Silence settled over the [Witch-Queen]’s hovel with the sudden chill of winter’s first frost. As one, the other three occupants in the room turned their attention away from the dispersing smoke to the ruefully smiling rogue. Beneath their combined attention, Dalthan felt his smile wither and die, like the flowers of a dogwood tree that had bloomed too early.
“What?” The thief’s emerald eyes flickered from the witch to the slaad, and finally to the priestess. “I just thought it was funny that an angel would have the same name as my pa. Because my pa was a drunken asshole.”
The open stares he was receiving caused Dalthan to shift uncomfortably in his chair in a rare display of the smooth-talking rogue being unnerved by their silent, judgmental stares. “Get it? In Wavecrest we’d call that ‘irony.’ Don’t tell me that they haven’t invented irony here?” The [Rogue] lowered his voice to a dissatisfied grumble. “Then again, this is the Hub of Evil. I bet puns are the only humor allowed here.”
“Let’s set aside your piss poor idea of comedic timing.” The wrinkled witch narrowed her golden eyes at the [Rogue] like a farmer that’d just found a dragon egg in their chicken coop. Her scratchy voice sounded weak as rotten timber, completely at odds with the fierceness shining in her gaze. “I think you should tell me a bit about your past. I just had an angel invade my demesne and I’m not happy that you provided the gate they used.”
Dalthan bristled, immediately forgetting his discomfort. “Look, lady, I didn’t ask to be here. I wanted to find somewhere to sleep and maybe someone to sleep with. Belial is the one that brought me here.” The rogue leaned forward, growing bold as he slid into the familiar skin of an outraged patron. He’d used this persona to talk his way into more than one free meal at the upscale restaurants in the Financial District. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve been badgered and bloodied. This has been the worst fortune-telling that I’ve ever been a part of and I won’t be recommending your services to anyone else. My experience has been so poor that I’ve half a mind to take this issue up with your manager.”
The [Witch-Queen], the greatest prophet of the entire Hub, leaned back as her scraggly black eyebrows rose in surprise. “My what?”
Dalthan faltered, realizing too late that he’d gotten a bit carried away. Luckily, Belial had a grievance of her own that she interjected with a voice that held the bite of jagged ice.
“You didn’t have to come along.” The [Archpriestess] crossed her arms to purposefully frame her voluptuous chest in a way that invited attention. “It isn’t like I put a leash on you.”
Dalthan’s offensive treatment at the witch’s hands was immediately forgotten as his green eyes slid across Belial’s provocative pose. “Would you?,” Dalthan asked immediately, perking up. “Vex is a [Beastmaster]. I’m sure he knows where we could find one.”
The blue slaad had been watching the antics of those sitting around the table with an air of detachment until Dalthan mentioned its name. Compelled to join the discussion, the large frog-like abomination gurgled a reply. “This blue slaad has many spare leashes, Human Dalthan. Why would you need one?”
“Well, Vex,” the rogue started as he pulled his eyes away from Belial’s sumptuous pose. “When a man and a woman need to relieve some stress-”
“Ahem,” Agadeem rasped, cutting the rogue off before he could enlighten the curious frog concerning the mating habits of humanoids. The witch’s raspy voice cut through the air like the shriek of rusty hinges as a heavy door swung shut. “I think that talk can wait until after you explain what you meant by the angel and your father sharing a name.”
Dalthan’s shoulders lifted in a casual shrug as he turned his attention back toward Agadeem. “I’m not sure what I need to explain. That Sera woman said that her boss was named Brenton. That’s the same name my pa went by, back in Wavecrest. I thought it was a funny coincidence, that’s all.”
The witch wasn’t the only one who sharpened her gaze at the rogue’s words. Though Vex seemed preoccupied with measuring Dalthan’s neck, Belial’s red eyes were focused on the thief while she nibbled at her lower lip.
“Are you certain that it was a mere coincidence?” The witch tilted her head quizzically, the motion shifted the tangled locks of greasy hair that clung perilously to her yellowed scalp.
“What else could it be?” Dalthan’s dark brows furrowed as he squared his shoulders. There was a hint of anger flashing in his eyes as he idly batted away Vex’s claws. The abomination had acquired a tape measure, from somewhere, and was currently trying to wrap it around Dal’s neck.
“My father was a drunken buffoon,” the thief continued, his voice holding a hint of bitterness that clung to his words like the char on a burnt steak. “If ever there was a person who exemplified ‘human failure’ it was him. I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but if you’re trying to convince me that my father was some sort of angel you need to retire from this fortune-telling gig, lady.”
“I’m sure Aunt Aga is trying to understand what happened.” Belial’s red eyes flickered to the witch before they returned to the rogue. “I’ve seen her do readings for hundreds of people and I’ve never seen anything quite like that.” The [Archpriestess] followed up her statement with a question for the witch. “Did you know that angel, Aunt Aga?”
Agadeem lifted one of her bony hands to wave away the dark elf’s question. “You heard her. She’s an astral deva. A mid-level angel that’s little more than an accountant. She and I met long, long ago before Balerik finished consolidating the underworld beneath his rule. There was a time when the beings in the higher planes considered using the turmoil down here to launch a fresh assault into the Hells. Ancev dissuaded them. But all of that is ancient history.”
“Sera wasn’t important then, and she isn’t important now.” The witch continued, a scowl twisting its way across her thin lips. “She’s nothing more than a mouthpiece for the powers she serves. One of which is named after this boy’s father.” Agadeem’s gaze sharpened again as she leaned over the rough-hewn oak table to study Dalthan with a critical eye. “You’re certain this father of yours was what he appeared to be?”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Dalthan rolled his eyes and leaned back. “Lady, he was a drunk bastard that didn’t even realize I was there unless he decided he wanted to hit something softer than the walls of our shack or the skulls of the sailors down at the wharf. I cannot imagine a less angelic person.”
