at @GibsonMK1, Facebook author page and read updates and insane blogs at MKGibson.com.
