Harald opened his eyes.

He was in a strange room. Relief flooded him. Comfortable, clean, with morning sunlight pouring in through large windows. The sheets were soft, his body relaxed and without pain, and -

A memory came to him.

- screams erupting from beneath a canvas tarp as he punched the squirming shapes trapped below, punched and broke bones, caused blood to well up to soak the canvas -

Harald sat up abruptly, eyes wide, hand going to his throat. What the -?

The sound of metallic stars rang out against the void filled his mind:

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Strength has risen from 11 to 12

Your Dexterity has risen from 11 to 12

Your Constitution has risen from 12 to 13

But the rewards didn’t quench his panic. Heart thudding, he looked around the room. There was no sign of that violent nightmare. The floor gleamed, the furniture was neatly arranged, the white gauzy curtains tied back.

He examined his hands. They were clean but for dark crescents under his nails. Harald’s eyes widened.

That wasn’t dirt.

Stomach clenching, he scrambled out of the bed and hurried to the basin on the side table, and there took up a hard bristled brush and set to cleaning the dried blood away. Someone had clearly made a go of it, but they hadn’t been sufficiently forceful. Harald scrubbed and washed and scrubbed and washed till the little flecks of dried blood floated in the basin and his fingertips were raw and clean.

A moment later a new message appeared in his vision, the letters dark and absolute, granting him power, rewarding him for those very nightmare images:

The abyss approves of your ravenous hunger.

Your fury has resonated through the depths.

By the decree of the Fallen Angel, you are granted the next echelon of your destiny:

Abyssal Initiate 4

Active Ability Unlocked: Abyssal Grasp

From the void, tendrils of darkness extend from your hands, reaching for the souls of your enemies. These ethereal shackles immobilize foes from a distance, draining their life force and empowering you for as long as contact is maintained.

Passive Ability Unlocked: Veil of Shadows

Shadows cling to you like a second skin. In dim light or darkness, you become harder to detect, your form blending seamlessly with the gloom. This veil muffles your footsteps and obscures your presence from prying eyes.

Harald mechanically picked up a hand towel and dried his hands as he read the updates.

A new level.

Abyssal Grasp. Veil of Shadows.

From the depths of his mind he heard the hobgoblins screaming, the sound of bones breaking under his fists. He shuddered, pressed the base of his palms into his eyes, then staggered over to sit heavily on the edge of his bed.

He could almost hear Vorakhar’s laughter.

For a long, endless moment Harald remained thus, and then he dropped his hands into his lap and sat up straight.

Ego 23 allowed him to assert control over the roiling oceans of his emotions.

Begin at the beginning. What had happened?

Nessa had fallen. He’d felt terrible panic, had leaped down and confronted an pale-skinned hobgoblin…Wirmas.

Then? He’d proposed a mad idea, one driven by desperation, and put on the Helm. There’d been a rush of fury, of bloodlust… and now here he was.

A Level 4 Abyssal Initiate.

Harald glanced about and stood once more. Someone’s home. Which meant they’d succeeded? He’d been extracted, cleaned, cared for. But Nessa? Had she survived?

Panicked all over again, he strode to the door, yanked it open, and emerged into an unfamiliar hallway. Not an inn. The scent in the air was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Nessa? Nessa!”

Voices from downstairs.

He began striding down the hall, forcing himself to not run, commanding himself to stay calm until given reason to panic. Even as he rounded the corner and emerged onto a landing with a grand staircase descending into Sonora Manor’s entrance hall, he saw Sam emerge into view and begin rushing up the stairs. “Harald! You’re awake!”

“You’re alive.” Harald’s knees went weak as they clasped hands. “Nessa?”

“Alive. You saved her.”

This time his knees did give way, and he sat bonelessly on the uppermost step. “Oh. Oh thank the heavens.”

Sam sat beside him. “How are you? How’s your head?”

“My head?” He touched his temple. “Fine? Why?”

