Lawrence woke when something heavy crashed into the bed. A blade slid through the sheet, through the pillows, through the simple canvas Army cot, and stopped several inches from his chest. The blade withdrew. The wielder drove it up and down several times. Whoever it was made sure the pillows were good and stabbed.
Lawrence drew his handgun. He turned his head sideways. He saw two black boots next to the bed. The sheet hid him from view, but not for long. Lawrence aimed the gun where he though the assailant’s chest was. He squeezed the trigger. The gun went off like a thunderclap. He squeezed the trigger five more times.
He heard a masculine groan. The assailant stumbled backward. They fell on their butt. Their weapon clattered to the ground.
Lawrence threw the cot off. He raised his shield, but there were no other attackers. The assailant was alone. Scarlet blood ran from his chest, almost black in the shadows of the tent. He grabbed his chest, as if trying to staunch the wounds.
Lawrence moved to a crouch. He reloaded. He pushed away the guy’s sword with his foot. He listened for more footsteps, but he heard nothing. He remembered a common tactic for monsters and scanned the ceiling. He saw the smooth aluminum pole keeping up the tent, the underside of the black canvas, a solitary unlit lantern.
He heard shouts outside the tent. Animals and people screaming. Lawrence looked at the guy. The assailant died. His chest moved as the soul fought to escape. Like a nightmarish butterfly emerging from a flesh-and-blood cocoon, so did the soul emerge. It was naked. It was featureless. It had a human-like face with identifiable features and close-cropped hair, but no genitals. The soul had a skull tattooed on its chest.
“Order of Malefice?”
“Was told to kill you.” The soul picked up the weapon. “Don’t much want to now. Don’t have a choice, though.”
“You could run.”
“Malefice will summon me back. Hurt me. Don’t like pain. I kill you? No pain.” The soul brandished the weapon.
“What if I summoned your boss and killed him?”
“Then, you would have my Contract. His name is Aguth.”
“All right, sir. If you give me a little time, I promise I’ll summon this Aguth. I’ll kill him. And then I’ll set you free, as long as you promise not to harm me now or later. I don’t need a servant.” Lawrence’s calves burned. He stood.
“I agree,” the soul sat on the ground. He laid the sword across his lap. “I will wait.”
Lawrence drew a summoning circle. He lit some candles and placed them in the corners. He kept one eye on the soul, but the man did not move. By Lawrence’s watch, four hours had passed. It felt like two hours. He pulled his earplugs out to more easily hear if he was being snuck up on. As soon as he was ready, he began chanting.
Whomever this Aguth was, he had a powerful will. Lawrence had to expend several more units summoning it than he wanted. Twelve, in all. Twelve of his own soul units. He had over a hundred, but it would take twelve days to recharge them. Unless he managed to steal some more, which was possible. He did not like to gamble with his soul resource. He would not be satisfied until he had a few ranks of the Sorcerer Soul Skill, thus increasing his daily unit regeneration.
Aguth slowly materialized between them. Aguth was a beast, a chimera with a lion head, a lizard body, and opposable monkey hands.
“Wretched halfbreed,” Aguth growled. “I will kill your entire order.”
“Why?” Lawrence asked. He glanced at the soul. The assailant remained motionless.
“You are the one who killed one of our number. You broke the truce. You must pay with blood, or there will be war. War between our orders will be ugly. This is the best way.”
“Maybe, but you can’t kill me.”
“You made a mistake, wretch.” The demon prowled inside the circle. “Your second mistake was summoning me. I am stronger than you. I have sixteen levels in the Lord Job. What do you possess?”
Lawrence shrugged. He leveled his gun. “This.” He fired three times into the demon’s head. The demon collapsed. Ichor ran across the ground. Lawrence crossed the ward. He placed his palm against the demon’s head.
General Information Aguth. Demon. 57 years old Level 45 Beast Level 50 Faustian Cannibalism Empowerment: 10% of highest Stat (PWR) added to your own. +15 PWR. Beast Skills: Beast Breed, Animal Aspect, Armored Carapace, Boost Weapon (Claws), Monstrous Maw Faustian Skills: Sorcerer's Soul, Swift Chant, Eidetic Memory (Rituals), Iron Will, Meditative Research Skill stolen: Sorcerer's Soul (+1 SOL regeneration/day. Skill level: MAX).
Fair enough. Now, his SOL regen was two units a day. Having more strength points were nice, but he didn’t think he’d use them much. Skill was better. Skill modified the whip’s damage. Oh well. He got a few hit points out of it, therefore, it was fine.
“Your Contract is null and void,” Lawrence said. “Promise kept.”
“My lord is indeed powerful.” The assailant’s eyes were round. He rose to a kneeling position. He placed his fist over his chest. “I am your sword. My name is White Rat. I will serve and obey for all of my days. I only ask that you do not use me for your rituals or your daily needs.”
Lawrence eyed the soul. He heaved a sigh. He supposed the guy was in awe of his palm vacuuming up the demon’s body. As for his service, well, Lawrence did not need a slave. He could use a good tank, though. Fighters were always useful. And the damned were resilient. He’d have to get more gear from the big-brain lady. She might ask him to donate some of his own in exchange.
“I don’t need a servant,” Lawrence said.
“You need a fighter who can watch your back.” The soul offered his sword, hilt-first. “Let me be your sword. Protect me from the demons, and I’ll protect you.”
It was a good offer. It had a refreshing ring of fairness, not at all like the one-sided deal he signed with Gnat. Lawrence extended his hand, palm sideways. The soul reached out, hesitant. He took Lawrence’s hand. He leaned forward.
“Don’t kiss it,” Lawrence said. “Just shake it.”
The soul, White Rat, shook his hand. White Rat looked uncomfortable with the gesture. Lawrence repeated the soul’s name over and over to himself. He told himself he needed to think of the soul not as a damned, but a man. A dead man, but a man, nonetheless. Lawrence told himself he did not need to know the man’s Status. He did not need to micromanage it. It was none of his business what stats or Skills White Rat had.
The brand on White Rat’s chest faded. White Rat blinked as the fiery glow disappeared. He rubbed a hand over the smooth, unblemished flesh.
“I’m free?” White Rat whispered, disbelieving.