Belial drummed her long, well-manicured fingers on the tabletop. The rhythmic clicking of her nails against the coarse oak was the only noise to interrupt the silence that fell across the room. After several moments passed, the priestess’ husky voice rose into the air. “There wasn’t anything special about your father? Anything that stands out in your memory?”
Dalthan had entertained about as much of this unexpected detour down memory lane as he intended to. Frustration drew jagged lines of irritation across the rogue’s face while answering. “Special?” Dalthan scoffed as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “He hated me. Hated the city. The sky. The gods. He hated everything because he said he’d been cursed. I don’t think that made him special. It just made him selfish. Same as everyone else.”
Dalthan felt a flash of rage rush through him like a storm surge crashing over a seawall. He didn’t want to be here talking about his father like the man held some kind of cosmic significance. Brenton Sol’Magor had been a drunk that was lucky he hadn’t wheezed his last breath on the end of Dal’s knife. The cold embrace of the sea had been a mercy compared to what the [Rogue] would have done to the man if he’d had half a chance.
There was a small, quiet part of him that wondered if his pa could have been some angel in disguise. That little voice sounded like the boy who’d shown up on Aunt Ima’s doorstep with nothing more than the clothes on his back. The thought was little more than a murmur in the back of his mind and easily silenced by the unforgiving steel forged by the man he’d become. This wasn’t some mystery to solve or a history to rewrite. It was a bridge that’d been burned for decades and Dal had no intention of trying to rebuild it.
Not for Belial. Not for himself. Not for anyone.
Before either of the two women could respond, Dalthan turned to Vex. “I’m leaving. If you plan on coming with me, you better hop in.”
To his credit, the massive blue-skinned frog took two lumbering steps and then sank into Dalthan’s shadow without another word.
The two women were less receptive to the rogue’s sudden departure.
“Dalthan,” Belial began in that sinfully silky tone that sent tingles running up and down his spine. “This is important. If you say that the angel can’t be related to you, then fine. You’re right. But whoever they are, they have an interest in you. We need to figure out why before they find you when you’re not prepared.” The dark elf seemed to glide across the floor as she took one step toward him with an exaggerated sway of her hips. “If you want, we can go somewhere more private and…talk.”
The luster of her ruby-red eyes seemed to pulse in time with the quickening beat of his heart.
“Sure. Talk.” The old crone’s voice shattered the moment like a rock sailing through a stained glass window. “You two can talk right here on the table if you want. Then, when you’re done, we can figure out how a fucking angel invaded my home.”
“You may as well get comfortable,” the witch continued, ”because you’re not leaving until we figure out why the idiots upstairs are so interested in you.”
“Look, you dusty old pile of loose skin and brittle bones, let me out before I walk over there and break your fucking hip.” Dalthan fumed, lifting a hand to stab a finger in Agadeem’s direction. “I already owe you for trying to melt my brain. Let’s go our separate ways, grandma, before I knock your last two teeth down your throat.”
Belial sucked in a breath as if she’d just bumped her hand against a hot oven rack.
The [Witch-Queen], meanwhile, narrowed her eyes to slits as she regarded the fuming rogue. “Did you just threaten me in my own house?”
“Aunt Aga,” Belial began as she stepped between the two in an attempt to defuse the impending violence. “A very reputable source has informed me that Lord Balerik is watching this man personally. Perhaps the Ur-Priest would know more about the situation?”
While Belial tried to broker peace between the witch and the rogue, Dalthan took the opportunity to work his way back across the room toward the door they’d entered from. As he passed among the rustic tables stacked with strange curios, he found himself tempted to grab something else to join the large emerald he’d already liberated from Agadeem’s cottage. In the end, he decided to leave the rest of the items of questionable worth where they lay and focused his efforts on slipping toward the door as fast as his quiet feet could carry him.
When his fingers closed around the door’s handle, Dalthan felt a thrill of triumph. He glanced over his shoulder, planning to toss the witch his best shit-eating grin as he tugged the door open. But when he looked back, instead of anger or alarm, the witch was watching him with a victorious smile of her own.
He realized why when he tried to tug at the door and found it wouldn’t budge.
The witch’s cackle filled the large cottage with a sound that would startle awake the ghosts of the long dead. The sound seemed to echo off the thatched roof high above and from the dark corners where the flickering candlelight seemed loath to invade. “This is my home, [Rogue]. You may leave when I allow it.”
“Dalthan,” Belial said, her voice soothing as a cool cloth pressed to a fevered brow. “Why don’t you come back and sit? Just for a bit? Aunt Aga has a few questions to ask you, that’s all.”
Instead of moving to join the two women, Dalthan took hold of the door with both hands and growled. “If I wanted to answer more questions I’d still be at the fucking table.” As he tugged at the door, it felt like his heart began to pump hot oil through his veins instead of blood. Searing heat roared through him, leaving his lungs breathless and his vision growing dim.
“Open.” Dalthan hissed. The entire world seemed to tremble like a frightened puppy before a harsh crack like a snapping tree ricocheted throughout the cottage. The door swung open, revealing a portal of flat, unrelieved darkness.
Wasting no time, the [Rogue] darted through and the door closed behind him with a crack like a thunderclap.
“What did he do?!” The [Witch-Queen] roared as she watched Belial rush across the room. The priestess threw open the doorway to reveal an unremarkable view of the avenue beyond. Hurriedly, Belial stepped out onto the stone path to look through the crowd that meandered up and down the bustling city street.
But try as she might, Lady Belial could find no trace of Dalthan Sol’Magor.