by Jim Butcher
Now, that was fun. You call them “bad trips.” More than once I’ve chuckled at the apropos.
East Berlin was also where Jack Karma, bowing to the inevitable, found an apprentice. The gangly youth—a blond, naturally, with Siberian eyes—almost vomited when I appeared at their front door. Karma, much more dangerous, had a new gun full of silver-jacketed ammo pointed at me.
“Oh, hello.” I smiled, wide and white, spreading my hands to show I was unarmed, enjoying the high, hard clip of both male pulses throbbing along. Did Karma think the firestorm had finished me off, and the mark on his chest was just a fading afterthought? “It’s so nice to see you again, Herr Karma. And this must be little Yevgeny Serafimovitch. I hear he’s going by Mikhail now.” I examined the hunter’s apprentice from top to toe thoughtfully. “Mikhail Tolstoy.”
He would be husky when fully grown, and he already had the stare hunters develop—a faraway look, as if their meat eyes can pierce the flesh of their fellows. He was just a shade too stolid, a shade too . . . unimaginative.
No, I decided, he wasn’t what I was waiting for.
But he would do.
“Per.” Karma almost spat the word. “Go away.”
“Oh, no.” My smile widened, if that was possible. It was precisely the reaction I’d expected. Hunters are rarely so predictable. “Is that any way to treat an old friend, Jack?” My tone dropped, even more intimate. “Or do you want to die with that mark on you, mein kleiner Jäger?”
The little apprentice, his aura already showing the sparks and spikes of those among you who wield belief, dropped back two steps. His hand twitched, as if he wished he had a gun, too. Stolid, but ready to do battle.
I could already tell he was going to be fun.
“Son of a bitch.” Jack was losing the purity of his Berliner accent. He must have been already speaking English again in preparation for crossing the Atlantic. Not that he would reach the Americas, of course.
But his apprentice would. At the very least, I’d see to that.
“You could invite me in.” My lips closed over my teeth. I slid on my somber mask. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”
PRIMACY
Much later
I thought I had learned everything your flesh had to teach me, and I despaired. Well, at least a little. Then Mikhail Tolstoy, the cub become wolf, took an apprentice in his fading years. He brought her to the Monde Nuit.
I had tried, you see, to re-create some of the breathless years just after my un-father stepped into your world for the third time, in the year of your Lord 1918: cabarets, heedless abandon, and the like. I prefer my nourishment flavored with the gasping, intense explosion of asphyxiation and orgasm combined, but without a certain . . . ferment that my quasi-father’s presence had spurred. A frothing, a yeasting, like the beer Jack Karma drank. I did my best with what I had, a shipwrecked mahogany bar and a bartender—Riverson, one of your kind, a man whose filmed gray eyes were not blind. I merely borrowed them every once in a while—with his consent, of course.
Always with your consent.
Mikhail came to question me about a certain case. They fancy themselves Polizei, the hunters. Brave sheriffs of the nighttime. Tin stars and ten-gallon hats, or maybe that was the sand talking. Of all the places Mikhail could have chosen, he settled on the desert. Sand, poison, and venom, blinding salt-pan days and icy nights. Hot and cold, no middle ground.
Just like her. His apprentice. At last.
Dark hair, threaded with those silver charms. A mismatched gaze—one brown eye, one blue. Modernity is kind to male creatures—it has given us leather pants, skintight T-shirts, and waterproof kohl that rings a woman’s eyes. The old Russian wolf dropped his hand to his gun. He did not have Jack Karma’s grasp, but advances in firepower had made their job, such as it is, easier.
“Now now, tovarisch.” I wagged my index finger back and forth, the past bending over onto the present like one of your ingenious paper fans. Muscovite Russian is so fluid; it drips from the tongue like honey. I had expected him to go home, but maybe he thought he could wipe out his past here.
All the Caucasians who flooded the Americas thought so. The indigenous population knew better, but who thought to ask them?
“Hellspawn.” He chose English, and his apprentice—in the long leather coat that copied his, and copied Jack Karma’s, and had become a sort of uniform for them despite its origins—did not even look at me. She looked past, at my brethren on the dance floor, waltzing demurely to the stylings of a trio of siblings who had traded with me for singing voices to rival the birds.