“You can follow me or you can make your own way.” Lawrence stood. “I accept your offer regardless. Get dressed. We have work to do.”
Lawrence went outside. The camp was in flames. Demons ran every which way. Guns fired. Cannons thundered. The corrupt angel flew overhead, unholy fire covering it like armor, carving a bloody path through fliers. The giant, now healed, charged through a tent, sword swinging, cutting down friend and foe alike.
Lawrence saw werewolves moving through the fray. Three of them, each with shaggy black fur, thick necks, human-like hands ending in oversized claws, short tails, and human-like eyes. A muscular male, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and two blue eyes, swallowing errant souls whole. A smaller one stood next to him, with a flat chest, wider hips, narrower shoulders, and two green eyes. A young female?
The final werewolf was the architect. A specimen with a body type like the second, another female, but with gray hairs in her mane and beard. She had hazel eyes. She wore extensive, enchanted jewelry and carried a staff topped with an animal skull. She chanted constantly, a quiet singing Lawrence could barely hear. It was the source of the chaos. It drove insane every demon listening.
Lawrence felt it affecting his mind. It was like hearing his favorite song, but it told him to please others. It said the best way to please them was to introduce them to the joys of sensation. He should draw designs in their skin with whatever sharp tools he had available. He should show them the hilarious comedy of people losing their limbs and falling down as they tried to run.
Lawrence bit down hard on his tongue. He plugged his ears. He ran from the werewolves. Good Walkers, or Benandanti. Benandanti were a real thing in Italy. In the 16th and 17th centuries in Northeastern Italy, they claimed to travel out of their bodies while sleeping to struggle against the malandanti. Good witches struggling against bad witches, so to speak.
Eventually, the whole thing came under scrutiny by the Roman Inquisition. The benandanti cult were denounced as heretics. Yet, the legend had a kernel of truth. They were indeed mortal humans who astral projected. The difference is these people did not travel to the Spirit World or the Further, they traveled to Hell. In their wolf form, they ate souls. When they returned to the mortal world, the consumed souls would be transferred to the crops. The soul-powered crops grew bigger, faster, more nutritious, more delicious.
Nimue’s Tower had a lawn powered by souls. The mysticism was sound, as well as mysticism could be.
Lawrence took his fingers out of his ears. He was far enough away he couldn’t hear the chanting. He still saw the chaos. Fires spread across the camp. He saw Black Licorice had retreated to their airship. A few of the more sensible demons had done the same. Lawrence turned his head. He stood on top of the bowl.
Down at the bottom lay a pair of great double doors, open. The dungeon. A horde of footprints in the snow led down into it. Lawrence looked back at the camp. He wanted to go and fight. He could kill many demons in this and no one would care. However, the Good Walkers would not discriminate if they saw him. To them, he was either a servant of demons or a demon himself.
Black Licorice’s airship was not anchored. It moved in a lazy circle above the camp. Lawrence had no way to reach it. He wanted to go back to their tent and requisition more gear. Fate seemed to push him onward. Thus, Lawrence descended.
The bowl ended at a pair of stone doors, both open. Lawrence passed through the portal. More stairs led down. These seemed to be twenty feet wide. The were stone, dry but too smooth. Lawrence had to be careful or he’d slip. Lanterns spaced every fifteen feet provided light. The temperature seemed to lower with each step. Lawrence wrapped his poncho tighter.
The stairs seemed to go on forever. Reliefs on the walls showed giant alien spiders. The images seemed to move and twist under the light. After a century of walking, the stairs ended at a pair of doors thirty feet high. They stretched wall to wall. A colossal, alien spider was engraved on the door. Multiple eyes and legs sprouted from a gelatinous, hairy sac. One of the doors sat ajar.
Lawrence held up his phone. He snapped a picture of the doors. The Iphone made a sound like a camera clicking. Lawrence put it away. He walked up to the doors. They were wrought-iron. Lawrence saw the remains of rusted chains mounted to the walls. Where the doors met ran a line of jagged metal, as if the doors had been welded together then torn asunder. Lawrence pressed on the opening. It swung without resistance. He pushed the doors open and entered.
More lanterns lit the hallway beyond. Lawrence saw piles of cables. Electric and etheric machines hummed.
“Hello?” Lawrence called. No response. He walked down the hallway. The floor was smooth marble. Lit lanterns burned every few yards. Lawrence heard a sound like the sea scraping against the sand. The hallway opened without warning into a vast open space.
Ivory indentations covered the floor. Lawrence saw a vast summoning circle in the middle, but more elaborate than anything he’d ever seen. The center held a great chalice, empty, made of oxidized bronze, thus it was by now green stone. Twelve skeletons knelt around it in a pose of supplication. The ribcage of each was broken, shattered.
Lawrence looked around. He smelled must and death. Whatever happened here took place years ago. Wet earth sat on the back of his tongue, and the sound of waves crashing on the beach filled the place. Floodlights illuminated everything. Their generators still ran, a quiet hum providing a gentle backdrop to the ocean. Lawrence saw where the demons had cleared places on the ground to sleep.
Demons, as a rule, did not require comforts. One’s quarters often consisted of a stone slab upon which to sleep. Meals were the daily ration of iliaster, taken from the trough after performing one’s duties. These troughs were empty. The rectangles of uneven stone lay unoccupied.
The chamber had one other entrance: a small, uneven rectangle into darkness in the opposing wall. Lawrence circled the room. He was careful to stay off the great seal. The summoning circle had been inlaid with gold, silver, and precious gems. Almost all of it had been chiseled out by the greedy demons. Still, Lawrence did not dare get close. The sound of the ocean was constant, but directionless. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Lawrence thought it was cool.
Still, the rational, witch-trained part of his brain told him the sound of waves scraping sand was unnatural. He filed away the information until he had more data to use.
Lawrence stared into the black rectangle. It was shadow. Not a pool of infinite darkness or the void or another dimension or any of a hundred other sci-fi horror cliches. Just shadow. He raised his own lantern. Warm, yellow light banished the shadows. Lawrence saw a tunnel perhaps six feet wide by twelve feet tall. This one had been carved into living rock, not by workers, but by water.