Sam hesitated.

“What is it? How long have I been asleep?”

“Five days.”

“Five… five days!?” Harald felt a fresh flare-up of panic and horror. “Five days I’ve just lain there?”

“You were almost dead.” Tears brimmed abruptly in Sam’s eyes. “What you did, Harald, the wounds you took… I don’t know how you’re still alive.”

Solid steps sounded and then Kársek emerged into view below. “You’re awake. Good.”

“Kársek.” Harald turned back to Sam. “But five days?”

Kársek climbed the steps to stand just below them. “Your mind was sorely wounded, Harald. Perhaps even more than your body, hard as that is to believe.”

“Tell me,” said Harald. “What happened?”

Sam hesitated again and exchanged a glance with the dwarf, who shrugged and answered for her. “You killed all the hobgoblins. Some forty or so, along with a troll and an orc behemoth, or so Lady Nessa called it. In doing so you took several arrows to the shoulder and back, and more gashes than a cutting board. Your cursed Helm granted you the Strength and Constitution to keep going, and then Sam’s own powers helped you hold on long enough for some healing. It was a close thing.”

Harald nodded slowly. “Good. So we won. That’s… that’s good.”

“Your mind, Harald.” Sam’s tone was soft. “You hurt your sense of self. Countess Sonora insisted on a healer after the first day, and that’s what he diagnosed. That what you did caused spiritual wounds. You took five days to heal back from that alone though your body was already healed.”

“But… that was a price worth paying, right?” Harald glanced from one to the next. “Nessa’s alive?”

“That’s right,” said Kársek firmly. “Your actions saved her.”

“Even if it was my insistence that forced her into danger.”

“Nessa’s a grown woman,” said Sam, frowning. “And our Delve Captain. She can take responsibility for her choices. But… well. I’ve had a lot of time to think while you were asleep. We all have. As a crew, we’ve decided to ask—to insist—that you finally meet with that priest that Nessa and Vic know to discuss your… condition.”

“My condition?” Harald sat up straighter. “My condition’s what allowed me to save Nessa.”

“Yes and no,” said Kársek, his tone forthright. “Your condition pushed us into deeper danger than Nessa might otherwise have agreed to, and then saved her from that danger. I think it wise to learn more about your connection to this gathul, this demon. If a priest can grant us information, then we should seek it.”

“Or he’ll hand me over to the Inquisitors,” laughed Harald. “That’s a real risk.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Not with this priest,” said Sam. “He’s… well. He’s not really part of the Seraphic Church any longer.”

“Oh, wait,” said Harald. “This that priest… what was his name? The one Vic said is staying at the Kitty Kat Club?”

“The very same,” agreed Kársek. “Both Masters Vic and Nessa speak highly of his learning, though it seems his moral character leaves something to be desired.”

Harald laughed weakly again. “You don’t say.” But neither the dwarf nor Sam were smiling. “You’re serious. All right.” He rubbed at his face. “If you want me to speak with a priest, I’ll speak with a priest. But I thought he wasn’t willing to talk to us?”

“Not willing to talk to Vic,” corrected Sam. “Nessa introduced me to him, and I managed to convince him to talk to you.”

“You did? All right.” Harald’s stomach grumbled audibly, then began to cramp. “Is the countess home? Where are Vic and Nessa?”

“Nessa’s been staying at Vic’s place, and he’s been keeping a close eye on her.” Sam’s expression grew troubled. “What happened really knocked her off balance. Vic’s been at her side since, though he asked we send word once you awoke. The countess comes and goes according to her own business, but she’s currently out.”

“She has sat by your bedside numerous times,” said Kársek. “She is clearly concerned about your condition.”

“Oh,” said Harald, feeling guilty and pleased and conflicted all at once. “I’m sorry to have troubled her.”

“You are her sole knight,” said Kársek, tone matter of fact. “She is invested in your health.”

