There was no stench of decay, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams noticed.

There was no trace of rot or spoil or decomposition, as was trademark with most Creation dwellings.

There were no unexplainable happenings attributed to the supernatural.

Or whispering, disembodied voices from way beyond.

Or shadows less so shadows and more so, waiting, haunting, hunting predators.

What there was, oddly enough, was the almost spotless, exquisite, perfectly-preserved interior of an abandoned castle some few thousand years old. The walls, which Jonathan Wicker Abhrams deduced to be solid rock, were free of deformities and other worldly imperfections; there were absolutely no cracks or holes or any hint of moss perversing their pristine state.

The floors too, which the Hunter presumed would be stained red with the blood of long forgotten battles, were unblemished, untainted, and most definitely untarnished, which was indeed a strange thing. There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust or a piece of rubble or a shade of black where a shade of black ought not to be.

Everything was much too perfect.

Much too. . .

Untouched.

And that did not at all sit well with Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.

Little Red and the Divine didn't seem to notice.

Nor did he think they would particularly care.

Deeper and deeper into the castle they went, taking turns at random, following in the footsteps of Little Red’s ephemeral wolf summons. They charged down the dark corners and forlorn hallways with such certainty, the Hunter assumed there was something more than blind guesswork behind their audacious lead. Wolves had an excellent sense of smell after all, he knew as much.

And even the Hunter himself was beginning to pick up a peculiar scent.

It wasn’t rot or decay or decomposition, per se.

It was more. . .

Pleasant.

Familiar.

Ethereal.

It smelled almost like Sunday church.

And he hadn’t been to church in so very long.

Not since then, at least.

***

They were getting close.

Much closer.

The smell was less so a hint in the wind now, and more an overpowering, nauseating concoction dulling to the senses and altogether jarring to the mind. Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had begun coughing, and so too did Little Red and the Divine.

“John!” Wrath yelled over the stamping of paws, the growling of feral wolves, and the thumping of standard issue Foundation boots on cold, stone floors. “Up ahead!”

The Hunter looked, squinted his eyes, saw.

Up ahead was a room less dark and more lively than the endless hallways they had been perusing.

Less dark because the orange, fiery glow of candlelight spilled out the door and into the dark, and more lively because there were living, breathing people within.

The living, breathing people in this case were none other than Hades and Sangria.

Vanguard minus one.

Which in itself was a problem worth addressing later.

When all was good, all was safe, and the mission was over with.

But for now —

Hades had his revolver in hand, and Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had the sickest, illest, most gut-wrenching feeling the Hunter was about to do something rash, and very much so detrimental to all their lives.

And he was not having it.

“Hades!”

His voice echoed throughout the halls.

Throughout the dark.

Throughout much of the empty corridors and into the room.

Hades turned.

Saw the three Hunters coming his way.

“Stop! Don't!”

And proceeded to ignore the orders of his team leader entirely.

He turned his back on the approaching crowd.

Raised his revolver.

Pointed it at something further within the room — something Jonathan couldn’t quite see.

And then he craned his neck — his head — back, yelling into the darkness.

“Just doing my job, John!”

Jonathan Wicker Abhram’s mind raced, evaluating the logical sequence of events.

One, there were zero Creation encounters so far.

Two, Hades seemed awfully interested in whatever was in the room.

Three, whatever was in the room was most probably the very thing they were looking for.

And four, they weren’t quite dead yet.

Which meant it was still dormant, perhaps.

Sleeping.

Inert.

Inactive and a non-threat for the time being.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams would much rather it stay that way.

Until Rearguard arrived, that is.

“Wrath!”

“Way ahead of you!”

The Divine whipped his infernal twin blades hard, slinging both far and wide. They came crashing into either sides of the castle wall at once, digging into stone through and through, and with the kick of a heel, Wrath bounded forth.

One, two, three.

On the third he leapt far.

On the third he tugged and pulled and twisted the chains taut.

And so he went.

Further and further.

Sailing through the air.

So very fast and so very suddenly, Hades barely had time at all to blink — let alone pull the trigger.

He hesitated.

And that was all Wrath needed.