It was a natural cave separated from the chamber by a now-destroyed brick wall. The ocean waves grew louder, as if emanating from deeper in the cave. Thick bundles of silvery thread decorated the walls. Curtains of thread stretched across the tunnel. Lawrence saw shapes scuttling. He raised his lantern higher. Spiders. Lots of spiders. They ranged in size from a penny to a tarantula, but there were a lot of them. They did not seem to like the light.
Worse, they did not wish to enter the main chamber. Lawrence added that to the ambient noise’s file, which also contained the great carved alien spider’s image.
Lawrence stepped into the cave. A path opened as spiders fled from the light. He drew his gun. He kept it pointed at the floor with his finger off the trigger, but the safety was off. He came at once to a silver curtain. He poked it with the gun. It was a web. Thick, woven spidersilk, as if the spiders had overlaid their webs over centuries. Lawrence pushed his hand through and pulled it apart. Dozens of spiders fell.
Lawrence brushed them off. He wasn’t too worried. Giant spiders did not freak him out; rather, he quite liked them. He didn’t like them crawling over his face, but the rest of the time they were nice.
Lawrence shook his poncho. He brushed the spiders off his shoulders and back—oh, waitaminute. Lawrence looked at one spider. It was a Mexican red-knee tarantula.
“Hey little guy,” Lawrence said. He scooped it up. The spider sat motionless on his hand. A large spider, the species was somewhat tame, thus a popular choice among tarantula keepers. This one had a shorter body, but longer legs, indicating it was male. The body was yellowish brown, the upper surface of the abdomen was black, the legs had varying bands of pink, brown, and yellow.
An ambush predator, the Red-knee spider kept a deep burrow. It fed on passing frogs, mice, and large insects. Females spent most of their lives in their burrow. The burrows consisted of a single entrance with a tunnel leading to one or two chambers. The entrance was just a little bit larger than the spider.
The first room, usually three times the leg span of the spider, was where the spider molted. The second chamber was where the spider rested, ate its prey, and stored its eggs. When the tarantula needed privacy, e.g. when molting or laying eggs, it sealed the entrance with silk.
Lawrence recalled all this information as he beheld the spider sitting on his hand. It had little hairs all over its body, which irritated his skin. He held his hand up to his shoulder. The spider scuttled up. It spun to face a different direction, and it seemed content to just sit.
Lawrence drew a torch from his bag of holding. He lit it with the lantern, hung the lantern from a carbineer on his belt, and lit the web with the torch. He stowed a spare magazine in his pocket. He held the torch in front and raised his weapon. He paused before continuing to scan the ceiling. Nope, nothing.
Good. He did not want a giant Frostbite Spider dropping on his head.
“I miss Cosmic,” Lawrence said. He pushed more webs out of the way. He passed through several twisty turns. Strange carvings decorated the walls. They had the shape of demons, beasts and fiends and avians and imps and worse, grotesque chimeras, Corrupt humans, Good Walkers, and Sky Elves, high-level demons with lots of mutations, common and noble both. They all seemed so life-like.
They had realistic flesh, realistic armor, clothing. Lawrence studied the face of one. A chill ran down his spine. Spiders covered them. Spiders crawled on, over, and around them. They were covered in webs. Some webs were dainty like lace, others were thick as ropes. Worse, the demonic carvings seemed half-sunk into the walls. Lawrence kept walking.
He checked the ceiling again. Still nothing. Not because he could not see, he raised his torch to illuminate it, but because nothing was up there. Nothing followed him as far as he could tell. He reached the end of the twisting tunnels. In front of him sat a chamber, smaller than the first, less grand, but more occupied.
A wall of green energy separated the chamber from the tunnel. Lawrence recognized it as a time-stop spell. He peered through the murk. Parasol Parade stood in the center of the chamber, back-to-back. Around them stood various parties. Lawrence supposed the rest of the First Wave were behind him. He did not want to know how they ended up welded to the walls. All around the defenders, a horde of spider demons attacked.
The spiders were all shapes and sizes, but they all stemmed from the base, mutant-human-like breed. Larger spiders had common mutations. Smaller spiders had none. Spiders descended from the ceiling on long ropes. Spiders ran down the walls. They dropped from above. Hundreds of pony-sized spiders charged into the chamber. At the rear, Lawrence saw a platform with an enormous spider.
It did not look anything like a Mexican Red-knee, more like a black widow, all smooth black chitin, sharp angles, a red hourglass on its abdomen, two extra legs, enlarged mandibles, and ten eyes.
The crashing waves returned in force. The bubble flickered once.
“Sorry little guy. This is where you get off.” Lawrence scooped up the little spider. He held his hand next to a rock. The spider did not move. “The time stop is ending. When it does I’ll have to join the fight. I don’t have the firepower to do any real damage, but those guys in the center are my team. I think.”
The spider looked up at him. It was an animal. It had no way of knowing what he said. It was not a wizard’s familiar like Cosmic Creepers, nor a witch’s familiar like a black cat. It was a normal spider.
“I’m grateful for your company, but I don’t want you to get hurt. This where we part ways.” The spider refused to move. Lawrence nudged its abdomen. The spider skittered.
Lawrence stretched. For the umpteenth time, he wished he had Access. Heck, even a rifle would be better than his little pistol. His magic took too long to be useful. He doubted he’d be more than a liability here. Might be best to sit this one out.
The green bubble slowly faded. The people within lurched. Before the spell ended, Lawrence snapped a picture with his phone. It reminded him of a still from an action movie. Everyone fighting monsters, tracer rounds and spells flying, body parts and blood spraying, adventurers at the center of it all. Lawrence wanted to join.
But he was a liability. Granted, he had some nice Skills bolted on, but how useful would they be?
There was one way to find out.
Lawrence ran through his Skill list. A smart person would have taken time to grind their Skill proficiencies. They would not have jumped into a high-level dungeon at the bottom of the universe, in one of the highest-level places. Smart people would have stayed in the city. Or, stayed at Nimue’s Tower. Lawrence shrugged. The time stop ended.
Lawrence entered the fray.
----------------------------------------
“Kid,” Captain Ferg roared. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d help,” Lawrence said. He dashed through the madness to stand next to the diminutive woman. He swung his torch toward a spider, which fled. “How’s it going?”
