“I can’t take this anymore!” Van screamed and charged with her sword into the darkness.

She jabbed her sword right into the creatures head and a loud scream echoed in the catacombs.

“Oh my oh my,” a high pitched voice screamed “What ‘ave you done?!”

Archibald grabbed the torch on the floor and moved it towards Van and the shadow. Van had run her sword right through a garish looking chartreuse cake with pointed pink frills running along the edge. The top had two large candles sticking out of it, forming the horns they thought they saw. Holding the cake was a young man with neatly slicked back blond hair, brilliant green eyes and a white chef’s outfit and hat. He screamed in a high accented voice with anger and terror.

“’ave you no class, swordsmadam? Running your dirty sword through my delicious confection.”

“Oh,” Van said. She quickly withdrew her sword from the cake. “My apologies. I thought it was a monster.”

The young man quickly whispered to the cake and tried to smooth out the hole with his gloved hand. “She doesn’t mean it. You are no monstro. You are a beautiful cake. Yes you are.”

“Is that guy talking to a cake?” Cyrus asked with his eyebrows raised.

“Sounds like my kind of guy!” Archibald snickered.

“By the way, ‘oo are you?” The young man asked. “Why have you come to this oh-so-cruel dungeon?”

Van looked at Antonio and Archibald, before Antonio stepped forward. “My good baker,” he said with a wink. “We’re here to see the Don. We’re transporting someone very important to see him. Can you help us.”

The young man gave a broad smile. “Why then we ‘ave something in common! I’m going to see that beast of a man too. ‘ee requested my finest cake and now I’m going to ‘ave to pretend like you didn’t just stab it! I will never understand the leetle mademoiselles, they behave in such cruel and unusual ways.”

Van rolled her eyes. “Look, I’ll personally vouch for you if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll tell the Don I made a mess of your cake.”

“Well,” the young man grumbled. “At least zis one has a bit more manners. It’s a deal. You will say, Chef Bunting was not cop-able in the slightest.”

“So you’re the chef here?” Archibald asked.

“Why yes, caped crusader, I am,” Bunting responded. “But more like a slave and a hostage. You see, I started out at culinary school when I was a leetle cabbage, and I had no idea what kind of calamity I would be in for. Here I was promised pure gold if I lent my magnificent baking skills to this town of ruffians, but when I got here, that rascally Don stole my red brooch and I’ve been in ‘is debt ever since.”

“What’s so important about a red brooch?” Van asked.

“I pinched my pennies together in order to buy that red brooch for a very special someone,” the young chef said. “And I made a promise that I must keep to them. You must understand, being people who are young and een love.”

Cyrus nodded. He was reminded of Trinity and the promise he kept to her. “I’ll get it back,” he said.

“You’re not getting it back, Cyrus,” Antonio said “You’re our prisoner. But we’ll get it back for you, Chef.”

“Thank you,” the chef said with a grin and a nod. “I appreciate ruffians who are actually ‘elpful and considerate of people in need.”

“No problem,” Antonio said and he gave the chef another wink.

“’ere let me lead you down these cruel corridors to the Don’s dwelling.” The chef quickly walked past the four and with a lift of his foot he signaled them to follow him.

The four followed him through archways and circular hallways, and much to the surprise, no monsters bothered them. Cyrus was grateful for this, but as they drew closer to where the Don resided, he felt a growing sinister presence. He wanted to warn the other three, but he felt it would be out of character for a prisoner like him to do that.

At last, they came to a large golden doorway with more scowling statues of the Don outside of it. “Well, we’re ere. I thank you for protecting me from the monsters. They must ‘ave been so scared when they saw your pointy sticks that they wet themselves and fled in fear.”

Antonio twirled his rapier in his right hand. “It’s no problem. Monsters that know the presence of talented swordspeople are classy monsters indeed.”

“Indeed indeedy,” Bunting said bobbing his head. “Now I must get the cake to the Don before ‘ee loses his temper. Oh and leetle Madamoselle, don’t forget what you said. You must take the blame if ‘ee gets angry.”

“No problem,” Van said pushing the door aside so the other four could get inside.

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The Don’s room was just as dark and murky but Cyrus could tell the ceilings were a lot higher. As they stepped inside, they found themselves on a large rug woven with many complex tapestries and a line of sword armed guards that alternated with torches. As they walked down the carpet, the torches lit themselves, crackling with a crisp cold flame. The flame was bright blue and seemed to possess a spectral presence because Cyrus felt an unnerving chill when he walked past it. A stench drifted around the room as well, something was rotting and decaying in the darkness but the four could scarcely see past the thick veil of darkness.

They arrived at a throne that was shrouded in darkness and right before they approached it, a harsh booming voice commanded them to stop. “I order you to yield before me.”

Spectral flames from the torches all flew in front of the throne and formed the visage of the Don, made entirely out of blue fire. “I am Donnie Larson, and whoever comes before me, better have a good reason or I will send my ghostfire to consume you where you stand.”

“Ah Donnie, I do” said Bunting. “I have zee cake you ordered me to make.”

Without warning the plate, levitated towards the Don on his throne and the Don was silent. Suddenly the spectre face of the Don howled with rage, “Bunting,” it growled. “This cake I asked for was Cream de la Creme, not Creme de la Cream. Guards, I want you to seize this ingrate chef and force him to make a new one from scratch. Point your swords at his head and maybe this time he’ll get it right.Take him away.”

