I return alone to my demesne. My warlock is holding court at the bar, sipping from an amber as he fields questions.

“So she’s a goddess,” says Kester.

“After a fashion,” Caspar says. “Whatever species they all are, the Father was one, too. But she needs one last ingredient to really be a god, I think. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“And why are you tryina do that?” demands Florin.

“She’s got good ideas, and she likes humans,” Caspar says. “And she keeps her word. The Father didn’t.”

Aaron fidgets. “You’re blaspheming again, Cas.”

“I am indeed, Aaron.” Caspar rests his amber on the table. “Look. Fellas. We all saw the kingdom of Heaven. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be able to forget. I won’t proselytize, but we need to face facts. At the very least, I’m expecting you to act like good guests. I know your parents taught you how to do that.”

Edgar looks up from his reflection in his beer. The schoolteacher has been doing that lately. Reflecting. “I reckon we can do that,” he says.

“She’s a demon.” This from the newest member of the dead men’s coterie, the truck driver Jordan headshot. His name is Stephen—the first question I asked him and the most difficult to extract. He didn’t yet understand his situation when I asked. “A fucking monster.”

“See, that’s what we’re not gonna say,” Caspar says. “I get that you’re shook up. But that woman is the reason you’re not in terrible pain right now.”

“Hear hear, Mr. Cartwright.” I choose that moment to make my entrance.

Stephen screams and flees the taphouse. The rest of the dead men watch him go. Edgar shakes his head. “Fella needs to adjust to his situation.”

“Hello, gentlemen of Rogarth,” I say. “Hello, templars.”

“Hello, Miss Irene,” Sam says.

“Let’s go with ‘ma’am’ unless we’re Caspar, shall we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good.” I hook my arm into Caspar’s. “Come, warlock.”

The eyes of the dead men sink like fruitless fish hooks into our departing backs. Caspar steps in front of me and holds the door for my exit. Ooh la la.

“The boys and I have another request, Miss Irene.” He waits until we’re out of the taphouse to say it. “We were wondering if you might see your way through to having a jukebox put in.”

I sigh. “Goodness me. So needy, these mortals.”

“We could call it practice, right? For when you’re a goddess. Answering prayers all over.”

“You always know how to mollify me,” I say. “All right. How’s this.”

I shave a sheet of bone from the vault of my ribs and drop it from the autumn sky. When it lands in my hands, it’s an acoustic guitar. “I’m afraid I’m not up-to-date with all the big hits that would go in a jukebox,” I say. “I’ve viewed a lot of the last decade from the eyes of a gentleman with a real yen for crusty old yacht rock.”

“Hey, now. The Kerry Druckman Band is not yacht rock.”

“You’d know better than me, I suppose. You’re the one who’s listened to them like 3,000 times.” I pass him the guitar. “The gents in there need productivity. Unlimited time, no more pressing concerns of the flesh to address. No striving to survive. They’ll need to replace it with something else or they’ll drive themselves cuckoo. Surely one of those stiffs has wanted to learn the six-string.”

Caspar taps his chin. “I think Hollis mentioned something about it.”

“Pass it to him, then. If they think they can just get whatever they want from me, there’ll be no afterliving with them.”

“You said I could have anything I’d like.”

“And you can. None of those yokels are named Caspar Cartwright last time I checked.” I crack my knuckles. “Now I’ve got the plan set up. You will not love it.”

I fill Caspar in on what Saoirse, Bina, and I discussed, and watch the consternation march across his face.

“Seems like a lot to give up for a sparse amount of gain,” he says.

“Do you disapprove of what I traded?” I ask. “I was self-congratulatory about it. Thought it was a nifty idea.”

“It’s nifty,” Caspar says. “Well, it’s horrifying. But it’s nifty. I’m just skeptical of what Sors… whatshername…”

“Saoirse,” I say. “Sir-sha.”

“Seems like we’re putting a lot of trust in her.”

“She’s my sister,” I say. “Keep that in mind, mister man. Don’t go badmouthing.”

“Never, Miss Irene.”

“Good boy. Now, before you skidoo, I’m going to teach you how to do this.”

My face warps and flexes, and Archbishop Tilliam is staring Caspar in the face. “You’re shitting me,” he says.

“Well how-dee-doo, Brother Cartwright,” I say. “Dontcha know cussin’ like that is some ding-dang blasphemy?”