“You idiot,” the woman snapped. “Stay behind me.”
Lawrence thanked God he’d remembered to shove his earplugs in. He used every remaining bullet in his handgun. It was awesome. He drew his sword and shield.
“Stay back,” Ferg warned. “You don’t have the strength to compete.”
Lawrence did not listen. He rode a wave of adrenaline. He stood with a group of acquaintances back-to-back against a legion of demons. He tapped his fist against Ferg’s shoulder.
“Fast Healing,” he intoned. The cuts and bruises healed.
“You idiot,” Ferg yelled. “I have a health potion. Save your souls.” She ducked a swipe. She pulled a weapon from a sling. She wore one small backpack but no weapons. To Lawrence's eyes, the shotgun appeared in her hands from Hammerspace. She blasted the spider in the face.
“Fast Healing.” Lawrence touched the blue lady’s shoulder. What was her name? Li . . . Lee-something. He thought it was Liara, but that was Mass Effect. Lee . . . bah.
“Kid. Catch this.” Ferg kicked over a blocky machine gun assembled from brass. It looked like a steampunk machinist had assembled a copper garbage dump into a vague approximation of a rifle. It had a power crystal instead of a magazine, delicate wires in place of a firing mechanism, a normal trigger and a pump action, and a long barrel.
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Lawrence picked it up. He pumped it once. He felt the weapon hum with power as the crystal glowed. “Oh yeah,” he said with orgasmic glee. He spun. He leveled the weapon at the nearest spider. He squeezed the trigger.
The weapon kicked like a mule. A flash of blue light blossomed. The weapon discharged a blast of energy which traveled faster than any bullet. The spider’s head exploded.
Lawrence picked his shots. He was an average marksman. Truly, the shotgun called his name. He paired the weapon with a long bout of sustained, one-note yelling. The weapon fizzled. The crystal went dark. Lawrence stole a handful off a dead demon’s bandoleer. He ejected the crystal. He slotted another. He went through the motions of reloading.
Ready to fire. Lawrence turned toward the giant black widow screeching on the platform. He fired round after round of etheric energy into its face. The spider reared. Two legs arced toward him, like scythes. Lawrence jumped out of the way. Both legs slammed into the floor. Rock cracked. A shard of chitin broke off the spider’s leg.
Both legs retracted. Lawrence swiped the chitin before reloading. He fired another full crystal into the spider.
“Stick together,” Ferg cried. “Back up. Get back.”
A fiend, one of the younger ones lacking armor or clothing, charged. It had no genitals. Its skull was human-like with bony, crocodilian plates over the front half of its face, shoulders, legs, and arms. One of its wings had been severed, leaving an oozing stump.
“No,” Ferg motioned. “Get back.”
The fiend charged the black widow head-on. It launched itself, weapon raised to throw. A spear-like leg impaled it mid-air. The spider tossed it aside. Dozens of spiders pounced on it before it could stand. Its screams joined the chorus.
Lawrence noticed the spiders were not just attacking, they were feasting. Like rats at a buffet, they tore into the demons. It was demons versus demons, really. There were no good guys here. Lawrence leveled his second-to-last crystal at the spider. He fired every round again.
The black widow turned. Still screaming, it crawled into the hole behind its platform. As one, the horde of spiders fled. The crashing sound of waves ended as suddenly as someone pausing the music. Silence descended.
Lawrence heard a few quiet groans as the adrenaline faded.
“Potions out,” Ferg ordered. “Heal up. Mages, I want scrying spells on that thing’s location. Engineers, barriers on all the holes, turrets up. Everyone, place defenses. We’re deep in this thing’s lair, it’s coming back. Move.”
Lawrence lowered the steampunk shotgun. He found Ferg and the blue lady. Kat and Hyene were still there. Ichor matted the fur of both, but they were alive. All four sat in a rough circle.
“Hey,” Lawrence said.
The demons looked up. None of them said anything.
Lawrence tried again. “Looks like you’re missing a few. Where’s. . . um.”
“Kyri found comfort on the lap of a noble,” the blue lady said. “Wrench is dead—eaten by a worm. Doofy is back at the city. Living siege weapon and all. He gained a level and Ranked Up Size Increase. His brain stayed the same, meaning it may as well have shrunk. Since he’s now a living battering ram, they won’t let him leave.”
“Uhm, I’m sorry?” Lawrence offered.
The demons shrugged. Ferg sipped a bottle of emerald-green stamina potion.
“You shouldn’t be here, kid,” Kat said. “You’ll die.”
“Good Walkers are attacking the camp,” Lawrence matched her tired, deadpan tone. “Burning it. Three of them. An elder witch, a young male fighter, and a female soul-thief. I didn’t see where Josephine went. I assumed she was down here. And I lost Lily.”
The demons traded looks.
“Lily has an air of survivability,” Ferg said.
Lawrence did not add their falling out, or how she was in the torture palace. Good Walkers targeted souls for consumption. It was probable she encountered them. As a half-demon, she’d be targeted. Lawrence escaped either on blind luck or mercy. Honorable people or people who liked to think they were honorable sometimes refused to attack children, or those with spots, or women. Those notions defenestrated against demons and their kin. The odds of Lily’s survival plummeted.
Ferg said none of this. Lawrence did not need her to. He did the math on his own. He thought of the giant spider boss nearby. He saw the shape of an equation forming in his head.
“Oh honey,” a feminine, sultry voice said. “I’m so glad you made it.”
Lawrence turned his head. A tall woman—no, a towering woman, like a quarter-giant, marched toward them. Marched toward him. She stood about nine feet tall. Rail-thin, the opposite of muscular. She wore a blue kimono so dark it appeared almost black, with a silver sash crisscrossed with black thread. She had two needles in her bun, a porcelain face with almond-shaped eyes. On her head sat a witch’s hat with a brim so large it cast the rest of her body into shadow.
As she got closer, Lawrence saw her eyes had red sclera, pink irises, and white pupils. She had six, but when she saw him looking she adjusted her hat.
