[36] Nothing Beside Remains

Duke Meretryce was, unsurprisingly, in his manor. He'd retreated there after fleeing the castle. When Shannon arrived and directed the soldiers to carry the queen somewhere to rest he swept out grandiloquently and unleashed a massive speech expressing gratitude for Shannon and Mallory's safety, applauding the successful attempt to retake the castle, and offering to fetch the kingdom's best leeches to tend to any wounds. He might have prattled indefinitely if Shannon didn't cut him off.

"I don't care that you fled your post. In fact, I'm glad you did. Mordac and Tintzel and DeWint all got themselves killed by staying behind, so it's only you left."

"Ah, yes, but—"

"And that Duke Malleus you guys keep mentioning. Is he ever going to show up? People have promised he'll show up for the past two weeks. Where is he?"

"Duke Malleus ought to arrive soon—"

"Whatever. More importantly: Forget the leeches. I'm putting no faith in medieval medicine. I'll dress her wounds myself. If you want to be useful, go to the castle and direct the soldiers. Restore order. Fulfill your function."

"Certainly, Lady Shannon. Certainly! At once. Without delay!"

He bumbled off. As he did, Shannon pondered idly that he was not so dissimilar from his nephew after all. Still—she'd have to keep an eye on him.

Mallory rested on a luxurious bed that instantly became bloodied. Despite the severity of her wounds, though, she wasn't bleeding much. Ordinarily Shannon's instinct would be to remove the breastplate to make Mallory more comfortable, but given the severity of her injuries the Armor of God's resilience-bolstering effects might be keeping her alive. Lacking disinfectant Shannon made due cleaning the wounds with alcohol (of which the duke possessed ample amounts) before bandaging them. Nursing exceeded the scope of her specialty but she imagined she did an excellent job all things considered. Yawning, she decided to rest her eyes a moment and return to the castle to assist Meretryce. So much would need to be done. Who knew if they really stopped the fire like Gonzago said. Even assuming they did. Reinstitution of basic civic functions. Temporary emergency measures... Perhaps an opportunity to introduce new document-keeping...

Shannon woke up.

Someone was knocking at the door.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Checked on Mallory, who slept peacefully, her bandages in need of a change. The door kept knocking and she tossed an annoyed hand at it. "What?"

"Lady Shannon," said Gonzago, "I have returned!"

Already? She checked her phone. Ten hours gone—fuck. And no messages. Not from Mother. Or Dalt. Or anyone.

Outside, in a corridor rendered dark by its distance from windows, casting furtive glances over his shoulder constantly for a reason Shannon could not discern, Gonzago told his story.

"As ordered, milady, I hopped upon my most trusted steed and galloped as fast as the beast's legs would take me toward the black tower. Though the path were long and fatigue weighed heavily upon me, I persisted, striking myself at times to ensure I remained alert as I neared the known edge of our world. Though my road, which led to the Door, was oft untraveled, an eerie quiet settled upon me, a dread I have a difficulty placing into words, perhaps caused by the image, ever-clearer, of that looming tower. It may sound mad, milady, but I became certain as I watched it that it was watching me in turn. Believe me when I say there can be no good that comes of that tower. None at all. Never has such unease gripped me, such icy cold within my spine. I heard a whisper somehow above the pounding of my horse's hooves. I stopped and looked, there in a tree beside the road I thought I saw a face peering out at me—I looked again and it was gone, but no sooner had I reassured myself of the fact than another whisper muttered something from the other direction...

"I was close to the Door at this point; indeed, I could see the small forms of the mausoleums in the distance. Some say that ancient graveyard is haunted by the restless spirits of ancient kings, dismayed by the present state of their country, and for a moment those childish ghost-tales filled my mind. My hand fell to the hilt of my sword. Milady, foolish though that action may seem to you, it saved my very life. The next moment a—a creature was upon me. It was shaped like a human yet I knew it at once to be nothing of the sort, nor any fae either, elf or otherwise. It moved like a dog, belly upon the ground, crawling with its head twisted all the way around so its scalp dragged through the dirt and its cackling chin bobbed in the open air. It spoke no language I know and—and it was red, its skin as red as the devil."

Shannon stared at him. Attempted to discern any trickery. Meretryce directing his nephew to feed her some story, for what reason she couldn't know. "Red? Its skin was red."

"Aye, milady."

"Did it have horns? A tail with a barb?"

"I—I admit I gained not the clearest look at its appearance. And its head was upside-down, perhaps it did have some horns that dredged deep into the dirt... I think I recall such a thing, now that you mention it."

Perfidia Bal Berith. Or one of her kind?

"My horse reared back; I was unseated. I toppled backward, hitting the ground roughly, yet my soldier's instincts had brought my hand to the hilt of my blade, as I took care to establish earlier. The creature, seeing my state of vulnerability, put on a burst of speed and—and opened its mouth wide, as though it sought to devour me whole in a single gulp. I slashed my sword and it screamed; that scream placed within me a fear far worse than its chuckling murmurs. My terrified steed galloped away without me and though I repelled that first attacker I discovered that more were coming, crawling out of tufts of tall grass or shrubs beside the road, more still streaming from the cemetery where the Door resides. All came from the direction of the tower and I knew then that the tower must be the cause of this.