“Please change back.”

With a musical crackle of cartilage, I subsume Tilliam’s face and return to my minimalist shadow-visage. “Now you.”

“I don’t rightly know if I can do that,” Caspar says.

“Sure you can,” I say. “I’ve so granted it.”

“What I’m wondering,” Caspar says. “Am I able to do all of this stuff, and you’re just showing me everything one at a time? If there’s stuff I can do you’re not telling me about, maybe we oughta get it all out in the open.”

“Doesn’t exactly work like that, Caspar,” I say. “I’m… well. You’re beyond nasty shocks by now, right?”

“I hope so.”

“I’m mutating you,” I say. “Every night. The more you use my magic, the more your system can take and the more new spells I can jam in there.”

Caspar blinks.

“In my defense, if I’m making you more eldritch abomination-y, you’re making me more human,” I say. “Earlier today I had a hankering for bread. Bread, for fuck’s sake. So boring. Please say something.”

“It’s what it is.” Caspar’s face is stoic. “I signed up for it.” A pang of guilt runs through me. I almost wish he’d cussed me out.

“All right, my martyr. How about you try it?”

“Who should I be?”

I tap my chin. “Let’s try Edgar the schoolteacher. Picture him, and then just… make the face.”

Caspar shuts his eyes and tries to recreate the flaring nostrils on his old deceased teacher, the workman frown. I stretch a membranous tissue around my hands and widen it into a mirror.

Caspar opens his newly brown eyes and beholds himself. “Well good grief.” He touches his own lumpen nose. “I’m an old white man.”

I snort. “It’s only going to last about ten minutes before you need to refresh it. You’ll look Caspar-er and Caspar-er as it fades. So try not to stay under observation too long when you’re doing it.”

Caspar shakes his head around rapidly, like he’s got a bug on him. Edgar’s visage subsumes, and he’s his old handsome self again. Phew.

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

“That ought to help you get into the Platinum.” I give him a light tap on the cheek. “And avoid the manhunt while you’re doing it. It’ll let you do the voice, too, if you hear enough of it.”

“What a nightmare of a guy you’re making me,” Caspar says, but he says it like a joke. He makes me smile.

“Well, nightmares end,” I say. “Gotta send you off again.”

He sighs as he kneels. And he doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. If he didn’t have his duty, he’d want to stay here, inside of me, in my darkened corridors, my autumn evening that never ends.

As I clasp my hands to the sides of his head, I feel the germination of that yearning. He is beginning to feel more at home in my world than in his.

Suddenly it’s strangely difficult to draw another breath. How odd.

My hesitation turns what is normally a quick grab-and-kiss into a longer hold. “Miss Irene?” he prompts. I don’t respond. Instead, I step between his knees and clasp my arms around his back, pulling his head up against my chest. His face lands in the fluffy cashmere of my sweater.

“You know what I just realized?” I say. “I’ve never thanked you.”

He glances at me, eyebrows up. “For what?”

“For all of it. The things you’re doing for me. The thing you’ve become for me.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “My soul is yours, remember?”

“I don’t. And it is. But thank you anyway, Caspar Cartwright.”

“Well, you’re very welcome, Miss Irene.” His smile is as soft and all-encompassing as a sunrise. It colors the rest of the world gold. I lay my chin on top of his head and inhale his scent. Rushing blood, healthy musk, subtle perspiration, an echo of peppermint aftershave.

I don’t want him to go back, either. I don’t want it. I don’t want him covered in blood and fearing for his life and doing the horrible shit I make him do. He’s brave, and he’s trying so hard, but his mind isn’t built for this task; he evolved to be a social, empathetic creature, and I’m making him a murderous outcast. The things I love about him are getting in the way. The stress and the stakes and the cold-blooded killing are taxing his human hardware.

It would be so easy to just keep him here, to pamper him and protect him. I could make him so happy. I could grant his every wish. His earthbound body could stay in the motel and just waste away, decompose into the cheap bed it’s laying in, and he’d never have to leave me again. He wouldn’t even feel the moment it died. I could find a different warlock. We never want for volunteers, my sisters and I. A crowd of would-be Adversary worshippers scribble fruitless pentagrams and spill livestock blood in search of power, every day. I could pick a promising one out of the crop and Caspar could stay. My little mortal could stay with me.

No.