“Lady Josephine.” Lawrence swept himself into a deep bow. He knew he messed up. He still held the weapon. His legs were at the wrong angle. His arms didn’t move like they should. He didn’t sweep his poncho like he would a coat.
“My. A gentleman.” Josephine smiled. Lawrence saw sharp teeth. “How did you know my name? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Lord Gulosus said something about you visiting, I think.” Lawrence glanced away in thought. “And you have the biggest hat. When visiting new places, the person with the biggest, fanciest hat is usually the one in charge.”
“It’s not that fancy, surely?” Josephine adjusted it again. Lawrence saw she wore gloves the same dark blue almost black color as her kimono.
“It’s black with a wide brim and a tall point. Those are either witch or wizard hats. Since yours lacks the stars so common on cliché sorcerers, I’m guessing it’s a witch’s hat. No need to be embarrassed. My mom wore one.”
“Oh?” Josephine folded her hands. “Was she a Witch?”
“She is,” Lawrence resumed his casual stance. He glanced at Ferg. Her expression and the blue lady’s were guarded. “Powerful. Uhm, her craft involved potions. Potions and . . . I forget the emotion. She taught me everything I know about being a Faustian. I’m level sixty-five, by the way.”
“And how old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“So young.” Josephine’s eyes flickered. She extended her hand, not toward Lawrence, but back to the twisting tunnels. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Walk with me.”
She marched into the tunnel. It was an order, not an invitation. She took short steps so he could keep up. Lawrence jogged after her. He saw the heads of demons turning as he passed. Of all the powerful fighters, he alone got to hang out with the pretty lady.
Josephine waited until they passed into the tunnel before speaking. She waved her hand. Lawrence saw the air shimmer.
“[Ward Against Sound].”
“Is that spell?” Lawrence asked. Almost too late, he added, “Ma’am?”
“It is. The Program gives them out like candy.” Josephine slowed as they passed the demons. The dead things had merged with the walls. Webs covered them like sheets. Their mouths were all open in silent screams. “Macabre, aren’t they?”
“What happened to them?”
“The dungeon ate them.”
Lawrence shivered.
“They aren’t dead yet,” Josephine gestured to one fiend. “This one screams. He wasn’t screaming earlier.”
“Can they be helped?”
“I should ask why. The demons are,” she hesitated for the barest second. Sound traveled far underground. Lawrence had no doubt Gnat was nearby, or another spying imp. “Wonderful creatures. Exquisite friends. Excellent artists and impeccable conversationalists. There is no doubt, we must do all we can to aid them.”
Lawrence was about to ask what species she was. Then he thought he should not. He knew how powerful witches could get, all the horrible things one could if pissed off. He took a different tack.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Josephine did not answer right away. When she did, she smiled down at him.
“Parasol Parade. A unique name, if there ever was one. You have a powerful party, ambitious. Yet sometimes it feels one reaches for heights best served by those with taller heels.”
Lawrence took note Lady Josephine wore heels. He didn’t understand what she said. It sounded like the treacherous, swampy ground of politics. He hated politics. He had to do the dance to navigate; he couldn’t just march across the board to his goal.
“Ambition is a desirable trait, my lady.”
“They wish for you to get into my good graces,” Josephine said.
Lawrence stumbled.
“Uh, what?”
“The demons are wise,” Josephine continued as he hadn’t spoken. “But your party is mostly women. The males know their place. Thus their decision to use you as a pawn. It is so painfully obvious I want to throw it all back in their faces. No finesse. No scheming. ‘She is a witch. He is a witch’s son. Let’s pair them up and see what happens.’”
“I think they were hoping you’d hire them, or something,” Lawrence offered.
“No.” Josephine scoffed, “They were hoping I would take you as an apprentice or perhaps a lover. As I cannot justify spending any amount of money on the protection of a bedmate, you would be forced to hire your own. Otherwise you would fall victim to a knife in your back. Politics on the Seventh are vicious, you see. You would hire them as your bodyguards. They would have a regular supply for their high levels, and they could relax. Until you died during some courtly intrigue too complicated for your feeble mind to comprehend. At which point they would whore—excuse me, hire—themselves out to the first company. Perhaps Infernal Innovations, raiding the Free Cities for sorcerous materials. Predictable.”
“Forgive me, my lady, I’m a simple soldier. I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You are not a soldier.” They arrived at the summoning chamber. Ivory bones decorated everything. The sound of waves scraping sand filled the space. “You are a child. Furthermore, because you are only fifteen, you do not have Access to the Program. You are not a level sixty-five Faustian.”
Josephine faced him. Her imperious gaze made him want to disappear.
“I don’t know how you have survived this long without it. It should not be possible. In any case, normally I would dance around the topic for a full hour while speaking, you listening, and at the end you would either understand it or fail. You are American, are you not?”
“I—”
“No,” Josephine shook her head. “You were adopted. A Halfblood, no different from the rest. And yet you are. A Starling. I smell it on you. The odor of darkness and death, the cold. The must. The damp. It is this place.”
She waved a hand at the chamber.
“This place reeks of Starling.”
“It smells like a basement,” Lawrence said. He looked past Josephine. She was between him and the chamber, with her back to the circle. Something hovered in the air over the chalice.
“No. You are wrong. Given you are American, or you were raised by one, I will drop the act and be unusually blunt. For the duration of this discussion I will lose access to most of my Lady Skills, because I am not acting like a lady. But I am still a Witch, Lawrence-kun.”
Lawrence glanced at Lady Josephine. He knew whatever she was about to say was super-important. Still, he had a bad feeling. He reopened the file. He saw the equation taking shape. He had a feeling Josephine was about to solve it.
“Are you familiar with the gods?”
“The gods of the mortal world?” Lawrence asked. The question threw him off track. “Uh, yeah. The tarot gods. Twenty-one individuals who all have various attributes. They impose a tax on all experience gained. Something like ten to thirty percent of every action done to generate EXP. That’s how they feed. Not prayers.”
“Do you know what the people get?”
“I dunno. I’m not really on speaking terms with the local gods. The aliens have their made-up gods. We Earthers have our real ones.”
A muscle in Josephine’s face twitched. “I have met real gods. I have seen them. The mortal gods are well-known, but did you also know there was a different set a gods? A first kind. One far more powerful and more terrible?”