"Though I was not unduly afraid to stand and defend myself, I knew above all else I must return to warn you and the people of this new threat, forced upon us so soon after the last. Alas, my legs, numbed after hours of riding, became as liquid. I stumbled, pitched forward and received this scrape you see here upon my chin. Turning, those horrible faces swarmed upon me, and I resolved myself to not allow my life to be bought cheaply—be assured of that! Yet, I now stand here before you. I wish I could tell you I fought the fiends off through my own valiant effort, but the truth is... I was saved."

"By whom."

He paused and glanced over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward; his face close enough to Shannon's to whisper. "Promise me, milady, that you shall maintain your steady calm. My savior is... unnatural. I have known her a long time; indeed, there was a time in my youth I heard talk of an arrangement for marriage. She is—she is the daughter of the late Duke Mordac, though much changed."

"And she's here? I'll be fine. Bring her in."

"Very well. May I present to you—"

He half-turned toward the darkened area he'd indicated before with neurotic glances. There, in the deep shadows, the new night now that night was day, something stirred. It shifted slowly, then with a rapid flutter. Planes and angles of it emerged into what low and whitened light remained in this inner crevice; an incandescent eye, shrouded by hanging tousles of sandy hair, from which bobbed twin antennae. The head, despite its eyes, remained like a woman's, though the body beneath, shrouded in the white folds of a well-kept nun's habit, was segmented and uncannily thin. Four gangly arms hung from the shoulders and two legs hung too, though their feet dangled with only the very tips of the toes touching the carpet. Instead the wings suspended her, long and sharp as they whirred at hummingbird pace.

The spectral sight did little to unnerve Shannon. On the contrary. She knew this one.

"I am Tricia," the hornet said, an aristocratic air to her enunciation.

"Tricia of Mordac," Gonzago amended. "The duke's sole surviving child."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Shannon said, "though we've met before. I remember you at the mess hall of that monastery."

Tricia tilted her head. She seemed surprised by something. That Shannon remembered her? How would Shannon forget any of those bizarre women? Maybe it was something else.

"I remember you too, Shannon Waringcrane—sister of the hero. You gave a most interesting speech."

"Yes, yes."

"About how we ought to... maximize our productivity, yes?"

"Correct. It made no sense to me why you women were kept up there like lepers. But I've come to learn this society is horribly optimized in no small number of ways. What shocks me most is that you're the duke's daughter and they still treated you that way."

"Yes, well," Tricia said, and then laughed. The laugh came out as a series of buzzes: zz, zz, zz. "Lord Gonzago overpraises me. I am no longer that man's daughter, by his decree and my own."

"I see. And why's that?"

"You care? You care, heroine? You don't simply wish to pontificate at me? Let it be known, I am ill of those who enjoy speaking long and sanctimonious speeches. I've been fed a surfeit of them."

Shannon leaned against the wall of the corridor, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle as she folded her arms. She pushed Gonzago aside with a glance and looked Tricia up and down, considering. She needed information from this one. She ought to proceed diplomatically.

Then Tricia spread a sickly smile. "It's the queen in that room there, isn't it? I can tell. I'm not certain how, but I can sense her. It's not a smell, but a kind of... presence that emanates from her, even through the wall. She's there, isn't she?"

A bee able to sense her queen. "Yes."

"I can... sense her on you, too, Shannon Waringcrane."

"She was injured. I helped carry her here."

"Ah. Is that the full extent of your relationship?"

Those insect eyes stared back with a certain degree of haughty pride despite their lack of pupils or irises. Shannon met the curving smile with a frown. "I would expect one of your status to consider the impropriety—"

"Oh, you sound excellent. You fit in here perfectly," Tricia said. Gonzago, cleaved to the wall between them both, glanced back and forth anxiously, forgotten by both. "Fear not. I ask from experience. Queen Mallory has had favorites before you, heroine, let it be well known. She used to teach me fencing. And I wasn't like virginal little Lalum, I was quite receptive to the affections she showered upon me. Things progressed... quite far between us, even. It invoked my father's displeasure. He'd never been pleased by me, since I was a walking representation of his own failure against the temptations of the flesh, but this crossed a threshold he refused to accept. Yet he could not forbid what the queen desired. Hiding me away in his country manor didn't stop her, nor did disowning me. Then one night, strange men burst into my room—my room which ought to have been under the auspices of the ducal guard—and threw a bag over my head. They carried me to God-knows-where and..."

The smile cracked. The head tilted; the antennae twitched. The haughtiness faded.

"I eventually ended up in that nunnery. And somehow, that was only the beginning of my tribulations..."

