by Maribel Fox
I’m still yawning as I walk through the streets on my way to the new facility. Most Devils would just teleport, but what’s the fun in that?
First of all, you have to practice to get good at it — something I’ve never bothered to do. It’s a lot of work, and it’s not really a pleasant experience, just popping in and out of existence like that. And when you’re not good at it, you wind up in the wrong places. Frequently.
Second of all, you miss the sights — Hell’s a beautiful city, and there’s no shortage of shady characters operating questionable businesses. It’s Hell, after all.
Third… Well, I’m always hoping for something interesting to happen to me. I figure walking around ups my chances, even if it does mean I don’t get to sleep in as late. Not like I’m sleeping well these days anyway. Might as well wander around my city and enjoy it.
The facility I’m reporting to is on an upper circle — way higher than I can afford to live — and that means I’ve got a little bit of a hike doing things my way. Not that I mind. Learning the back alleys and smugglers’ routes is the only thing I’ve ever put much effort into. There’s a maze of intricate tunnels and caverns networking through the rocky walls of our domed home, and there’s not a whole lot in the way of main streets or clear paths to get anywhere.
Like I said, most Devils teleport just about everywhere. There are some portals, too, scattered around for those who can’t — or won’t — teleport for whatever reason, but I don’t like them much either. The magic’s not all that different, and the feeling of nothingness — even for that split second it exists — gives me the willies.
I live on one of the middle-ish circles, and the houses around me are pretty standard, modest. They’re houses like mine — clearly belonging to Devils that don’t care enough to bother with ornamentation or other displays of status and wealth. There are a few Demons that live up here too, those that have somehow earned the favor of the Devils, the ones that think they’re better than the rest of their kind.
It’s all bullshit if you ask me. An artificial structure set up by creatures that wanted to feel superior to others.
And the higher I go, the more bullshitty it is. The houses are fancier, the gardens full of sculpted topiaries and sparkling fountains. There are servants working on the lawns or cleaning the windows at most of these places, and it wouldn’t be much of a detour to my parents’ estate — if I wanted to go there. But I don’t. Not even a little. Luckily, I happen to know all the back ways to help me avoid going by their place. They’ve got a rimfront property anyway, so traveling back along the wall minimizes the risk I’d run into them, but I like to be careful. There’s a fissure that’s hidden behind some kind of massive monument. Even though I’ve used this tunnel a hundred times, I’ve never stopped to actually read the inscription on the monument.
Today’s not gonna be the day I do, either. I slip through the crack in the rust-colored rock wall, and it immediately opens into a wider tunnel lit with ever-burning sconces on both sides. In just a couple meters, the tunnel opens into one that’s even bigger, this one wide and tall enough that shadows eat the ceiling, much like they do in the city proper.
It’s one of the smugglers’ markets, and there are dozens of carts and stalls set up, just as many branching tunnels like the one I came from pouring into the main artery. It’s still early enough that most of the merchants are just setting up, some still sleeping protectively on a pile of their wares. Braver than I’d be, I think.
I haven’t been feeling great since I woke up this morning — not sleeping well for decades at a time will do that to you — but the further I go, the worse I feel. My head’s hurting now, and I don’t think it’s the pungent smell of Demonic spices coming from the food cart up ahead. Just to be safe, I head out the next exit and break through to fresh air the next circle up.
It’s not just my head hurting now, though. It’s my chest too, a tight, squeezing pain. A hot knife, plunging into my heart. Even though the pain lances through me, it’s gone in a second and it’s just my head hurting again, leaving me wondering if I felt it at all.
But I did. I know I did. There’s still a phantom ache at just the memory of it. Or maybe it is still hurting.
Fuck, I can’t even tell. It all hurts, and even though I can see the facility I’m reporting for duty at, I feel weak and nauseous and I’m half-tempted to turn around and go home.
That’s going to attract the wrong kind of attention though. Especially from my parents. My main goal in life is to avoid rocking the boat if at all possible. I didn’t ask to be on this boat, it’s a pretty lame boat if I’m honest, and I’m not all that invested in it.
I know that skipping my first day of work would raise eyebrows beyond my parents, too. Superiors might start wondering what I’ve got cold feet about, and even though I don’t know what they’re doing at this top secret facility, they could think I’ve found out— Not really the kind of trouble I want to invite on myself.
So I soldier onward, get to the gate and tell the guy my name. He calls someone, making a face at me.
“First day,” I mutter to him, rocking on the balls of my feet. I’m in freaking uniform, how hard is it to figure this out? “Guess they didn’t update your list?” I ask, after a few more moments of silence. Trying to make pleasant conversation.
“Mm,” he grunts, face not changing. He doesn’t believe me, I can tell.
“So… Is someone coming?” I ask, ‘cause he’s not talking to anyone now. He’s just sitting in his little guard booth, not looking at me.
“Mm,” he grunts again, slamming the window to his booth shut.
“Are you serious? I’m supposed to be going to work!” I call through the thick glass, but he’s not budging, not looking at me. A freaking statue.
What do I do now? I don’t even want to be here, my head’s pounding, there’s this aching hurt in my chest, and this promotion was suspicious from the beginning.