Lawrence did not answer.
“Are you even listening to me?” Josephine said. Her face scrunched up as if angry. She raised a hand as if to strike him. “Impudent human. Look at me.”
“No,” Lawrence pointed. “I’m too busy looking at that.”
Josephine turned. A ball of steel floated above the chalice. Two overlapping rings surrounded it. White, electric lights covered the sides of the each ring. The rings overlapped for a brief tick, momentarily lining up and blinding them, before breaking and continuing to rotate.
The steel ball was lined with octagonal panels. Each panel had Michael Moorcock’s Symbol of Chaos, also known as the Chaos Star. It was a straightforward compass symbol. It had four arrows, north, south, east, and west. Then it had four more arrows on top: northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest.
Moorcock first drew the symbol for his sword-and-sorcery books in the 1960’s. It had eight arrows representing all possibilities, and one arrow representing the single, certain road of Law. He was later informed “it was an ancient symbol of Chaos.” A British occult tradition adopted the star. From there, it pop cultural osmosis transmitted it to a role-playing game based on his books, then to Warhammer.
In the present, Lawrence knew it had uses in witchcraft or ‘black magic.’ In simplest terms, symbols had power. It might be pure hokum in Lawrence’s world, but its symbolic significance was as real as it was in 40k. Lawrence swallowed.
“The Color Jobs?” he prompted.
“A long time ago, this was a temple,” Josephine said. She did not take her eyes off the spinning ball. “A temple to a dead god.”
“I’m guessing she had a spider theme?”
“The Alizarin Arachnologist,” Josephine said. “A Color Job.”
“Is he anything like the Carmine King?”
“Who?” Josephine blinked. “You know the Carmine King? How?”
“Um.” Lawrence did not think it prudent to reveal the thing was his bio-dad. If this Grullo Arachnologist was a Color Job, then by implication, it meant the thing was also a Starling. Which would make Lawrence a half-starling, whatever that was. Too little information to do the equation. Too many unknown variables.
“A cult discovered it,” Josephine said. “You may infer the rest. Deal with this.”
She fled back to the main group. Lawrence was left alone with the spinning ball of death. He dared not approach. Movement caught his eye. He looked sideways and saw a red-knee spider. He bent over and held out his hand.
“Hey, little guy.”
The spider scurried up his arm to his shoulder. Lawrence suppressed a shudder at the thing getting so close to his head so quick. Fortunately, it did not try to reach his head or get inside his hood.
“We’ve got a problem, here.” Lawrence spoke to the spider while gesturing at the spinning ball. “Obvious trap is obvious. I’ve seen too many movies about dumb teenagers doing stupid stuff and waking up giant monsters. You could put a big red button in a cave somewhere at the bottom of the world, with a big neon sign on it reading ‘Press To Start Apocalypse. DO NOT TOUCH.’ And before the paint is dry? Kaboom.”
Three shadows entered the dungeon from the opposite side. They looked like werewolves, but their eyes were human. Lawrence raised his hands, palms out.
“There’s a mess of demons in the tunnel behind me,” Lawrence said. “They just fought a big battle. If you let me live, please let me live.”
The soul-thief moved left. The warrior moved right. The witch remained in the middle. Her attention was on the spinning ball. The rings aligned for a split second, bathing both sides of the room in blinding light.
“They moved deeper into the tunnels,” Josephine announced. “I am not going in without an escort, and you’re too weak to progress. We will stay—oh my. Good Walkers.”
The warrior launched itself. It crossed the great circle in the center of the room. There, it froze, mid-run, snarling, as if the universe hit it with a time-stop. The spell-thief squawked in protest.
The rotating rings slowed.
“We should leave,” Lawrence said.
“Don’t you want to see what happens?” Josephine walked up behind him. “This circle has more power than any in Hell. This is clearly a ritual interrupted.”
“The most powerful instruments are required to summon the most powerful monsters. You said this was a temple to a god, right? I’m guessing they’re not a nice god.”
“Few are. I have never heard of a god being malevolent or benevolent. Most simply exist.”
The spinning ball slowed. The rotating rings paired. White light poured between the cracks in the ball’s panels. One by one, the panels disappeared. Lawrence closed his eyes. It was like a floodlight shone directly into his face. Then the lights dimmed. The spinning ball vanished.
A pool of utter darkness remained. There were the rings, with the lights dimmed, unmoving. The center ball was gone. A ball of something dark sat in its place. Head-on, the image reminded him of a giant eye, with the dark hole as the pupil staring into his soul.
“It has shape,” Josephine observed. “It is a sphere.”
“We need to leave,” Lawrence said. “Right the heck now.”
Try as he might, his feet remained rooted to the floor. On the circle, the warrior unfroze. The werewolf slowed as whatever it was stopped affecting him. His head moved toward the black ball. He began to take slow, deliberate steps toward it.
The spell-thief made another sound, but the elder witch shushed her. Josephine moved to stand next to Lawrence. Across the circle, both witches waited.
Lawrence wanted to run. Every fiber of him screamed he was about to die. Either him, or the werewolf moving inexorably toward the trap. The werewolf reached out a paw. He had four fingers and a thumb. Each digit ended in a wicked claw. He reached out with his finger. He pushed his finger into the pool.
He scooped up a little of the stuff.
“He is so dead,” Lawrence said. In the absolute silence, his statement went off like a fart at a funeral. The warrior wolf jumped. His head whipped toward Lawrence. Unfortunately, his finger was still in the ball of black goo. The trap chose that moment to activate.
The werewolf’s arm sank into the black goo up to his elbow. He wrenched his arm partway out, but something resisted. His entire body shot into the goo as if slurped up. His scream echoed around the chamber for a long moment, and then he was gone. The surface of the goo stilled. It was the color of ink behind glass, like the surface of pond, ripples slowly stopping.
Lawrence probed the circle with his will. He became aware of a presence in the room. The sound of waves scraping against the sand returned. He had the distinct impression the ball was a pupil, and it looked at him. It saw him.
With his will, Lawrence probed the sphere of infinite darkness. Between the rings, it could have been a portal. He felt something big on the other side. He knew then he very much did not want to meet the creature. Whether a god, or a demon, he did not care.