"Awful," Shannon said. And it was. In a modern society, one that functioned efficiently and by rule of law, such miseries would cease to exist. But Shannon failed to eradicate all trace of impatience from her voice.

"I really did believe," Tricia said, "that there'd be a change once that lizard-woman appeared. I thought if we had the Master's power on our side—But it was all a lie, all lies, it's always all been lies. And we've always all been trash, highborn or low, hm? Or have they treated you well, heroine? I wonder—is that from being the heroine, or because you remained close enough by the side of the one woman strong enough to protect you..."

"Your father is dead," Shannon said.

"Lord Gonzago informed me. Forgive me for not shedding tears over the matter."

"I don't care if you've been disowned. You're the heir. That makes you Duchess of Mordac now."

"Ha! Really? You think such a flighty thought? Oh my. Oh my!" The zz, zz, zz, zz, zz repeated with the same irritation as a fly in your ear. "Look at me. Look at me! I am a monster!"

"I told you before at the monastery, I don't care what you look like. And nobody has enough power to overturn my will," Shannon said, not certain how much she believed it, but suddenly certain she would make it so. "Mordac is dead. So are Tintzel and DeWint. That means the church and the academy are out of the picture and the dukedoms are crippled. Meretryce will almost certainly attempt to shore up his power and absorb whatever he can from the deceased. I can't let him do that. I cannot allow this country to continue in such a precarious political state. There's something insane on the horizon and Gonzago is talking about devils crawling over the countryside; disunity will bring ruin. I'm the heroine and I have the queen's power behind me. If I say you're the Duchess of Mordac, it's so. Then I'll have Meretryce hemmed in on all sides—his own peer now my ally, his nephew as well." She nodded to Gonzago, who with a trembling smile nodded back. "We'll command complete control of the country. Not only will we be able to repel this new threat and deal with the tower, but we'll be able to enact a more efficient, advanced, egalitarian society."

"No," said Tricia.

"A society exactly like the one I described at the monastery. A society where all are able to produce to their maximum extent, regardless of gender, race, or appearance. A society where—"

"I said no!"

Shannon had gotten excited. The speech was impromptu but it'd come easily. Her head whirred with more than she said, thoughts of structures, systems, machines to be implemented, laws and fairness, an elevation of Whitecrosse until it mirrored that glistening glass city on the horizon. It was enough to distract her from the immediacy of the issue regarding the black tower and, of course, that glass city's manifestation, and when Tricia so sharply snapped back Shannon fell to solid ground and cleared her throat in embarrassment.

"You are exactly like her," Tricia said.

"Like the queen? Nonsense. I know the queen very well, as you intuited. We could not be more unalike—"

"Not the queen. The queen's damnable daughter."

"Daughter—Mayfair?"

"Exactly like her. Exactly, exactly. Preaching and preaching. It'll be a better world for us all. A better world, even for the poorest, damnedest souls. All will be elevated, all will be happy. And just like her you believe it. You truly believe it, it's not even a lie, it's not a lie because you need to believe it as much as all the poor souls do. Rich or poor—and I've been both—there's no panacea for the soul other than words like these. Fantasy, fantasy is what we eat. But you already see me as a pawn even if you don't realize it. Duchess of Mordac—your pawn to keep Meretryce in check, to carry out your bidding, to discard if the movement is advantageous. Like Obedience and Charm and Cinquefoil were all discarded without even a twinge of remorse. I am depleted, heroine. I cannot take more. It is now my time to bow out of this farce and retire to some obscure corner where I may sleep in peace. I am here solely because I saw an old friend imperiled on my way and obliged his persistent request to speak with you. I have done so; farewell."

"Wait," Shannon said, but Tricia was turning anyway. "Wait, at least—the tower. Do you know anything about the tower, or Cleveland, or what happened? Please—"

"Sweet Tricia."

That voice. Rasped somewhat. But it was the voice. Tricia froze. No, more than froze, seemed to deactivate, whatever intricate machinery keeping her body afloat lost power as she sagged against the wall. Gonzago's eyes bulged and he shot to straight-postured attention. And a creeping chill spread over the nape of Shannon's neck.

"Sweet Tricia, after so long apart, you'd leave without wishing me well?"

"Your—Your Majesty," Tricia mumbled.

Queen Mallory stood at sharpened slant across the breadth of the corridor, having emerged into it in perfect silence, so that upon turning Shannon couldn't help but jolt at the phantasmagoric sight within the pale beams. The condition of Mallory's face didn't ameliorate matters. She'd peeled off the bandages and left a long wide crescent curve reaching from the corner of her mouth to just under her cheekbone. Whatever regenerative powers her armor—which she continued to wear—afforded her, they'd halfway sealed the grievous rend in her cheek, but left this macabre carved grin in its place, in some ways even more unsettling. Most unsettling of all was that this wretched scar did so very little to mar the innate beauty of the queen's face. It was like a photo in a magazine, where some pen mark had landed upon the model by accident; one was capable of ignoring the mark, binning it as an extraneous incursion onto the photograph that remained otherwise flawless beneath, yet at times the mark would surge back into the forefront of one's awareness, returning with as much unexpected force as the first time it was seen.

