As I pout over the possibility of making Dresden look better than he is, Ahriman pulls out whatever he was pawing his nightgown for. His talons clink against the glass of a potion bottle, filled with a thick, curdled substance. The enterprising warlock's response to cumsocks?

I expect him to throw it at me like a grenade-wouldn't be the first time a mage has tried something like that with me; from what I've heard, Wolfe's pal Croft, who's about as much of a goody two shoes as Dresden, but infinitely less of a horny simp, has about half his fighting style resting on thrown vials-, but he moves to drink it instead.

I prepare to shoot it outta his grubby mitt as he starts chanting something that sounds as nasty as hellion, though differently so-the meth head's crackhead cousin, maybe-but a pulse of power makes me stumble, and I send a death glare at the boss bitch and her bitch baby. I can see magic outlining them, feel it around them as if I'm touching their clothes. I flick my na'at at them, but it's stopped by a two-layered magical fieldd, though it shatters the defense in return. Good thing, too: I'd have broken my hands a few times trying to punch through that roided up soap bubble, if it managed to deflect my na'at. Not to mention, the witches stumble as their spell is undone. I'm boutta pop a couple caps in their asses, but Ahriman's finished his spell, which becomes a volley of sorcerous projectiles, each aimed at a dead body, and now I've got a handful of problems at my back too.

And I don't mean Chalk and pals.

Them, I'll have to deal with after this. The chicks aren't all that bad, pretty mild-mannered, actually. It's the guys who are gonna be a pain in my ass, more so than they've been up to this point, I mean.

Chalk is a bigoted son of a bitch with anger issues. Whatever else, I like to tell myself I at least don't act like an asshole with people because of how they were born, or I'd be no better than the fucks who hate me for my heritage. Him? He hates mages and vampires, and, even if they seem more or less inherently evil in this universe, he does seem to get his jollies wasting them.

After he saw me casting, it took a while to prevent him from killing me on principle. I don't know if he got a vision from his god or what, but he finally seemed to accept that I don't act like raging fucktard because my magic makes my evil: that's just who I am. 'Course, the fact I'm also a Nephilim, like the sonuvabitch who killed his family, didn't help. Come to think of it, he's been remarkably relaxed towards me, by his standards.

Somehow, I can't find it in me to be grateful.

When we last talked, Sully the werestoat told me how Chalk threatened him, to keep himself in shape, I guess. Apparently, being told he's not that scary and actually kinda nice in person ticked Chalk off, and he put a gun to the guy's head, told him he can't afford to have weres thiking og him as not dangerous-and he doesn't even hate weres on principles. Went on to ramble about how supernaturals have too much power to be allowed to roam free, and how he's what's waiting for them if they threaten mankind.

I don't really understand what in hell he's talking about. I've looked up the local paranormals, and they're not that tough. I can count the species a buncha guys with rifles couldn't smoke on one hand. No national threats or anything, certainly not to the US of A. Personally, I think Chalk just gets butthurt over people who don't piss themselves when they see him.

And, yeah, I know this sounds hypocritical as all get out coming from me, but honestly? Yeah, I like people thinking I'm badass as much as the next guy, but if some moron thinks I'm Mister Rogers? Bad for them. They'll be that much more surprised when I kick their door and head in.

Larson, on the other hand, is probably going bugfuck insane, if he isn't already. He reeks of magic, nothing as powerful as what the bunch squaring up with me is wielding, but it's only going to get worse. I don't know when he started practicing, but I can guess why. His healed legs are a bit of a big giveaway.

I almost sigh inwardly. Back home, when a kid with prospects goes off the reservation, it's because their magic helps them indulge themselves even more than their cash (most Sub Rosa families are loaded) does. But simply being pushed along by your power, unable to do anything but watch, until you stop being able to worry? It feels way too much like rape, and the hellhounds taught me all about that.

I haven't told him...don't think I have, anyway, but one of the reasons I'm on edge around Dresden is because of how his magic, and that of humans from his universe, works. See, they have to believe that what they're doing with it is right, so casting lethal spells, controlling minds, raising the dead and crap like that is going to turn you into a cackling nutcase sooner or later. And I don't trust people who can't put a bastard in the ground without becoming worse.

I'm a killer. Been one for as long as I've been able to end lives. But my magic, dark as it is, doesn't push me to become as bad as the Hellions who created it.

Another thing I don't think I've told Dresden, and I should, is that it sounds really sketchy that he and his White Council can magically kill and mindrape as many, say, pixies as they want, and it won't fuck up their minds. Very anthropocentric. Very convenient. After all, what could they do if they ran into something they couldn't shank or light up like they do humans?