“Josephine.” Lawrence backed away. “Let’s go.”
“I prefer ‘my lady’ or ‘lady Josephine.” The tall woman watched the opposing witch. The werewolf was shorter, about human height. The wolf-woman busied herself with examining the inscriptions around the circle. Too late, Lawrence realized those were important.
“Watch out,” Lawrence yelled. He threw out an arm.
“What is it?” Josephine stopped backing up.
“The floor.” Lawrence pointed to a spot behind them, off to the side of the tunnel. It was the spot one would take if attempting an ambush. A circle of red paint, with white symbols inside and out.
“Oh, it’s a summoning circle. A warded trap. Step on it and you’re trapped. Good catch, little one.”
Lawrence bristled. “It’s new. Someone from Malefice made this one. You can see how the pattern is crude. Here. If you add this. . .” Lawrence drew some improvements with his chalk. Chalk was a poor material. Paint was far superior, but it took longer. Smug, he pointed out all the flaws in the trap, all the ways he made it better.
“It’s purpose is to flay someone, then convert the pain they feel into iliaster. It’s actually a good thing to use on a damned, but this one is set to use on anyone.” Lawrence increased the power and reversed the trap to target the person who originally cast it, then he invoked it. The circled glowed orange. Illusory, curving branches covered with thorns erupted from the ground. They wrapped around an imaginary target, thorns growing like searching roots. Then the super-sized bear trap from hell exploded.
If a person had been standing on it, no doubt their blood and skin would decorate the room. In the present scenario, all that happened was a flash of orange and a long, high-pitched shriek from somewhere in the cave.
“I’d say someone just lost a finger,” Lawrence mused.
“A finger?” Josephine repeated. She glanced at the two wolves. They heard the screams too, which continued. No doubt they’d heard Lawrence’s explanation.
“Yeah.” Lawrence kicked some dirt over the deactivated trap. “It was set to strip a small piece of skin, which is a fancy way of saying ‘circumcision.’ I upgraded it to, uh, de-sleeve.”
“You mean to say you just took all the skin off some boy’s. . .?” Josephine made a cupping motion.
“Pretty much.”
Josephine’s eyebrows rose. “I hope they brought health potions,” she said. The screaming continued.
“We should keep moving,” Lawrence said. He led the way into the tunnels. He took one more look at the great black portal-eye-thingie. Because of its physical shape, one could stand anywhere and feel it looking at them. Lawrence felt an alien will emanate from the darkness like a probing feeler.
Lawrence was tempted to touch it. He glanced ahead to mind where he walked. When he looked back, the rings began to spin.
Heck with it. You only live once. And he did not think he had long to live. He threw caution to the wind and did the stupid thing. He shaped his will into a long finger and jammed it straight into the portal, imagining he poked something in the eye. Someone big ensnared his will.
Lawrence’s vision swam.
“Little one?” Josephine’s voice came from far away.
Lawrence blinked. He stood in a dark passageway. It had the dimensions of a wider-than-normal dungeon, twenty feet wide by thirty feet high. There, the similarity stopped. This floor was rough-hewn from living rock. No seams existed between the walls, floor, and ceiling. Everything was uneven, as if the tunnel was dug with dynamite, one crater after another in a line.
Lawrence saw a shape on the floor. It was the Good Walker, the warrior werewolf. Stronger, taller, shaggier fur, and no weapon. The creature huddled into a ball on the ground. A quiet, high-pitched whine emanated from it. It was crying, Lawrence realized.
“Come,” a voice said. It sounded like a thousand tarantulas hissing at once. Lawrence heard it right behind him. His heart pounded with fear. His imagination played all sorts of tricks about what it might be.
“Follow me. I will show you the way out.” The hissing voice stepped closer. “All I ask is that you carry my children. Please. They are so lost.”
“If I don’t?” Lawrence whispered. He felt the imprint of a hand on his shoulder, but no one stood there. The hand shook him.
“Then.” A colossal feeler reached past him. It had a needle-sharp point. “You. Will. Die.”
Lawrence heard rushing water. Waves crashed on the beach. He tried disconnecting his will from the portal, but the thing refused to let go.
“What if I could get your children out a different way?”
“No,” the creature moaned. “So many dead. So many lost. So many interlopers wandering. I will lead them out. They will carry my children, or they will die. As the others did before. Carry or be eaten.”
Something hard struck Lawrence’s cheek. The connection shattered. Lawrence blinked up at the furious form of Captain Ferg and Josephine. Ferg wore comforting colors: army camouflage. She carried an M4 Armalite. Lawrence adjusted his glasses. His cheek was warm where one of them had hit him.
“Lawrence,” Ferg demanded. “Are you hurt?”
“Uhm.” Lawrence checked himself. He didn’t feel any different. “I’m fine. What happened?”
“You were unconscious for half an hour,” Josephine said, gentle. “I knew you had made a psychic connection with the entity on the other side of the portal. The soul-thief and I brought you out of there. The witch stayed behind to lay defensive wards.”
“The spiders stopped attacking,” Ferg said. “You know better than to make contact with aliens you don’t know. I’m disappointed. You should be dead.”
“I think I know what’s coming.”
“Not now, kiddo,” Ferg moved away. “We’re chasing the giant spider. The scouts haven’t reported in, which means they’re dead. The mages say we’re not safe here.”
“We blocked the tunnels,” a mortal alien with a gray, bulbous head approached. He had two enormous eyes, no nose, a small mouth, and three-fingered hands. A Roswell Gray. “The spiders dug new ones.”
“They dug new tunnels in five minutes?” Ferg asked, skeptical.
“The species seems to have digging mutations. Look,” the alien gestured at a hole in the wall. “This one is new. [Stone Shape].”
The wall rippled like water. Then the rock moved sideways like a curtain being drawn. The hole closed. When the alien lowered his hand, the surface became solid.
“Digging through solid rock. Okay. Lady Josephine, can we retreat?”
“Well—”
“We cannot,” said a cool female voice. A Good Walker approached. This one was slimmer than the male, shorter. She wore a loincloth and breast band. Despite looking like a werewolf from a generic action movie, she had green human eyes. Her face was more expressive than a movie costume. She jerked her head. “The doors have closed. We are trapped.”