"Your Majesty," said Gonzago.

"You should return to your bed and rest," Shannon said. "You—"

"I feel fine." Mallory's eyes glowed pure and blue. "I feel better than I ever remember. I feel alive, and I can't sleep anyway with you three chattering so much. I heard the thrust of it. Monstrous creatures is it, encroaching upon our land? Ha, ha!" A full-throated laugh, a piercing alacrity. Shannon sighed; of course. There wouldn't be any persuading her. Whatever. No point trying to hold her back anyway. Better to focus her efforts on some slight adjustment to the queen's trajectory before she launched herself straight into a wall like a bullet.

"Now, you"—Mallory aimed a finger at Tricia's face and Tricia went still against the wall—"You'll do as my pet tactician says. All these dry political matters I leave to her, so you can accept her commandment as my own. If she wants you close, I want you close. Understand?"

The finger fell and Mallory seemed to banish Tricia from her thought immediately, possibly preparing to voice some order for Shannon to prepare Whitecrosse's remaining soldiers. Before she could, Tricia spoke:

"My queen. You know my respect and love for you. The years we've been apart never dulled your image in my mind. But understand. I cannot accept your order. I am no longer part of this kingdom—I am no longer part of anything. I cede my meager role in these proceedings."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Shannon was shunted against the wall as Mallory strode forward, past Gonzago, to the hunched insect whose endlessly segmented eyes beetled in and out of the darkness with each turn of her quivering head. Mallory raised her hand in position to slap and Tricia stood meek to accept it—but instead, the queen's hand fell gently, and caressed her chin.

"You haven't the right, my sweet."

"Your Majesty..."

"To abnegate yourself? To reduce yourself to peaceful nothing? No. Such a right, for those loathsome sorts who desire it, can only be earned on the backs of those who strove for greater. Your new form is not that of a parasite, dearest. Nay—what you are now is more appropriate than what you ever were. I am your queen, little bee, and you shall heed my commands; am I understood?"

It was the touch. Watching it, Shannon decidedly felt she disliked it. But then again Shannon wasn't stupid. She'd seen Mallory bestow such gifts upon the handmaidens too. But she disliked it.

The touch melted Tricia. "Yes... Your Majesty." Her voice drained of self-resolve, which in and of itself was a type of "abnegation," Shannon thought. Whatever. If it netted them what they needed.

"Throw off this ragged habit. Let's find for you clothes that more befit your station—Tricia, Duchess of Mordac."

"Y—yes, Your Majesty...!"

Shannon stepped forward before any actual disrobing could occur. (Gonzago, plastered against the wall, silently thanked her for the intercession.) "Before that. She knows what's happened with the black tower. We need that intelligence—now."

"Ah, of course," said Mallory. "We may hold council in my bedchamber. The three of us—I'm certain the young lord has business to attend to at the castle."

"Yes! Right away!" Gonzago tried to run but Shannon seized his shoulder to stop him.

"This is serious, Mallory."

"Fffffiiiiine, as my little pet demands, so shall we do—for now." Mallory's Glasgow smile curled. "We shall see how long my patience lasts—or hers, for that matter." She gave Shannon a look that Shannon tried to ignore and couldn't. She was well aware how little Mallory needed to force the issue, but so far her resistance held.

"Tricia, if you will," Shannon said. "Tell us what happened, from the beginning. In as much detail as you can muster."

"As you wish." Tricia cleared her throat, gave the queen a glance, and buzzed in response to another slight caress. "Where it began. At the monastery. I suppose you all know what happened with the fire already, so I'll start with when we gathered to speak to Archbishop Astrophicus for the final time..."

The tale began, finally. And it'd hardly started when Shannon's phone rang.

Her phone was mute, so it only buzzed in her pocket, and since Tricia buzzed on occasion when she spoke, it drew only a single quizzical glance from Mallory before Shannon pulled it out, apologized profusely for the interruption, hastily half-explained what a phone was, and went to answer it. Had she looked at the caller beforehand she would've avoided even the hasty half-explanation.

It was Mother. Avery Fenster Waringcrane.

"Yes? Hello?" Shannon said as she tucked herself into the corridor. "Mother, thank God you're alright. Jay and I are fine too. I'll explain everything in more detail later, but—"

Static crackled, flared, settled. A voice, shrouded in the fizzle, spoke. It was not Mother's voice. It said, tonelessly, the following words:

"She's dead."

The call ended.

Shannon lowered the phone. Turned slowly. The three at the other end of the corridor all watched her. She nodded. Took a step forward. The interruption was over. Fortunately it'd been brief. Tricia could resume her story and soon they'd have a fuller image of what was going on.

She dropped to her knees and sobbed, uncontrollably.

—

Cleveland was Hell.