I feel like there's something deeper at work there, but that's a problem for another day, and not mine, not really.

Magic in Chalk's universe is even more restrictive, though. Even if you use it to heal babies and help dogs give birth, you will become fucking nuts, and evil as that. Why? To prove the Christians right, I guess.

I'm lucky I'm fast enough to talk to myself like this, because by the time the corpses behind me start rising, I've also decided that it probably wasn't the smartest decision to put Chalk and the newly-minted mage Larson in a small, inescapable space. The big guy's likely strangled or shot the dork by now, but...eh, fuck it.

Larson's gonna go off the rails if he lives, anyway. If I stick around enough, he might even become a pain in my ass, give me work I shouldn't actually have to do. Might as well let Chalk take him off my hands. Who asked the little shit to study magic he knew would make him go nuts, anyway? He couldn't handle living in a wheelchair? I lost an arm and had it replaced with the ugliest replacement you could have found, and you don't see me turning into Palpatine.

Saint James gives me a deadpan look, and I silently agree that yeah, my younger dumbass self would've probably done the same in Larson's place. I was the genius who got what should've been a one-way ticket Downtown from his best friends, after all.

But enough daydreaming. Just because I might as well be moving on fast forward compared to these schlubs, doesn't mean I can stare off into space like I'm Dres seeing a woman.

"Come to me, my lovelies," Ahriman whispers, a smug look on his face. "Come, and bring me the skin of my enemy."

"It grows back if you're up for a twofer," I inform him as I turn to glance at the shamblers. There's 'bout a dozen of 'em, with the ones whole enough coming at me with a staggering walk, the others pulling themselves across the floor or crawling. Dead skin flaps around gaping holes, while they moan for flesh to eat.

Seems the surviving vanillas managed to vamoose. And here part of me was, heh, morbidly interested in whether these are the infectious kind of zombies. It would've given me more bodies to rip apart, too. Shame.

I think about shooting their brains out, but being able to make bullets hasn't made me less stingy with them. Besides, I'd have to turn my back on the mages, and I'm not sure I'm fast enough to drop all the Walking Dead extras before Ahri and his girlfriends cast something nasty.

Time to cast myself.

Hellion has a few incantations for situations like this, though they were created for different reasons. Like expelling another Hellion from a body you wanted to possess. It takes some tweaking to make those spells work on spirits or other animating forces, but my Nephilim powers let me MacGyver them to the point I could probably blast a vanilla's soul out of their body, if I wanted.

That's not what I do, though. The Hellion spells gave me the idea, but instead of using one, I tap into my Deep School mojo, the heap of bullshit that lets me change reality without magic, simply by understanding it on a level I'd struggle to explain while sober.

It's not a destructive attack, though the effect is. The zombies aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, just tools, in both senses of the word. It doesn't take much to trick people suffering from literal brain rot, and that's what I do. The illusion settles nice and comfy over their dull senses, and suddenly, every World War Z escapee sees their pals as the tastiest-looking warm fleshbags ever.

And they dive in.

As the zombies begin eating each other other, I flash the mages a smile that twists my scars, all teeth. If the zombies are anything like I expect, they don't get tired or hurt, can can ignore wounds that would kill a human many times over. Would take some time to hack and slash or shoot them up, and a destructive spell would've left me with a bit less juice, not to mention it could've brought the restaurant down on our heads if I wasn't careful. Do you have any idea how lame it is to unintentionally kill someone while leveling a building?

Ahriman begins shrieking in frustration, proving he's even more of a little girl than his dress suggests, and that's in comparison to Athame. Speaking of her, the gangly bitch actually looks pleased the warlock has failed. I wanna shake my head at her dumbassery.

Gloating over your teammates failing practically means offering to do their job, too. Maybe she's eager, and this is more about being paid through exposure than a case of Selene bringing her kid at work.

Speaking of them, the fatass purses her lips, trying not to look shaken. It mostly works, though she still looks as surprised as I did when I was informed I'm not slow, in the medical sense.

"Athame, it's your turn."

The kid smirks at mommy dearest's words, licking her lips with a long, red tongue as black magic fills her eyes, leaving them inky. Her teeth lengthen and sharpen into ivory knives, while black horns, curling and ram-like, break through her brow, wide black wings tearing through her back at the same time. Her legs joint backwards as her feet become cloven hooves, and a spaded tail starts swinging behind her. "Oh, goody. I love to play."

I almost laugh, but not cuz I'm as giddy as the skinny shitbag. She looks and sounds so much like a Hellion, it's almost like I'm back in Hell.