“Of course.” Harald’s stomach grumbled loudly. “Oof. I don’t suppose we could talk over food?”

Kársek extended his callused hand. “Lunch was chicken stew. I shall ask Rivik to ask the kitchen staff to serve you several portions in the dining room.”

They descended and Harald ate some five bowls of hearty stew. Rivik welcomed Harald back to the land of the living with a mixture of relief and sarcasm, but kept the stew coming for as long as Harald ate. The food was exquisite, and Harald felt bottomless. He sopped down the sauce with chunks of bread and washed it all down with cold well water.

Sam and Kársek just watched, amused.

“So,” said Harald as he pushed the last bowl away. “I lost five days. Which means I’m… what? Becoming pretty overdue on contacting Thracos?”

“I’d assume so,” agreed Sam. “I thought to send word to House Thornvale, but couldn’t decide if that was the right move. Plus I kept expecting you to wake up at any moment.”

“Right. So I should reach out before they accuse me of reneging on the duel. When do we see the priest?”

“First we send word to Countess Sonora that you’re awake,” said Sam. “She’s left a standing command that a message be delivered the moment you wake up, even while she’s at court.”

“I will confirm with Rivik that this has already been taken care of,” said Kársek. “Though he is a conscientious and willing servant. I am sure it has been.”

“What did you tell the countess?” asked Harald, trying not to wince. “About what happened to us?”

“We didn’t represent what happened as accurately as we may have,” said Kársek. “We decided to leave the amount of detail to be shared up to yourself.”

“Oh.” Harald felt the bottom of his stomach drop out, and another memory came to him, of his being trapped under a huge body, legs all around him, of tearing a knife away from a boot then stabbing into the top of the closest foot -

“You all right?” asked Sam, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” He wasn’t sure if he was. He felt queasy and clammy all of a sudden, but he forced a smile. “Yeah. Let’s go see this priest.”

“Pastoric.” Sam squeezed his shoulder before letting go. “He’s… an interesting person.”

Kársek grunted. “A human of many contradictions.”

“Such as his ending up at the Kitty Kat Club,” said Harald, resisting the urge to clear away the dishes. “And he’s our resident demon expert?”

“Apparently he was deep into the theological research while at the Tertiary Angelus Cathedral,” said Sam. “But he discovered some disconcerting truths about some of the major Houses, and was ordered by his superiors to recant his accusations.”

“Oh,” said Harald, pausing to stare at her. “Really? The elder Seraphites didn’t want to hear it?”

“Or were in league with said corrupted Houses,” said Sam. “Either way, he refused, they threatened him, he called their bluff only to realize they weren’t bluffing, and fled the cathedral.”

“He is a very learned man,” said Kársek. “But not very wise when it comes to the streets. He thought it a good idea to hide in the worst part of the Shambles.”

Harald winced. “How did that work out for him?”

Sam grinned. “As you’d expect. Nessa found him knocked out in a side street off Dark Alley, and brought him to the Kitty Kat Club.”

Harald blinked. “She did?”

“She did,” agreed Sam. “Where he’s stayed ever since as their resident Seraphite, absolving them nightly of their sins.”

“And how did he run afoul of Vic?”

“Vic…” Sam sought the right words. “Vic convinced Pastoric to put the last of his funds into a get-rich scheme that didn’t pan out. At least, not for Pastoric. Turns out Vic did make a profit, which Pastroric found out about from Vic’s favorite girl at the Club, and, well.”

“Oh, Vic,” sighed Harald.

“Exactly. Shall we?”

The trio left Sonora manor and caught a two-wheeled cab into the Shambles, following an old and familiar route that Harald had memorized over the last couple of years. It was odd to drive it since he’d changed, and to do it by day. Sunlight was never kind to the Shambles, which was a mess of overbuilt and decaying tenement buildings that clustered over each lane and alley, their second or third stories almost meeting overhead. The occasional small plaza was a mess of impromptu stalls, piles of refuse, and crowds gathered to draw water from wells or conduct the kind of business that Vic excelled in.