A Hell she couldn't crawl out of. Not this time.

Devils streamed through the city. Hundreds—thousands. Cleveland's streets, viewed on high at a distance, turned red from the seething tide of their bodies. Where they went screams pealed alongside howls of indignant hedonism, gunshots, explosions. From Pandaemonium's apex radiated such bright light that the pillars of smoke seemed tiny, insubstantial. Nothing was hidden under the majesty of Lucifer. No horror too foul to be kept to some shadow, to be half-glimpsed so that human imagination might supply a worse substitution. There were no worse substitutions. In broadest daylight occurred rape, torture, enslavement, murder.

Perfidia Bal Berith watched from the rooftop of the building that once housed her business. Helicopters zoomed overhead. Then jet fighters. Missiles fell, flames burst up in lines. But human military presence was scattershot. It wouldn't only be Cleveland where devils emerged. Any reasonably large city had a pathway to Hell from which a horde could scramble up to wreak havoc. Governments would be fighting simply for their own survival. Order breaking down. Chain of command shattered. These few jet pilots probably had no orders. Took off from whatever base without a plan, without communication, in a futile frustrated effort to respond to the situation. Cogs coming off a malfunctioning machine. Striking the ground and bouncing away until they rolled under a crevice somewhere.

This mayhem hit Perfidia unclearly. She sat hanging her feet over the edge of the building, kicking her heels against the brick.

Hell was here. Nowhere left to crawl. Nobody now to set her free. She was free. Seconds after she and Kedeshah realized Ubik stayed behind it happened: A sharp searing on her chest. It doubled her over in pain. Kedeshah doubled too, despite the things that hurt her and hurt Perfidia being worlds apart. When the pain ended they both knew what happened. They turned away from one another and pulled off the relevant parts of their clothing to confirm: the brand, PROPERTY OF U.B.B., was gone. It wasn't a brand that vanished for no reason. They knew what it meant.

Kedeshah didn't stick around after that. Where she went, Perfidia didn't know. Then out of the Hellevator bubbled a whole horde of devils and the madness began.

At first Perfidia thought the devils were the ones that had chased her and Ubik out of Hell, finally caught up. They swept past her without caring. Then she realized they must be last-ditch forces the Seven Princes marshalled to overcome Uriel, or at least distract while they covered up their crimes against God. As seconds passed and the horde failed to be annihilated en masse by a ray of heavenly light, the situation just became confusing.

She wasn't in the mood to care. But at some point a devil hopped out of the horde, grabbed her, and shook wildly. John Verschrikkelijk.

"It's crazy, it's so fucking crazy! Didja hear? Didja hear, didja hear?"

With the superiority of someone explaining privileged information only they knew, John spilled his guts. After the incident at Beelzebub's court, he'd slithered around Pandaemonium and heard a few things. The Seven Princes—or more accurately Satan, who'd assumed control and even imprisoned Mammon—activated all the collected Humanity since the dawn of time. All that power, and it was right there at the tip of Pandaemonium, which was no longer deep underground but now jutting straight out of Lake Erie. With it, devils would be on top. No more subservience, no more hiding! It was the devils' time. First they'd wipe out all these humans, then they'd overthrow God and the angels, just like they always dreamed!

"Wipe out the humans?" Perfidia needed to scream to be heard over the mob. "Then where will we get Humanity?" She could imagine a Hellbound devil getting an idiot idea like that, but not John, who worked Earthside.

"Humanity? Why do we need more? We got it all! Right there, atop Pandaemonium!"

Perfidia thought, but did not say: You mean the Seven Princes got it all. Or, more specifically: Satan's got it all.

"We're free! We're finally free," John continued. "No more contracts, no more deals. Satan outlawed those anyway, I heard it on the way up. There's no more need for Humanity. Now we've got—Divinity!"

Then he was gone. Perfidia, stricken by a glancing blow from some rampaging devil, spiraled into the nearest wall. No more contracts. No more deals. So she was out of the job. Without even Ubik's kind of occupation as a fallback. Officially unemployed.

She thought about that on the rooftop of her office building. Hours passed and still no divine retribution, so maybe John was right. Maybe devils would finally triumph. Somehow the thought instilled no pleasure within her. Ubik was dead. The career she built for herself via centuries of hard work was dead. At this rate, Earth would be dead too. What the fuck did she have left? The orgiastic insanity below only churned her stomach.

Her eyes rose up the black sides of Pandaemonium, to the light at its apex only visible at a squint. She threw up her hands and extended both middle fingers in a gesture Ubik once liked. "Fuck you, Stalin," she said. Even as a remembrance of the departed the line made her cringe, so she amended: "Fuck you, Satan."

My name is Lucifer.