Almost. Unlike most Downtowners, these three aren't smart enough to run screaming after seeing me smile.

Their loss, my gain. World usually looks like that. Time to finish this dustup.

I swing my whiplike na'at faster than I have in a long while, and my arm breaks. My shoulder will be back in its proper place soon, whether moved by my regeneration or my own hand, but it let me attack before the mages could react. The weapon wraps around Athame so fast her eyes have barely started widening when I yank her towards me. My shattered arm protests, sharply, and I want nothing more than to drop and cry like a baby. I've got work to do, however, so my scream sounds almost happy, and I'm not even pretending, much.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

It's been some time since I've been able to put loose, and I've actually started missing the Nightside. There, no one would give me crap for acting out. Not many people would back home, but...I'm too much of a goddamn coward to go there. It would mean admitting I don't know what to do with myself to the few people I care about, the few who give a damn about me.

Kasabian's made something of himself, with his video store that rents movies you can't find anywhere else. Candy and her girlfriend have a good thing going one, why should I show up and make life awkward for them? Maybe if I'd started looking more seriously for a way back as soon as I ended up in Taylor's multiverse, instead of laughing my ass off while running around bizarro London for a year, things would've been different. But it's too late for that.

My arrival to the Nightside didn't just stir ship up there, though it let some monsters go where they shouldn't have been able to. That would have been too good, wouldn't it have? No. Things didn't go as they would have if I'd died when Ishii stabbed me, instead of ending up in the Nightside. They went to shit faster.

Traven is still in Hell, Vidocq was killed by someone he should've seen coming, and a bunch of scheming assholes known as Wormwood are finding ways to profit from everything, like the Platonic image of corporations. Always landing on their feet. But I'll deal with all those, in time. When I find my damn spine.

But, for now, I'm busy finding Athame's.

It doesn't take long, though.

It's a thick, spiky thing, closer to a white version of my na'at than a human's spinal cord. I'm sure I'd struggle to break it even if she stood still. But that's why I dropped my gun as I pulled the witch towards me, instead pulling out my black knife, which I'm currently burying in her torso, with the tip poking out through her back.

Then I speak, the Hellion words stabbing at my ears. This spell shakes buildings, makes them fall apart; when cast through my black bone blade, it can leave city blocks covered in cracks and trembling like a leaf. On a more or less human body, the effects are more dramatic.

Athame comes apart as the knife shudders, and the resulting chunks are flying even before her dark blood can spread and fill the air. The shockwave, diminished, but not by much, keeps going, breaking through whatever defenses her fellow mages might have had. The two are blasted off their feet; I can practically hear their bones breaking, and they haven't even crashed into anything yet.

Ahriman is blasted into a wall with a nice-sounding crunch, and his body is limp as he begins sliding down to the floor, moving in slow motion to my eyes.

Selene is sent tumbling through the air, eyes wide as her insides are pulped. They widen even more as a piece of her daughter ends up in her gaping mouth. Shouldn't have tried to scream, bitch.

I'm sent sliding across the length of the restaurant, my boots digging trenches through the floor. The wall cracks behind me as I slam to a stop, and things crack inside me, too.

But I'm laughing.

My healing, which could already heal knife wounds in seconds and patch up gunshot wounds like nobody's business well before Hadleigh took me aside to make me really look at existence, is patching me up even as I sway on my feet, cackles and gurgles escaping my lips. A leg is forced back into shape with a snap, no longer bending the wrong way. I scream with joy.

My Kissi arm is fine, of course-might as well be made from the Droods' strange matter-, but the other one is forcibly put back together, hanging limply for a bit as the earlier damage, now compounded, is reverted.

This is all for the better, too. I can say that what doesn't kill me make me stronger, and not even sound that cliched. I'll be way tougher than I used to be before this, stronger too.

I feel something slamming into the forcefield I created before I decided to play inquisitor and have myself a little witch hunt, and turn to give the not so merry men, and women, a dirty glare. Chalk looks fucking incensed, like I'm the one who broke into the restaurant and raised the dead, rather than the guy who stopped the culprits.

Well, he can go blow himself. I don't know how his wife and kids managed to stand this chump, but I'm glad they no longer have to, unlike me. And they say being dead doesn't pay.

The girls look appalled, too, though more disgusted than angry. Larson seems torn, like he's not sure whether he should be put off or gush about how cool I am. But James is already shaking his head about that, and I'm sure he'll soon start wagging his finger, too.

I have a finger of my own for him.

I wiggle my fingers at them and blow them a kiss, then practically skip my way to the groaning Selene. Before she can so much as raise her eyes towards me, I crouch and cut her noggin off.