The Kitty Kat was a grand establishment, a four-story inn of ancient provenance that had changed hands countless times over the centuries till falling into the ownership of the enterprising Katherine Mavelle, who’d married and buried the previous owner and then changed it from being a gambling den to a place of illicit wonders and delight. For the past thirty years she’d overseen the Kitty Kat’s growth into the establishment it was today, and with over forty men and women employed to entertain guests at all hours of the night, it was a vital center to the Shambles, drawing people from all of Flutic into the poor quarter’s twisted heart.

By day, however, the grand old building looked wan and tired, the closed shutters peeling paint, the pavement outside sporting passed out drunks, and smoke puffing fitfully from its countless chimneys.

Harald and his friends jumped down from the hansom cab, and Harald couldn’t help but smile as he gazed up at the large sign of a self-satisfied black cat hanging above the main door, its mirrored eyes flashing in the morning light. How many times had he and Vic and the others passed through that very door, drunk and high on yearn smoke, shouting and ready to spend countless Copper Crescents and Silvers Starbursts on more drink, more smoke, and on the smiling men and women of the night?

“A lot of memories here,” he said as way of explanation to Kársek and Sam, who were watching him.

“Good ones?” asked Sam.

“Well.” He considered. “Half-and-half, shall we say.” Nostalgia gave way to melancholy fondness, and he led the way inside.

By night the vestibule just beyond the door was a hive of activity; Megan or Rory would be behind the check-in counter, taking coats and scarves and weapons, while a half-dozen others would stand about, laughing and scheming as to where to go next. But the counter was closed, the lockers and hooks behind it bare, and they passed into the main room beyond.

Which had once been an inn common room, but since converted by the enterprising Madam Mavelle into a sumptuous if gaudy landscape of red velvet setees, potted ferns, artfully placed canvas partitions, low coffee tables, and all of it centered around a raised octagonal platform on which various entertainments were played at night, from dancers to musicians to, for closed events, live couplings between all manner of people.

Everywhere the ghosts of memories waited to be evoked. That was the booth in which Harald had lost his composure and vomited over Smiling Jen when she’d dared him to best her at a drinking game. Over there the space where he and Vic and wrestled with another pair before the bar, Vic seated athwart Harald’s shoulders as they’d tried to tip their opponents over. Over there -

Harald brought his mind to the present, banishing the ghosts. The place smelled of perfume and sweat, alcohol and sawdust, and behind the grand bar Kat Mavelle herself was working at her ledger. Two bartenders were taking inventory of bottles, while three young men were busy mopping the floors and carrying out the rugs that had been soiled over the course of the previous night.

“Hello, Harry,” called Kat, her voice arch, her seemingly casual glance taking in for more than one expected. He’d never met someone so adept at reading people as Kat Mavelle, and he wondered what she saw now in him. “You’re a good eight hours too late, I’m afraid. You should have seen the show Nell put on with her new white python.”

“Hello Kat.” Harald walked up to the bar. The Madam was a formidable woman, now easily into her 50’s but still an arresting figure; she’d dispensed with her evening costume for business-like clothing, washed her face of its customary make-up, and in the late morning light the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes and sagging chin were in evidence. But still Harald felt the same deference and awe that he always felt in her presence; there were just too many stories of Kat’s accomplishments over the decades, her victories over the many powers in the Shambles that had tried to strong-arm the Kitty Kat Club out from under her control, to ever feel anything less. “I’m sure it broke Nell’s heart to not see me in the crowd.”

“Unlikely.” Kat turned the page, checked a figure, then turned back. “You’ll be here about the priest.”

“Yes,” said Sam. “Pastoric is expecting us. Or should be.”

“Well, last I heard he was in Onella’s chamber, second floor, third on the left, but that doesn’t mean much.” Kat flashed an exasperated smile. “You’ll have to go door to door, but he’s up there, somewhere.”