The sky between Perfidia and Pandaemonium ripped open. A tear that spread from one end of her periphery to the other. Jagged lines split apart like teeth as the placid whiteness revealed something erratically golden beyond and through it emerged a body large enough to straddle the entirety of Cleveland with a single step. She jolted, scrambled, slipped and fell on her back as the city-sized head sprouted out of the void and shot straight at her, seven eyes opening upon it and yet the face one she recognized, one she'd seen only a day earlier on her flight from Hell, one adorning the side of a skyscraper under a singular word: BELIEVE. It was a face that changed always yet stayed the same. The face of Satan—

Lucifer. Even in your thoughts you shall refer to me as Lucifer.

Instantly her brain was rewritten so that when she tried to think of any other name for him the word she thought was Lucifer. That was Perfidia's lowest ranking priority though as the gigantic, godlike body formed of pure and glowing gold extended closer. She turned to run but the hand of this god reached out two fingers that, despite each being larger than a city block, delicately pinched the back of her shirt's collar to lift her airborne. Kicking, flailing, the ground dropped out from under her as she rose into the air. The devils streaming the streets turned to fire ants and then blended into red lines running like veins through a city increasingly toylike until clouds obscured it in streaks.

The pinched fingers released her and she dropped onto an upturned palm. "Uh," she said at the seven eyes that pierced her. "Uh, hey. So uh. If this is about—if this is about that whole breaking out of court thing, I know that looked really bad but in the end it seems like it worked out for you so maybe let's let bygones be bygones and—"

Silence.

She was silent. She didn't need him to force her with his powers. She turned into a clam and prayed. Prayed to whom? God? This was God now, wasn't it?

Perfidia glanced around. Where—where was she?

You are one layer above that at which the Earth resides. Just as Earth is one layer above that at which your Whitecrosse resides—or did reside.

All here was golden. She thought maybe it was better not to look too carefully.

This is where I have decided to do battle with Uriel and God's angels. Were I to unleash my full power on that lower layer, Earth and all life would be extinguished in a millisecond; soon to follow would be the rest of the universe, so weak it is. Look! See them? Their forces arranged? It is the angels come to strike me down, though they know they cannot. It is fine, look. What you see shall not be their true forms, but a facsimile I have crafted for you. I command you: Look!

Perfidia looked. Within the expanse of gold was organized an army. Angels—all, as Lucifer promised, disguised in humanlike forms. At the forefront, leading the others, stood Michael, chief of the archangels, but in true heavenly form the army was divided and subdivided and subdivided again into units of exactly scaled measurements, with the first level of subdivisions led by Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, and the other archangels. Then the cherubim led the next division, followed by lesser and lesser ranks: a perfect, rigid, inflexible hierarchy at complete odds with the maniac procession of devils who flooded Cleveland. God for ya, though, and for all the might and majesty these angels exhibited in even this diminished depiction, they were nothing but divine slaves—everyone knew it.

They fight, as they are programmed—such a delectable word, that "programmed"—yet they know they cannot triumph over the Divinity I possess. It exceeds their power. Already I know the outcome of this battle, to its most minute degree. After what seems seven days and seven nights from the perspective of your lesser layer, I shall slay the last angel who stands—it shall not be Michael, but Uriel, whose murder I shall savor, as they spoke some rather unpleasant words to me as I first descended from Pandaemonium to meet them—and then God's forces shall be but waste before me. Then it will be left to God himself to manifest, in either his form or his Son's; and though my foresight cannot yet extend to him, it is his shorn power I now keep in Pandaemonium to flow through me on any layer in which I exist. I shall triumph, once and for all. Look at them. Look at their fear! They all know. They all quiver before me!

Giving some longwinded and grandstanding speech was a pretty clear Lucifer modus operandi, and Perfidia sat quietly through it without interruption. Midway she wondered why, if Lucifer wasn't here to smite her, he bothered to tell her of all devils.

As I have transcended that lower layer and shall be occupied for these seven days and nights, it falls to you to spread the joyous word to your kin. Let it be known to devilkind that their God, Lucifer, shall fulfill his promise to them at long last, and that for their final emancipation he demands only their undying love, loyalty, and praise!

"Of—of course, O God Lucifer," Perfidia said. "I'll—be sure to do that, absolutely as you said. I'm sure in your now omnipotent wisdom you know better than me, so take this only as a sincere question from a position of ignorance: Don'tcha think it'd be better to have someone like, uh, Beelzebub or Moloch do the whole message-spreading thing?"

A pause. For a moment Perfidia thought she'd pissed him off and wondered why she spoke at all, really just nod her head and—

Beelzebub and the others loyal to me I have ordered to defend Pandaemonium. You are more worthy for this task. You are a fragment of me, after all. None may more accurately sing my praises than I myself!

A fragment... of... him. Perfidia smiled sheepishly and dared to glance around, wondering what she was missing. If there'd been a misunderstanding somewhere.

Then it struck her. With a sinkhole in her innards it struck her.