As she's gaping like the blobfish she resembles, I lift her by her hair and smirk into her face. That's when I notice the chunk of gore stuck in her craw, and I can't help but laugh again, throwing in a few Hellion oaths for good measure.

She doesn't have to worry about choking to death on her kid now. She won't die unless I want to. But do you think she'll thank me? No.

"You know what's the funny thing?" I ask her as I rip the flesh out of her mouth, giving her a couple slaps for good measure. "You're not even the first bloated turd I've left as a severed head." I look past her, thinking out loud. "In fact, if I had a nickel for every fatso I've done like this, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice."

To her credit, once Selene faces the reality of her situation, she's actually pretty calm. As in, she starts gabbing instead of screaming incoherently. Which helps her not at all, as I tune her out. Smacking her into the ground by her hair helps.

"Will you shut up? If I were you, I'd save my breath to give commentary for the next part..."

Twirling her like a yoyo, I saunter over to the groaning Ahriman, turning him over with a boot so he's on his back. His eyes flutter open, and he doesn't like what he sees. Feeling's very much mutual. Happily, I'll soon improve his looks.

"Now, Seli," I tell the head in a conversational tone, setting her on the stump on her neck a few feet away from the flattened warlock. "I need you to watch very carefully. Don't make me shove you up his ass."

Her eyes dart wildly from me to her toady, and this pretty much confirms my impression of her, though her next words help. Not even shedding a tear for your dead kid, huh?

"Wait," she says, voice desperate. "We do not have to fight-"

"Wouldn't call this a fight." I gesture at our surroundings. "I hurt myself more than you bumblefucks did." What is new?

She gulps. "You have power! This, we have witnessed. You can...even if you do not give us the Blood of the Trinity, you can instead-"

I put my knife to her left eye, and she quiets up real quick. "Shut up, and watch. I want you to see me feed him his own body."

Selene is babbling again as I rip away the lower part of Ahriman's cassock, twirling my bone blade in preparation for his impromptu castration.

Good start, wouldn't you say?

* * *

I'm looking at Ahriman's bloated torso with a wistful smile. Sadly, he died not long after I was done feeding him his junk. James thinks it was the shock, but what does he mean? A guy that self-fellating, blowing himself...what's so shocking about that?

I didn't stop there, of course. I had some work ethic, at least when it mean hurting people. The way Ahriman's limbs poke out through his skin, you'd think his hands are extended for help. And I did help! I hollowed him out and put his guts back in with my own two hands, but he was too dead to appreciate it, the jerk.

I put some power behind each twist of the knife, though; he was a necromancer, no reason to think he couldn't resurrect himself. That didn't meake him less resilient, so I guess he was just a wimp.

Selene has started sounding pretty hysterical, not to mention whiny, so I flayed part of her forehead and wrapped the flesh 'round her mouth. Infection was about as likely to kill her as asphyxiation, in this state: not at all.

Not too long after I took care of the gatecrashers, a bunch of spooks showed up, led by a guy called Silas Heck. His parents must have been a buncha real scripture-fondlers not to call themselves Hells.

Heck introduced himself as an agent of OCID, the Occult Crime Investigation Division. Apparently, this US had a branch meant to handle supernatural crime and terrorism. In the grand tradition of governments everywhere, I received nothing for doing their job, except a warning not to give them a reason to come after me, too.

Least they took care of the cleanup, I guess. The zombies had mostly torn each other to shreds (you say...) by the time they showed up, and while I coulda stomped the remaining ankle biters into paste, it was nice to have a gaggle of Bond extras do it for me.

After they were done, I dispelled the shield, letting Chalk and his pal stretch their legs, which Larson suddenly seemed shy about doing. Wonder why.

Chalk only glared at the new mage for a bit, though, before laying into me. And lookie there, here he's coming to chew me out again.

I let myself be turned around as he grabs my shoulder, giving him an unimpressed, half-lidded look as I smile lazily around my Malediction. He's fuming, face red, and someone should really tell him it's bad for his blood pressure.

"We're done, you inhuman piece of garbage," he snarls in my face, and I bristle, despite myself. It's stupid, I know, but I hate the way he's implying my mother's blood doesn't mean anything. She might've been sad all the time, might've drank herself silly most days, but she was far from the worst woman I know.

"You're breaking up with me?" I mewl in a watery voice, batting my lashes at him. He grunts, trying to shove me away. He stumbles instead, because I'm bracing this time. "Pooey. And here I thought we were growing closer..."