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“The fu—”

The Divine extended both hands.

One grabbed onto Hades’ neck; the other, onto his wrist.

And together, they slammed into the cold, stone walls.

Together, they struggled to keep hold and kick free.

Plumes of dust stirred from their eternal slumber, clouding the air all around.

“Sangria!”

Hades gritted his teeth, looking to the girl standing just out of arm’s reach.

“Get this motherfucker off me!”

Sangria took a step back.

Nodded.

Snapped her fingers.

Raised a hand at the Divine.

And heard — saw — the arrow land right at her feet.

“Open.”

***

The stone floors cracked in the particular, peculiar, ever-so familiar shape of a pentagram. Then came the bedazzling beams of light reaching all at once from deep within each fracture in the ground. A shimmering brightness, an ethereal chiming — Sangria froze, still with her arms outstretched and one palm open and both lips parted ready to send forth death and destruction, magic and all towards the Divine.

Except there was no death.

No destruction.

No magic whatsoever.

She stood idle, almost as if suspended in animation.

Suspended in time and space itself.

Much like Beauford's coat that one night.

She could speak still, yes.

And breathe.

And blink.

And think.

But that was all.

That was the extent of her capabilities in stasis.

And Sangria was so very upset — so very upset she could’ve, would’ve upturned the entire castle and reduced it to but rubble — except she didn’t, because she couldn’t, and so she resorted to the few things she could do, which was shoot a most venomous stare towards the approaching Hunters and sling together an ensemble of profanity.

“You cunt bitch. You rat bastard — you.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams assumed she was referring to Little Red, who strolled into the light most nonchalantly accompanied by her two guardian wolf summons. They looked hungry, their master looked almost bored, and all three were having their patience tested.

“Red!”

Red rolled her eyes, returned Sangria’s nasty stare with one of her own, then proceeded to raise a brow, almost as if to smugly say, “what?”

“You motherless, fatherless, little shit! Let me go! Hey!”

“Calm down, both of you,” the heat of the moment had Jonathan Wicker Abhrams forgetting his body was desperately in need of a quick break, and his lungs were on fire. So too were his arms and legs, and just about every other fiber of his being. “We’re supposed to be working together for fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, go eat a bag of dicks, John,” Hades said from within Wrath’s grasp. The scuffle had escalated terribly — unsurprisingly — against the Hunter, and he found himself in quite the precarious rear-naked choke. “I’m not taking orders from you.”

“Put your fucking ego aside for two seconds, Hades. We have a job to do here.”

“We.”

“What?”

“We is right. We have a job to do here — not you. You do fuck all.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and you’re sure as shit not fit to lead this dumpster fire of an operation. It all went to hell the moment Grant — that motherfucker — put you on the wheel; you’re going to get us all fucking killed and I’m not going to stand by and watch you put me six feet in the dirt!”

“Really — because so far we’re all still here. We’re all still alive, aren’t we, Hades?”

The two were practically standing a breath away, now.

And spitting at each other’s faces.

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me?”

“Yeah, fuck you! You’re a fucking D-grade Hunter, John — even ten fucking years! Who do you think you are, huh? If I was still a D-grade ranked bumfuck nobody after ten god damn years, I’d just grab the rope and make it quick!”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams said nothing.

Neither did Hades.

Or Wrath.

Sangria or Little Red.

They let the silence settle.

And the winds blow in from way beyond the dark — from way beyond the halls.

The candlelight flickered.

The shadows danced.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams finally spoke.

“Wrath.”

Wrath looked up.

“Yeah?”

“Let him go.”

The Divine hesitated.

Little Red offered no assuring nods.

“You sure?”

“Let him go.”

“John.”

“Now.”

And so he did.

All at once, Wrath released the chokehold and shoved the Hunter forth.

Hades did not fall.

He simply stumbled, coughed, dusted himself, and stood before his team leader, matching Jonathan’s stare with one of his own.

Then, in an instance, he felt a gloved fist kiss his jaw.

His face met stone walls.

And his back hit ground.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams rolled his sleeves up, grabbed unto Hades’ coat, and hoisted him just barely off the floor. “I’m going to say this just once, so you listen — and listen well.”