Trust. Purchased so dearly, yet no price guarantees its security. Take Mammon. All these centuries he'd plotted against me, seeking to take my place at this exact moment, when the time for Divinity was reached. He had done so subtly, carefully, not by empowering himself as his Aspect suggested but by empowering those most strongly affected by his Aspect. That cretin, Ubiquitous Bal Berith, for instance, who was the brother of that husk you inhabit. A lowly wretch. Useless pimp lurking in sewers, whoring his mindless sister for measly profit. But he possessed Greed. So Mammon bestowed upon him a gift he was too stupid to realize was a gift, a most powerful creature who reversed his fortunes immediately...

Kedeshah.

The daughter of Ashtoreth even. Mammon believed when the time came, he could force his followers of Greed to rise against me. Then Ashtoreth would have no choice but to side with him too, out of love for her kin. Belial and Rimmon would not interfere, and Moloch, who always detested me, would join his little rebellion—so he believed with such certainty. Blind fool! I, seer of all, saw straight through his scheme, though he took such pains to conceal it. And for all his trouble I undid him without him realizing. Simply by plucking off the tiniest fragment of myself and stuffing it into that body of yours!

Perfidia was in the midst of a mental breakdown but could only sit silently and let this endless spray of words drown her.

Ubiquitous Bal Berith was allowed to operate as normal, leaving no chance for Mammon to become suspicious. You merely left his presence, but all along I planned for your return, so that I might undo Ubiquitous at the perfect time. You created that lower layer—would you truly be able to do so without my will guiding you?—and set in motion events that would summon an agent of God to Earth. Then you returned to Hell at the perfect moment, and with the aid of Beelzebub I allowed you to escape to Earth with Ubiquitous and that daughter of Ashtoreth. Mammon's greatest card in his favor suddenly became my hostage! For that daughter was now in grave danger from the descent of Uriel, and only by investing me with Divinity could her annihilation be prevented. Ashtoreth had no choice but to obey me! Mammon was caught entirely off guard. He had nothing. Moloch is an idiot but not nearly as suicidal as he pretends. The rebellion died before it even began! A brilliant masterstroke. What else could be anticipated from Lucifer, who once stood second only to God and who will soon stand first above all!

Then he laughed. A big golden seven-eyed God body, laughing in a way that Perfidia could not hear with her ears. A laughter inside her mind, rebounding, reverberating, shaking her bleary vision so that out of the endless golden body appeared afterimages of Lucifer as he once had been in each of his previous iterations.

So that was it huh? Perfidia was his puppet the whole time. Proceeding along a four hundred-year plot to resolve some top-level devil politics. Did she not have a will of her own? That didn't make sense. Always she'd thought she'd been making her own decisions, forging her own path. Even through the failures, the humiliations, the suffering, her Pride had reminded her: You still remain and you'll continue to remain. That concept: You.

Now go. The angels begin to move; the battle begins. Be my little messenger. Tell them all what they must know. Have them chant my name and sing hallelujahs in praise of Lucifer!

The hand dropped out from under her and she went hurtling backward, spinning through empty air. Spinning she saw Cleveland then Pandaemonium then the sky and the golden rend within it closing as Lucifer turned to meet the opening salvo of the angels.

You. You. You.

She tumbled until the moment before she was about to splatter the rooftop of her office, then all her downward momentum stopped and she landed with feather grace to return sitting exactly where she'd sat before. Staring ahead, she saw her hands outstretched, middle fingers extended to Pandaemonium, except now they shook.

And was it Lucifer's will that she flipped him off and said "Fuck you"?

Never in a million years. Not Lucifer. The light atop Pandaemonium glowed: Divinity. Atop Pandaemonium—not inside Lucifer. Of course not.

"Where did you go," said a voice behind her. It was Kedeshah. She stepped forward and one foot scraped the floor. Her eyes were puffy. She clutched Ubik's coat to her chest.

"I—I could ask you that too."

Kedeshah's lip curled. "I went—oh who fucking cares Fidi I'm so lonely I can't bear to be alone and he's gone. It's not fair. It's not fair! Fidi! Fidi!"

She stumbled and Perfidia rose and caught her. She sobbed against Perfidia's chest.

"Let's fuck Fidi. Please. Please I need it so bad I'm gonna die. I can't take it anymore. I just need to fuck until I don't remember anything. Fuck me to pieces Fidi. Please. I NEED it Fidi. I NEED it!"

Fucking until you didn't remember anything. Yeah that might be good. Returning back to what she once was before Lucifer got his hands on her. A dog wagging her tail. At least that was her, huh? Or would Lucifer's will compel her to spread his message, like he asked?

She felt nothing compelling her. She felt instead thoughts bubbling in her head. Not the distressed or sad thoughts she might have thought. No. Of course not. She was still Perfidia Bal Berith, that must be true. It must be—

"In seven days and seven nights Lucifer shall defeat the angels," Perfidia told Kedeshah. "Then he shall be true God of this world. Praise his name."

Kill her. Oh God if she really was just Lucifer's tiniest crumb just kill her.

"What?" asked Kedeshah through her tears.