I should just go home and forget the whole thing.
“Tir Maalik, is that you?” I hear from behind me, within the gate. A prickle climbs up the back of my neck and I turn. I don’t know the voice; it’s always unsettling when a stranger addresses you.
“It is,” I answer stiffly, taking in the guy on the other side of the gate. He’s thin, athletic, maybe even a little wiry. He’s got dark brown hair that’s a little too long with the way it swashes across his forehead and almost covers one eyebrow. And his eyes — though bright, icy blue like mine — have a sunken look, surrounded by dark purple shadows that stick out in sharp contrast to his light, almost ivory complexion.
The man waves at the guard, and without a word exchanged between them, the gate opens and he waves me in with a smile that doesn’t go past his teeth.
“Hann Valephar, Scimitar of the Six Coins,” he says, holding out his hand, the smile so still it’s unsettling. I take his hand, shake it cautiously.
He chuckles. “Sorry for the reception. Even in a place with security as tight as this, our department operates under a certain veil of secrecy, I’m sure you understand,” he says, still with that fake chuckle as he leads me into the building. Inside, it’s not much different than the old prison I guarded.
“Not really, no,” I mutter. “I’m still kind of in the dark about what we’re doing here,” I say, following him to a large paneled door, guarded again.
“What we’re doing down here is helping Hell,” he says, turning back to me with a smile that still doesn’t sit well with me. The guy’s perfectly nice, but why all the secrecy if we’re ‘helping Hell’?
“How so?” I ask, the twinge in my head getting worse the moment we’re through the door. Not that it’s ever stopped, but it’s getting worse, I swear it is. I’m getting double-vision from the pain, swaying unsteadily on my feet.
“We conduct experiments here. Experiments which we hope will help us to unlock the powers necessary to bring Hell back in control of all the realms,” he says, chattering on a bit m
ore about Hell’s supremacy, and some of the other same bullshit I’ve been hearing my whole life, but I can’t really follow along because the agony is getting so intense. It’s taking everything I’ve got to maintain a straight face, to keep from crying out at every sharp stab through my brain or my heart.
Luckily, I don’t think Valephar notices. He stops in front of a large window, looking through it longingly, but I can’t manage to pick my head up. I’m standing beside, and slightly behind him, and struggling with all my might to shove away the nausea. My eyes are screwed tight as I wince through the pain and hope my new boss doesn’t decide I’m a lunatic on day one.
He’s talking and talking, and I focus on my breathing, in and out, clenching my fists, gritting my teeth through the tremendous strain.
What the hell is happening to me?
Was I cursed without realizing it? Poisoned? I can’t imagine who I would’ve pissed off enough to warrant either of those. Valephar’s tone shifts, and I open my eyes just in time to see him turning to look at me, still smiling, though this time it actually looks genuine. I force myself to focus on that, trying to figure out what he just said.
“I must say, if I weren’t needed elsewhere, I might envy you your position,” Valephar says, almost sounding wistful. The pain ebbs away, and I feel like I’m finally able to take a breath.
“So you’re agreeable to the arrangement?” he asks. “I know it’s a bit more unusual than what you’re accustomed to, and you’ll be sworn to secrecy. Of course you’ll be well compensated for your troubles.”
“Uh, yeah… Of course,” I mutter, not having any idea what I’m agreeing too. Unusual? What does that mean exactly? I wish I heard more of what he was saying, but how hard can it be to learn on the job?
I follow Valephar’s gaze through the window at last, and fail to hold in my gasp when I see the woman inside. There’s a cloud of… pink sparkles, that’s the only way I can think to describe it, and it’s holding her up in the air, suspended, her body — her perfect body, I might add — limp. There are others in the room, dressed in lab coats, frantically writing down notes and talking to each other, though I can’t hear anything through the glass.
The woman moves, her head turning toward the window, her eyes finding mine in an instant. I’m held there, breathless and frozen as her eyes shift from caramel to red, to violet and back again. Her lips part softly, and her eyes seem to be demanding help rather than asking for it.
But this is a prison. If she’s in here, it’s got to be for a reason.
I swallow, licking my lips.
“A succubus,” Valephar says, like I’m stupid for still being confused. I don’t know how to tell him that I missed my whole orientation because of a headache. “Her guards have an unfortunate habit of falling for her charms. I would advise against that,” he adds, a slight, imperceptible nod through the window to the scientists.
The pink sparkle cloud crackles and pulses, turning purple and red, writhing angrily. The woman suspended arches, her body convulsing, mouth open for a scream I can’t hear through the glass. It’s a delayed reaction, but the pain hits me too, a sudden wave of it that almost knocks me off my feet.
I’m clutching my gut, trying not to look like I’m about to fall over, hoping he doesn’t notice the layer of sweat on my forehead, pouring down my neck.
I didn’t pay a lot of attention — I’ll be honest — but I’m pretty sure none of this was in the job description.
Neither was a beautiful, tortured woman.
I’ve always hoped for something interesting to happen to me for a change. Guess I should’ve been more specific. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into here, but it’s definitely interesting.