I think of my usual stock of warlocks. None of them have measured up to Caspar. Not in his militia training, nor his natural aptitude for the use of my magic. Nor his disciplined reluctance, his attachment to society and humanity. Until him and Jordan, I’ve never met a warlock anything short of misanthropic. They're quick to anger, prideful, eager to use my magic for their own gain, tough to corral. They've cut deals. They've accomplished tasks in exchange for power. And then they've happily used that power to get their stupid asses killed by the inspectorate.

Caspar actually believes in me, in my cause. I feel it every time he's close. That flame of faith, always growing. His reluctance, annoying as it is, keeps him cautious and calculating. The shocking luck of him being cut down in his prime and my swinging in for the save is not how we usually operate. I won’t have a chance like this again, not with a mortal like Caspar. Not in time. I have to send him back.

“Ready?” I whisper.

“If you’re in my corner?” He nods. “Always.”

“Always.” I press my lips to the top of his head. My kiss lingers. Caspar takes a deep breath.

She smells like rain, he thinks. I never noticed. My goddess smells like rain and peaches.

With a pop of displaced air, he's reduced to two dimensions, then one, and he folds from my demesne, back into the harsh light of his doomed reality.

My finger strays up to my lower lip. I press into the indent where my warlock’s skin was a second ago.

“Good luck, darling,” I whisper to the empty space he left behind.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

Caspar jerks awake, like he dreamt of falling. He reemerges into a world of taupe, smoke-scented curtains and faded floral print. He rolls over and checks the time on the dusty table clock. Eight in the morning and he’s sore all over.

Jordan’s already awake, splayed across the floor on her fingertips, doing pushups. “Morning, Cas,” she grunts.

“Morning, Jordy.” Caspar slides to the opposite side of his bed and pulls a pair of grubby khakis on. “You get the details from Bina?”

With a final hiss of air, Jordan kips up to her feet. “Yessir,” she says. “We got ourselves a wild goose chase, sounds like. I don’t love the odds.” She balances on one leg and starts doing pistol squats.

“Irene says to trust her.” Caspar buttons his shirt up and finds his belt. “You remember you’re warlock-strong now, right? No need to keep training.”

“Force of habit.” Jordan changes legs. “Bina says trust the mushroom lady, too. I guess we’re trusting her.”

“How is it, being at Bina’s?” Caspar asks.

“You know how you go to a reunion and there’s that one cute little cousin who’s running around showing you things and craving your approval? It’s that, but she controls reality. Right now it’s a bigass tropical resort.”

Caspar crosses to their grubby bathroom and finds his ducat-store disposable razor. “Doesn’t sound half bad.”

“Not at all. Though she’s kinda 99% of the way there on some things. I found a tooth in my tiki drink. Sorry for blowing up your spot, Bean.”

Caspar scrapes the stubble along his chin. “She’s letting you call her that?”

“Bina,” Jordan says. “If you don’t want me to call you Bean, stop my heart and kill me.”

The warlocks wait.

“Suppose she is.” Jordan returns to pistol squats. “Anyway, my goddess could beat up your goddess.”

Caspar chuckles. “Let’s not start.”

They check out and retrieve their collateral—Jordan’s gun and Caspar’s charm braid. She clings to hers like it’s returning to her from a long voyage. He tosses his into the storm drain as they leave the motel. I do so love this man.

In a dingy parking garage decorated with aluminum cherubs and chintzy saints-of-the-road airbrushes, the warlocks boost a car. Caspar wants to take a homely little wood-paneled four-door. Jordan insists on the convertible. “We ain’t using it long,” she says, prying the panel loose. “And I’m much less convinced we’re taking some poor granny’s property.”

“They teach you how to do this at the Inspectorate?” Caspar tries to watch over her shoulder and see what she’s doing.

“What do you think, Abraham?” She calls him that when he’s being dumb. “No, sir. Got this trick from Chutes University.”

The engine purrs to life. “Oh, yes.” Jordan purrs with it. “You’re going to be my rebound, aren’t you? Temple Cruiser who? Never heard of her.” She slides into the leather-clad seat. “Hop in, Cas. We got a casino to turn over.”

They coast through the Segmentus, and into the Treasure District. Here the magnates and robber barons spread their peacocking tailfeathers and preen themselves higher and higher into skyscraping art déco columns. And few of them shine as bright as the Platinum.