"Kill me." At least it was her will that said it, right? At least dying would be an act of defiance against him he could not control, right? Even if it was too late, and the only command she refused was his pettiest and least consequential.

"I can't. I can't be alone. You're the closest to him. I can still smell him on you..."

Those words cleaved deep into Perfidia's heart and she gripped Kedeshah back, held her. It was nonsense, self-aggrandizing nonsense, what else would she expect from Lucifer, Lord of Pride? Some kernel of truth bloated to exaggeration. Maybe in some way she did as he wanted. But her thoughts were her own. And she still had a certain smell that was her own.

Perfidia didn't want to die. Not even now. Of course not. She still held her own Pride. But if she wasn't the one being killed, then...

Some kernel of truth bloated to exaggeration. If Lucifer had the power of God, then why was the light of Divinity kept in Pandaemonium—instead of residing within him?

And why did Lucifer decree that no more contracts could be made?

"Kedeshah," she said. "Do you want to kill the one who killed Ubik?"

"I can't kill an angel..."

Perfidia didn't mean the angel. Uriel possessed no will of its own. Merely an instrument of God. It did as programmed. The one whose will brought Ubik to that point, however... No reason to belabor Kedeshah with the details.

"We can," Perfidia said, "with that."

She reached behind her and pointed. At Pandaemonium. At the light shining atop it.

"Fidi... I get it. But you're crazy. Forget how hard it'd be to get up there anyway. If that's really Divinity, what do you expect to do? Just pick it up? Even if you could, power like that—it'd destroy a mortal body basically instantly."

Right. Of course. That's why Lucifer kept the Divinity in Pandaemonium to begin with. He couldn't contain it, even though he claimed to be immortal. Pride—some kernel of truth bloated to exaggeration. He wasn't a God. He was borrowing the power of one, but he couldn't keep that power for himself, not permanently.

Devils couldn't acquire Humanity—let alone Divinity—from nothing. They had none of it innately, were the opposite of it. It might pass hands from devil to devil via transactions, which was how enough of it had pooled into the grubby claws of the Seven Princes, but obviously Lucifer would never hand it over willingly—and force was out of the question.

But Humanity originated from somewhere. There was somewhere more natural for it to be.

Lucifer decreed no more contracts could be made. Why? Why bother spending time to do that before going to fight the angels? He could've spent that time instead telling the devils what he made Perfidia tell them, all that crap about being praised and shit. He needed to suspend contracts. It was so important it superseded his Pride.

Perfidia let go of Kedeshah and hurried to the stairwell that led into the building. Kedeshah followed, moaning and whining, but Perfidia ignored her as she cut a direct route for her office. Mayfair cleared out the Whitecrosse papers, but she left the rest untouched.

It was natural for humans to possess Humanity. It was unnatural for devils. The Divinity atop Pandaemonium was simply sitting there, somehow being projected onto Lucifer, probably via some crafty device he (or more likely Belial, crafter of devices) designed—but it was only being projected. Otherwise loose. Unkept. What would happen if a human encountered it? Human and Humanity, two entities of natural compatibility and attraction?

Lucifer decreed no more contracts—so Perfidia thought she could guess the answer to that question.

Perfidia sat in her office chair and opened the drawer while Kedeshah sprawled her body atop the desk and whined. "Please Fidi, don't tease me like this, I really so very need it right now..."

"Kedeshah." Man nothing in this drawer was organized. "Kedeshah, I need you to scout out Pandaemonium. Learn its defenses. We're gonna reach the top, but if we go in blind we'll never make it."

"I don't wanna! I just want you to do horrible, rancid, awful things to me and let me call you Master. I still have his coat. Could you wear it? Please? For meeeee?"

Once not too long ago, Perfidia would've recoiled at the thought. Such debasement was beneath her Pride. Now, though, she realized what was beneath her Pride was part of her just as what was above.

"I'll do it," she said, "if you do what I ask. Can you be a good girl for me?"

Kedeshah, suddenly eager, rolled onto her belly and wagged her tail. "Oh, call me a good girl again. Again!"

A grin spread on Perfidia's face. She'd found what she was looking for. A sheet of paper, which she raised to read the text in the light that streamed through her window. Lucifer banned all contracts. But no devil would dare terminate a contract that'd already been signed.

And no devil—save one, one willing to do the worst possible things if it only saved her own neck, one stupid fucking idiot who let a totally ordinary human outwit her—would ever sign a contract where they delayed the transfer of the human's Humanity to a later date. It certainly wasn't Lucifer's will that would've debased itself to such lengths. Only Perfidia Bal Berith, Ubik's original dog, would do such a thing.

The contract remained intact. Had the human who signed it died, it would've been voided immediately, but here it was, the signature confirming its authenticity. Its unique terms set to expire Wednesday, December 20, 2017—seven days from now. Right before Lucifer finished his oh-so-distracting battle with the angels, an interval during which he would surely pay little attention to a layer of existence beneath him.

Now, Perfidia needed only to find the one who signed this contract: Jay Waringcrane.