3
Iseul
It’s not what I expected, this town. When I first heard word that there was a new Faerie Queen and that she’d established a Court, I had certain… assumptions.
A quaint seaside village in Oregon doesn’t really align with them.
This is the town though. I’m sure of that. The place is blooming with magic, Fae flowers bursting with colors too vibrant to belong on this plane.
There are worse places to spend a birthday, I suppose. This one has a certain charm about it, from the rocky shoreline of the bay, to the dense forest that abuts the main street into town, it exudes Pacific Northwest. All the way down to the misty hybrid rain-fog that’s making the road slick enough I’m having trouble keeping my bike steady.
It’s better than ice, at least.
I slow to a crawl as I head down the main road where most of the town seems concentrated — Foxglove Alley, an odd name for a street in an odd little town — and scan the local businesses. There’s a tea shop on one side of the street, and even from the road, I can smell spices and incense pouring out through the cracks. On the other side, some kind of antique shop — though what most people call antique, I call ‘that thing I forgot about for awhile.’ Hazard of being nearly a thousand. I don’t give the antique store a second glance, because it’s back behind the tea shop on the other side of the street that I spot a little path through the grass that looks like it goes someplace special.
Up a hill, to a house I can only see the shadowy shape of through the gray haze of the day.
I’ll have to check that out later.
Foxglove Alley winds through town, heading straight for the water before it curves to follow the coastline. It’s right at that curve that I find what I’m looking for — The Drowning Duck Diner — and turn into the parking lot, cutting off the engine, pulling off my helmet and shaking out my hair.
The sign for the place is a neon duck, upside down, underwater, his eye a sad little x. Weird sense of humor these guys have, but hey — a job’s a job. I don’t know how long it will take for me to earn the favor of the Court and convince them of what I need to convince them. In the meantime, why not work and get to know the locals?
Wind catches the door as I pull it open and I scramble to yank it back, suction pulling it all the way closed. I can tell my hair’s sticking straight up in places and run my fingers through it, smoothing it down, looking around at the tiny diner. Or, it looks tiny, until I realize it’s split into two halves. There’s a dining room off to my right, with a half a dozen booths and a couple of tables, too. Directly in front of me, and to the left, there’s an L-shaped counter, stools lined up along it, and in the center of the whole thing, an open kitchen with a griddle long enough to sleep on.
Not that I’d recommend it.
The whole building is wrapped in windows, and behind the counter seats, there are half-booths along the windows, big enough to accommodate two people, tops.
It’s a cute little place. I don’t get the name, but I don’t see any reason I need to, either.
“Hello?” I call into the diner. There aren’t any customers — I’m not even sure they’re open yet; I saw the ad online and knew it was too good to pass up when I was already curious about what’s going on here.
“Is there anyone—”
“Just a minute!” someone calls. A woman, it sounds like, maybe middle-aged, and struggling if I’m not mistaken.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, leaning over the counter, trying to see into the back where her voice seems to be coming from. Probably the pantry or walk-in? It’s not going to hurt for me to go back and make sure, earn some goodwill with the future boss.
“I said just a— Oh—” Just as I’m walking into the cooler, the old woman slips on the tile floor, and the stack of egg flats she’s carrying — probably ten dozen or more eggs — practically leaps out of her hands, flying through the air. She watches it, paralyzed in horror, waiting for the huge mess, except there’s no mess to be found, because I’m here.
I’m here, and I’m quick with my hands. It’s what I do — and why I’m so good at being a fry cook, among other things. I manage to rescue the entire stack, and when one wayward egg wobbles too much and goes toppling over the edge of the carton, I pluck
it from its fall without looking.
Yeah, I might be showing off, but goodwill with the boss. That’s all.
The old lady’s not looking very impressed though. The lines of her face are even more pronounced as she frowns at me, and snatches at the eggs.
“Give me those! What are you doing back here? Who said you could be back here?” she barks, shoving me out of the cooler, eggs between us like a shield. She’s hardly over five feet tall, but she’s like an angry chihuahua, eyes sharp and suspicious.
“I was trying to help!” I protest, holding my hands up, backing away, making it clear to this crazy woman that I’m not a threat. “I’m here about the job you posted.”
Her eyes narrow at me, so dark I can’t tell what’s going on behind them. She huffs, and turns to put the eggs away before facing me again.
“You a cook?” she asks. No nonsense, straight to the point. I like it.
“I have been before,” I say, shrugging. I’ve been just about everything at some point, but mostly I look for things that let me interact with people. This open kitchen is the perfect venue for my kind of showmanship.
The woman scowls. “Ain’t much of an answer. Whatchu got for me? Resume? References? Anything?” she asks, hands on her hips.
I shrug again.
“I can cook for you?”
Her gruff exterior cracks just a little, I’m sure of it. I see her mouth twitch at the corners, like she’s fighting a smile.
“That right?” she asks.
I nod. “Sure is. Give me a chance. I’ll prove myself to you.”
The old woman chuckles at that, a dry, wheezing kind of cough, and she shakes her head, silver and black hair all askew. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Iseul,” I answer, amused by the ‘kid’ endearment. If only she knew how old I really am.