Gambling is, of course, an abomination in the eyes of the Father. The Platinum is not a gambling establishment. The Platinum gladly accepts donations (tax-deductible and benefitting several Suzerain-approved charities) in return for markers of piety. These may be exchanged in a panoply of rites and rituals which—to the foolish heathen, perhaps—resemble slots and dice and card games. These rites determine who, in this Platinum place of worship, is most beloved by the Father. And doesn’t that love deserve monetary recompense?

The most beloved leave their ceremonies with extra markers to exchange for ducats again in a beatific eucharist; those who have some repenting to do are lucky to keep their shirts.

At one in the afternoon, Degmar takes his break. Out of the pearlescence and wealthy gospel, and into the smoky back room and the creaky lockers where he stashes his frock and his cheesy smile.

“Blackjack again?” Margo, his work wife, is powdering up for her shift.

“Yep.” He grimaces. “Bunch of hotshots thinking they’re card counters, going apeshit when they bust.”

“The Father works in mysterious ways, is what I always tell them.”

“The Father works for those who work for it,” he grumbles. “They should try a fucking day job.”

Margo favors him with a chuckle as he dips out for lunch. Maybe he’ll get her a tea. Would that be overstepping? He doesn’t want to overstep. She knows he’s a married man. Maybe if he keeps it slow, she’ll warm up to the idea.

He’s a block away from the Platinum when the servants of the Adversary pull him into an alley.

A big elephant-killer looking revolver makes a clicking mechanical promise next to his temple.

“What’s your name?”

“Deg. Uh Degmar.”

“Degmar. Repeat after me.”

“Okay. Oh, Father. Please don’t.”

“That apple was absolutely fantastic.”

Degmar’s forehead wrinkles. “What—”

“Say it or it’s two in the head.” The other voice is a woman’s.

“That apple was absolutely fantastic.” A tear drips down Degmar’s nose.

“The north wind and the sun were disputing who is stronger.”

“The north wind and the sun were. Fuck. Uh.”

“Disputing who is stronger.” The man sounds much more patient.

“Disputing who is stronger,” weeps Degmar. “Please, man. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Take your uniform off.”

“My clothes?”

The gun prods hard against his skull. The woman: “Now, motherfucker.”

They strip Degmar to his skivvies and tie his arms and legs. The woman stuffs a sock into his mouth and duct tapes it shut.

“Thank you for your time,” she says. She’s rangy and mean looking, dressed in ragged secondhand, with a scar below her lip and long, tight locs. Behind her, Degmar gets a look at the man.

It’s him. It’s Degmar, staring back at Degmar, carefully cinching his tie into position.

“We can’t spare him,” the woman says. “Neither of us can stay with him.”

“You can’t knock him out?”

She shakes her head. “You been watching too many movies. They don’t stay down like you think they do. He’ll have a better time at the taphouse than telling a casino nail-yanker a man stole his face.”

“That’s not what I intend to do.” His doppelgänger speaks in his voice. “It’s the people he’d leave behind. And the pain and the fear.”

“Taracus 5:64, Cas. Let he who serves well and willfully fear no death, for he is gladly awaited, and none shall be parted in His kingdom.”

“I told Irene.” Degmar number two shakes his head. “I will not kill just because it’s convenient.”

“This is a populous area and I don't know it. Don't know where to stash him. He could thrash, he could holler. Gags don't work well enough. He makes noise, he gets found, he blows us early.”

“That's not a good enough reason to kill him.”

“Give me a better reason to spare him.”

Silence at that.

“They won't go easier on us for letting him live. We're waxed either way. And he'll be better off. You trust Irene? Trust her with him. You are a warlock now. Do your duty.”

The doppelgänger looks as though he’s preparing to argue. Then a shutter slams shut behind his eyes. The pity excises itself from his mind. Degmar sees it. He sees it on his own face.

His last hope turns away. “Do what you have to.”

The woman looks Degmar up and down. “I will,” she says.

Degmar tries to say wait. Wait. But his voice comes out as a garbled whimper. Like a sickness or a nightmare. A hand closes around his throat. A gleam of metal.

There is a sharp, tearing sound, and a sharp, tearing pain.

And then a gorgeous sunset, framed in the fiery foliage of the fall. And a woman like a hole in the world, gazing at him with three golden eyes.