“Oh merci, you art so cruel,” the chef exclaimed as the guards came to collect him. “Zee Don, ‘ee is as cruel as a man, yet as petty as a woman.”

Cyrus looked in regret as the hapless chef was carried away whimpering and they stood before the Don alone. “And who are you?” the Don asked with his cruel visage.

“Great Don,” Antonio said with a bow. “We come bringing you a gift and…”

“Hold on one second,” Archibald said interrupting Antonio. “I had a feeling from the start that this wasn’t my good friend Donnie Larson who is in charge of the operations here. He had a dignified touch to his dealings that has been absent since we got here.”

“Of course I am the Don, you ingrate. Who are you to level such an accusation at me?”

Archibald ripped his mask off, leaving the spectre to gasp. “Archibald…”

“Yes, it is I, the Don’s best friend, Archibald the Majester. And being his best friend, I am well aware that dear old Donnie is lactose intolerant. He wouldn’t be eating anything with dairy products in it! Certainly nothing with cream in it. Though your sweet tooth has certainly given me a hunch on who you are, little miss Jetta Larson.”

“I see you’ve figured it out…” the booming voice said.

The blue spectre growled and suddenly fizzled out. Cyrus heard footsteps and the two torches around the throne brightened. A woman in her mid thirties stood at the foot of it. She wore a dark blue overcoat with long sleeves over a lighter blue dress. She wore a decadent hat made of the same material as her dark blue overcoat and long black fishnet stockings and red heels to complete the ensemble. Her hair was short and black, her chin was rectangular and eye patch draped itself over her right eye. Her body was wrapped in the same bandmages as the guard, but unlike him, she still managed to keep her wit and not become a moaning zombie. She had a scowl of deep annoyance, scorn and surprisingly to Cyrus, embarrassment.

“Little Jetta Larson,” Archibald responded playfully. “Where is your father, dear?”

“My name is Jett Larson, Archibald,” the woman said in a pout that contrasted with her husky tone of voice. “Majester, I am the same age as you. Just because you were closer friends with my father than me doesn’t mean you have to treat me like a petulant little girl.”

“Your behavior in this town is that of a petulant little girl,” Archibald responded with a cold tone in his voice. “Where is your father? What have you done with this place?”

Jett raised her hand and proudly announced in her deep voice. “I couldn’t stand and watch us be governed by royals that didn’t care about us. How were they fit to rule in place of my father who cared about every single ruffian in this town? We were just cattle to be whipped, milked and discarded.”

“I understand that, Jetta,” Archibald responded. “And Cyrus here understands that too…We…”

Jett continued to speak, ignoring both of them as she began to pace back and forth. “My father was indecisive in his old age. Ironic since he taught me all through life that the best way to rule is to be swift and decisive”--Jett smacked her hands together--”That is why I decided to take him up on an offer he gave me when I was young, ‘If you ever believe you can best me in leadership and swordplay, throw down your gauntlet and duel me to the death. Only then will you be fit to succeed me as leader of our brotherhood of thieves.’”

Archibald muttered. “You, you didn’t…”

Jett began to throw her hands forward as she paced back and forth frantically. She had a manic look in her eye and a desire to tell the world of her sordid deeds. “I couldn’t challenge my father with my current strength, but one day, a voice called to me from inside the mine. Heeding it, I stumbled upon a rare black metal from the Dark Realm that granted my wish. I gave my body and spirit to the darkness within the devil’s gold and I challenged him. I fought my flesh and blood, my father who had once instructed me.”

Jett took an imaginary dagger and guided it into her chest as she spoke. “He may have taken my eye, but I took the dagger he once guided my hand with and put it right through his chest.”

Cyrus looked at Archibald. The flames highlighted the anger in his face. He had just lost one of his greatest friends and Cyrus could only imagine how unfathomable the feelings were.

“And then, with a bloody coup on my hands, I planned another and I ordered my father’s men to take every single royal guard hostage. With my power from the devil’s gold, I summoned shadowy fiends to possess them, turning them from mortal men to monsters who no longer feared the shadowy world of death.”

Jett stared at her company with a wild grin on her face. Her eye was bright yellow and roving like a rabid animal. Cyrus swallowed hard as she glared at him with it, making his face feel numb.

“When they accomplished the task,” she said, “I realized, now I could truly bring justice to a world wronged by unjust royals. And the first step of my plan, is to take possession of you, Prince Cyrus. Your parents will have to surrender in order to keep you safe. Thanks to your friends, task one, has just been accomplished.”

Jett threw her hand forward and commanded in her deep voice, “Guards, grab him.”

Bandanna wearing men with glowing yellow eyes and banmages wrapped around them emerged from the darkness with their hands outstretched. Van, Antonio and Archibald all huddled close to Cyrus, and Archibald whispered to the young prince. “Looks like we have another exorcism on our hands. This is not going to be easy, but we need to get close to Donnie’s daughter and release the demon from her soul. It’s going to take our combined power to take this tyrant down, can you handle this?”

Cyrus looked up at his friend. “No promises, but I’m going to give it my best shot.”

Archibald muttered softly. “Let’s do it in honor of Donnie Larson.”