“Thanks,” smiled Harald, and set a Silver Starburst on the bar before heading toward the grand staircase in the back.

They ascended to the first floor and stopped before the right door. Harald rapped with his knuckle, heard nothing, and rapped louder. Still nothing.

It took them a good five minutes to track Pastoric down; finally a helpful chambermaid took them to the third floor and to one of the master suites, where he’d apparently fallen asleep with Nell and Patricia. He called through the door that he’d meet them in one of the private parlors in a moment, and the trio retreated downstairs.

“I don’t understand it,” said Kársek, tugging on his beard. “He is a Seraphic priest, but he has lived here for several years?”

“I think they won’t let him go,” said Sam, flushing slightly. “They take immense comfort from his, ah, spiritual care.”

Harald snorted as he closed the door behind them. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Nessa said his being here has done wonders for the employees. Staff turnover has dropped, morale is up, and everybody dotes on him.”

“I’ve never understood it, but they’re mad about him,” said Harald flatly. “Made me seriously consider becoming a priest myself, but even then I realized there was more going on than just memorizing a few sermons.”

“Hmm.” Kársek linked his hands behind his back and frowned. “Most strange.”

There was a knock at the door, and then Pastoric entered, freshly bathed and wearing plain robes of light gray cinched at the waist with a belt.

Harald stood. He’d been endlessly curious about this enigmatic figure since first learning about him, but never had the chance to meet; Pastoric never descended to the floor during evenings and nights, and was incredibly reclusive at other times. In Harald’s mind he’d almost taken on a mythical status, a ghost who haunted the upper floors and whose name could cause even the most hardened of the Kitty Kat’s employees to sigh and smile.

“Good morning,” said Pastoric, voice soft, almost hesitant. “Sir Harald Darrowdelve? Your friends have been most insistent that we speak.”

The priest was tall but slender, his sandy brown hair roughly cut but catching the light with a healthy sheen, and his features were sensitive. Golden stubble glinted on his jaw, and his eyes were rich with emotion, an earnest sincerity that was undercut by some manner of troubled pain.

“Yes, thank you. Um.”

Pastoric inclined his head to Kársek. “Master dwarf.” But when he smiled at Sam, it was as if the sun had broken through dreary cloud cover; a simple joy showed itself, as if he couldn’t help but be happy at greeting her despite himself. “Miss Tuppins.”

Sam actually flushed as she nodded back. “Pastoric. It’s good to see you again.”

Harald stared at Sam, amused and amazed both. She glanced at him, scowled, and then adopted a neutral expression as they all sat down.

“Miss Tuppins has told me enough to be concerned,” said Pastoric. “But I’ve sworn to keep this matter confidential in the manner of a confession. What’s going on?”

“Where to begin?” Now that the moment was here, Harald felt extreme reluctance to dive into his problems. But Pastoric’s gaze was earnest, concerned, and nonjudgemental; Harald felt himself drawn into the man’s deep blue gaze and took a breath. “This is protected by the Rite of Confession?”

Pastoric nodded. “It is. I’ve long since squared my qualms with performing it outside a Seraphic church. Other Seraphites may scorn my performing the rite here, but I’ve since performed it hundreds of times for many people. I’ve… I’ve come to believe that just as the Fallen Angel exists outside of the physical buildings of the church, so may her blessings and forgiveness be found outside the confession booths. That’s my belief, and I will hold to the sacredness of the rite no matter what my former brothers and sisters may think.”

Harald nodded and realized he was temporizing. There was nothing for it. He needed answers. He needed this priest’s wisdom.

“My father accepted the patronage of a major demon by the name of Vorakhar, who cursed him with a Demon Seed. A couple of months ago I ventured into the dungeon and met the same demon. He offered to save my life, and I accepted. In doing so, he implanted the same Demon Seed within me, and since then everything has changed.”