It was the job of an officer to keep a cool head at all times. No matter how stressful the situation got, the captain had to present the appearance of being in control. Nothing could rattle them. Even if they did get rattled, they had to appear calm.
Ferg slammed her hands down. “FUCK.”
“We could try a banishing ritual,” Lawrence offered. “I banish all of us back to Dalheim or somewhere.”
“You’re talking about a ritual?” a ghost interjected. He carried a staff topped with a skull. “The banishing ritual won’t take the caster with it. You could send a few of us at once, but not the whole group. Besides, we don’t have an hour to spend on it. Rituals aren’t even real magic. They’re a cosmic vending machine, boy.”
“They’re real enough,” Lawrence replied, defensive. “They’re stronger than anything you’ve got.”
“Oh yeah?” The ghost leveled his staff at the far wall, from where a handful of red eyes peered. “[Fireball].”
A textbook ball of fire exploded from the end of his staff. It sped across the room like a missile. It flew down the tunnel, impacted a waiting spider demon, and exploded with a fifteen-foot blast radius. The spider screamed. It skittered back into the safety of the tunnels, burning.
“See? Your rituals have no comparison to real sorcery. Go back to your daycare center, boy.” The ghost smiled.
Lawrence glared. “Before I do, just tell me one thing. That’s your corpse on the floor, right? What happened?”
“It was the strangest thing.” The ghost looked at a skinless pile of guts, muscles, bones, and other stuff. “I was throwing down shield spells left and right when all my skin flew off my body.”
“It was horrifying,” Ferg said. Her eyes got watery, as if she were being forced to relive something traumatizing. “We were doing well. Almost had the attackers all dead. Without warning it was like he’d just been flayed head to toe. All his skin and his clothes separated. He ran around screaming for twenty minutes before dying.”
“Of hypothermia, of all things,” the ghost finished. “Turns out, your skin is a big insulator. Hypothermia and blood loss.”
Lawrence exchanged a look with Josephine. He grimaced.
“Why do you ask?” the ghost said. “Did you reverse my trap?”
“Nope.” Lawrence shook his head. “Just curious.” He added a note about the flaying ritual to his journal.
“Mm,” the ghost grunted. “Captain, we should keep moving.”
“Yes, we should.” Ferg still looked haunted. She could not take her eyes off the skinless body. “Kid. In your vision, what did you see?”
“Not much. I didn’t get a good look at it.” Lawrence shuffled his feet. “It told me it would lead us out of the maze if we were willing to carry its babies. If we refused, it would kill us.”
“And it’s down here,” Ferg said. “In these tunnels.”
“Technically, it’s a temple,” Josephine said. “A temple to a long dead spider god. A Color Job.”
Heads turned. The demons who had been alive the longest paid attention. The younger demons looked confused.
“Did I miss something?” the ghost asked. “What’s a Color Job?”
“Ancient gods,” Josephine said. “They were all killed thousands of years ago.”
“Right, this is all thrilling,” Ferg marched toward the gaping hole in the wall through which the giant spider disappeared. She looked at the flares sitting at the bottom of a cliff. “First thing the diggers would have done is dig a secondary, emergency shaft up for air. We find that shaft, we escape.”
“You want to go deeper into the spider god’s temple dungeon?” the blue lady walked up behind Ferg.
“We can’t go back.” Ferg faced her. Faced the room, really. A lady, a Good Walker, a half-demon, assorted demons and damned, servants, and some mortal barbarian mercenaries. “We have two choices. We can stay here and wait for the spiders to regroup. Sooner or later they’ll hit us again, and again. Supplies are dwindling. Now, we can stay here and wait for the monster to find us, or we can enter the maze, take control of our fate, and escape this place before it does.”
People were silent for a second.
“I’m in,” the blue lady said.
“Me too,” Kat said. The remaining members of Parasol Parade raised their parasols in salute.
“I’ll go.” Lady Josephine stepped forward.
“We’re all gonna die,” Lawrence complained. “I’m coming.”
The rest of the group stood. Ferg grabbed a rope and a flare. She was first over the edge. The strongest fighters alive followed. The rest of the group took their time.
Lawrence drew his knife. He went from body to body. He sliced off a small piece, as quiet as he could, and swallowed it whole. He made no discrimination. His health, power, and taboo steadily climbed. He could feel his shirt grow a little tighter as his muscles grew.
“What are you doing?” Lady Josephine asked.
Lawrence paused with a slice of someone’s deltoid halfway to his mouth.
“Mm eating,” he said around a mouthful. At his bad manners, Josephine glared. He swallowed. “Sorry. I’m eating.”
“I see.” She paused. The demons were filing off the cliff. “Why?”
Between bites, and quiet, Lawrence explained his Skill. He left out the part about Taboo. It was gross enough without admitting his horror stat’s number.
“You would be a great tank,” Josephine observed.
“Could be,” Lawrence said. He swallowed a hunk from a spider. “That’s weird.”
“What?”
“I’m not getting any Skills from the spiders. I should be getting a list of their Skills, and then getting to pick which one I want. I’m not getting anything. This is bizarre.”
“Are they a different species?”
“It shouldn’t matter. I’m Half-Demon, half-mortal. I ate a Sky Elf today. I got Natural Levitation. If I ate a raccoon, I’d be able to get a Claw Swipes Skill. This is. This is wrong.”
“We should catch up with the group.” Josephine strode toward the cliff. Light rose from below where several torches had been lit. “Come, child. Let us be away.”
“One second.” Lawrence sliced the pieces off several more demons. On the edge of his vision, he saw a leg poke through solid rock. The surrounding material crumbled. A seven-legged demon with six eyes opened its mandibles. Lawrence backed away. The spider moved. Lawrence ran.
He made it over the cliff and slid down the rope, hand-over-hand. He heard a pair of jaws snap over his head, followed by a frustrated hiss. He descended to the floor.
“Kid,” Ferg warned. “Stay with the group.”
“Yes ma’am.” Lawrence lit a torch. Everyone had a weapon and a torch, even Josephine. She carried a whip made of braided black leather.
“All right, everyone,” Ferg called. “Let’s go.”