There were no complaints.

Not from Wrath, who had a sliver of a smile creeping from ear to ear.

Not from Little Red, who was very slightly, very quietly giggling behind both her hands.

And not from Sangria, who could not believe Hades was on the floor and Jonathan Wicker Abhrams had gone and done something as outlandishly audacious.

“I know you don’t like me, Hades, and I sure as shit don’t like you either.”

“You. . .”

“But right now, there’s something that needs to be dealt with — urgently. We have a Creation on our hands, and absolutely no clue what it is.”

“You hit — me.”

“I don’t need you to like me, but if I’m going to fucking lead you — us all — into this fight, I need your respect and your trust. I need you to do what you’re told, when you’re told, and if you can do that, maybe — just fucking maybe — I can keep us all from going home in bodybags.”

Hades gazed up at his team leader with an expression he himself had not the pleasure of expressing in so very long.

It was shock.

Daze.

Surprise.

With perhaps a hint of bewilderment.

“So for the final father fucking time,” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams yelled right in the Hunter’s face. “Do what you’re fucking told!”

Hades’ back hit ground a second time.

And he laid there, with both eyes fluttering and his mouth agape.

He offered no response.

Neither did Sangria, who Jonathan Wicker Abhrams promptly freed from the clutches of Little Red’s arrow with the kick of a boot and a single swipe of his hands. He held the metal tip just barely from her face. “And you. . .”

She took a step back.

Then, another.

“Are you going to be —”

He took a step forth.

Then, another.

“Understanding?”

Sangria swallowed.

Sangria nodded.

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams let the arrow slip from his grasp.

It was no longer burning white.

Nor ethereally chiming.

“Good. Now let’s get to work.”

***

Little Red held onto the arrow with both hands.

She showed it to Wrath.

Who also then proceeded to hold unto it delicately.

Like he would to a flower.

Or a baby.

Or something equally precious and equally fragile, and he was indeed afraid his monstrous strength would reduce it to but ashes in the wind.

“He touched it,” she said — in hands.

The Divine understood anyway.

“Was he not supposed to?”

He replied — also in hands.

“He didn’t freeze.”

“Was he supposed to?”

“Yes, like her.”

“Why didn’t he?”

She looked to the arrow.

And then to Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.

And then back to the arrow once more.

“I don’t know.”

Little Red blinked.

Squinted.

Noticed.

His shadow wasn’t dancing in the candlelight like everyone else’s.

It was still.

Unmoving.

Motionless.

And slightly. . .

Tall.

***

It was a chapel.

That was one of the first things Jonathan Wicker Abhrams noticed.

The room was a chapel of sorts.

There were rows of wooden pews, some rotting, some rotten, and others soon to be subjected to similar fates.

There were wax candles lining, jutting, occupying, the walls, the floors, and every other surface imaginable.

There was the occasional painting depicting grotesqueries of the past and slices of religious history, accompanied almost befittingly by artistic marble displays of. . .

Something.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could not, for the life of him, figure out what the statues were supposed to be.

They looked much like an abstract mass meticulously produced from the mind of a maddened painter and given form.

Given color.

Given texture.

And an uncanny resemblance to. . .

Parts of the human anatomy.

Though the Hunter figured that last bit was most probably his overactive imagination making something of nothing.

Or so he hoped.

There too was a stone altar.

A large wooden cross.

A table with chain shackles atop.

Stained glass windows.

And a well—

Or more precisely, a bottomless pit of black carved right into the floor — right into the very earth. It seemed to go on and on and on forever, and where it went — how far deep it went — nobody knew; certainly not Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, no. He dropped a piece of rubble down the pit, and never heard it hit the bottom.

And then there was the. . .

Thing.

The figure cocooned in white silk, chained haphazardly onto the middle of the cross.

A human figure.

Yet one much too big to pass for human.

“Compass, anyone?” John called out.

Little Red responded by passing him hers.

And to his surprise, it wasn’t pointing in any one direction.

No.

It was pointing everywhere.

Anywhere.

All at once.