He jabs a finger to where a couple OCID agents are putting Ahriman's remains in a bag. "Who the fuck does that, you freak? Who-"

"You seem awfully attached to them now. What changed?" I ask, not really interested.

Chalk laughs. "What changed? You think them being scum gives you an excuse to be just as bad?" He gestured at Selene. "Why are you keeping her alive?"

"For questioning." And fun. I look up at him. "If you must know, Ahri Manny over there reminded me of that Sub Rosa kid who chased me through a cemetery and almost killed me, because he wanted to and could."

Chalk shakes his head, a disgusted look in his eyes, then snorts, before laughing briefly, darkly. Some people should stick to grunting. "Did anything nice ever happen in that damn childhood of yours?" He crosses his arms. "I can see why you use it as an excuse to act out. Sounds like one shitshow after another."

Maybe, if it had been someone else, I'd have opened up a bit, but his three buddies are huddled together, and it looks like the women are tag teaming Larson, but not in the good way. They're far enough away that I can't make out the words, but I bet my ass they're grilling him about his magic. His girlfriend keeps gesturing to his legs, so.

"Did anything nice ever happen...?" I repeat, pretending to think, something I have great experience in. Then, my eyes light like I'm all excited at remembering. "Oh, yeah! There was that time my stepdad shot at my head and missed." I stick my hands in my pockets, balancing on the balls of my feet. "Understandable. Understandable. I mean, what else can you do when the chick you're banging has a kid you can't stand? Meet him halfway? Be a man and raise him? Pssht."

Chalk looks at me for a long moment, then scoffs. "Keep your sob stories. You should've tried to become better after that, but you just cling to it as a justification." He clenches a fist. "Knew you were rotten to the core the second I laid eyes on you." He gets all up in my face. "I never want to see you again, Stark. I don't care if your magick doesn't change you like you say. You're a sicko anyway." He begins raising a pistol, while Heck, a bland-looking guy in a monkey suit and shades, watches from a distance. He starts making his way towards us, but I'm not in the mood for another Golden Vigil fuckup.

I clock Chalk in the jaw, nearly tearing it off, and the way I pulled my punch makes me wanna cry. I was punching through concrete walls and bulletproof windows a good while back, and I wanted to add his skull to the list, but...he's not that bad, in the end. I look at him and see myself, if I had a family and lost it.

Doesn't mean I have to be nice, though. As he's falling, eyes unfocused, I mutter a spell that knocks out everyone around the crime scene. The sleep spell just put 'em to sleep, like flicking a switch. The worst they'll get is a few bumps and bruised from falling on their asses or faceplanting.

Let Chalk deal with the fairytale sorcerer banging his employee. Those two would've killed each other, anyway; I think Chalk still gates him after that time Larson went vampire hunting after his mom and sis got kidnapped. For a glorified vigilante, he's all about professionalism, and knowing your business.

I'm already dashing away before the remaining OCID agents can give chase, so fast I'd be nigh-invisible to human eyes even if I didn't cast a glamour on myself. They'll have a hell of a time looking for a shadow that can outrun their cars, not that I plan on sticking around.

I make my way through a few dark alleys before I'm confident I've lost them. I was tempted to steal one of their rides, but that would just have slowed me down, honestly, even putting aside the process of hijacking it. When I'm sure there's no one around listening, or at least nobody with a heartbeat, I hold up Selene and rip the skin off her mouth.

She looks ready to launch into another tirade, so I twist her bloody nose, making her squeal like the pig she resembles. "Easy, now," I say cheerfully. "If you wanna talk, why don't you stop wasting your breath, and start telling me what you're planning?" I shake her a couple times. "You know. With the multiverse. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."

She gives me a dark look, even after everything. "You know not of what you-"

I extend my arm, thrusting her through a shadow and into what lies beyond. I manage to pull her back before my angry roommate can blast her out of existence. She blinks a few times, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. I think there are a few new white hairs on her head. "What...was that?" she whimpers finally.

"Lilith." I give her a mock surprised look. "What, you mean you aren't really Selene the moon goddess? You don't know each other?" I start twirling her overhead. "Dang. It seems I have no alternative but to take you to the Street of the Gods and let Selene-one of 'em, anyway-have her way with you. If you're lucky, she'll use you as a paperweight." I start chuckling. "Wonder if Razor Eddie's making the rounds?" And now I'm laughing, loud and deep, though the sound is silenced by my power, so only the two of us can hear it.

"I'll tell you! I'll tell you. Just..." she gulps. "Stop."

I give her a hurt, disappointed look. "Aw, Seli...you're killing me. No woman's ever asked me to stop using my mouth..."