All it cost them was their hands, and their obedience. I am, always, a patron of the arts.
It was her blue eye, I realized. The thought that she had visited my home for even a short while pushed a frisson through me, from tip-top to toe and out through every invisible part as well.
“Watch yourself,” Tolstoy continued, tapping the butt of his right-hand gun once, twice. His English was not native, but it was passable. “You have lovely nest here. I would hate to have to burn it.”
That brought her gaze back to me.
“Charmed,” I replied, and congratulated myself for wearing the blandest, softest version of my skin today. She would underestimate me. They all did. “Well, what is it to be, Gospodin? I am, as ever, your servant.”
I knew he had been visiting practitioners of the darker arts, looking for a way to remove the mark from the inside of his right thigh. It was the grandest joke of all, placing it there. We propagate, too, but not in the way of flesh. We take, and sometimes make, children of the . . . you could call it the heart, the spirit. Even soul, though that is murderously imprecise.
He told me what he wanted, and I gave him just enough information to be helpful, but not enough to solve the tangle for him. He would have been suspicious if it were too easy.
She drank the shot of vodka my not-blind barkeep poured. On the house, as always, for my darlings. My hunters. I knew that if I just waited long enough, one of Jack Karma’s children—for hunters make them as we do sometimes, to transmit their battle-weariness from old shoulders to new—would possess the requisite temperament.
Patience will bring a male, even one of my kind, everything he needs.
She followed Mikhail Tolstoy as he turned away, heading for the door.
“Oh, won’t you introduce us?” I called after them, in English. “An exchange of names and honorifics? I am Pericles, my dear, and I look forward to your acquaintance.”
Mikhail turned on one heel, and he would have drawn then, and perhaps sent a bullet through my head. The silver on it would sting, but it wouldn’t kill me. I didn’t want to show too much of myself, and my restraint was rewarded.
Because she turned, too, and that mismatched gaze met mine with a pleasurable shiver. “Jill,” she said flatly, the word cutting through a thick silence as the singers onstage finished their last, tremulous harmony. “Jill Kismet, hellbreed. Remember it.”
I let them go that night. Then I went upstairs to the white-draped room I used as my sanctum and opened a flat rosewood case.
The knives inside were loaded with silver, and I could have another iron frame made to cradle me. The game was not over yet. Sending my dear almost-father back to our home was merely the prelude. The simulacrum of breathing, of flesh itself, was not enough. I wanted power, too. All of his, to add to my own. She was the one who would deliver it to me, if I was patient enough.
I was already planning where I would kiss her.
THE NAUGHTIEST CHERUB
KEVIN HEARNE
In the Iron Druid series, supernatural creatures such as witches, vampires, and werewolves—in addition to the various gods and goddesses of various mythologies—fill the world. The series is typically told from the vantage of Atticus O’Sullivan, a Druid who owns and runs an occult bookshop, and who gets embroiled in the day-to-day happenings of supernatural creatures. This story, narrated by Loki, takes place after Staked, book eight o
f the series.
The road to hell is not, as they say, paved with good intentions. Mostly it’s crumbling stone, some rank weeds, and the occasional pile of dog shit. At least the one I am following is; there are many roads to perdition, but this one is in Kansas, for some reason. And I will note for the record that there is a significant difference between going to Hel and going to hell.
My daughter’s realm, for all that it is cold and dim and cheerless with a constant cover of damp clouds, is at least somewhat consistent in its conception and manifestation.
The hell of monotheists, by contrast, is a hot, shifting, poisonous plane with air so foul that it feels as bad on my skin as it smells—that is, polluted with all manner of evils. As soon as I step through a portal created by an obliging demon, my armpits begin to sweat goat cheese and my balls feel like they’re marinating in pepper sauce. Blasted by hot dry winds and chapped by sulfurous fumes one moment, in the next I’m buffeted by a moist effluvium shat from some manky demon’s ass upwind.
Or perhaps the source of the miasma is not that far away at all, but rather my hellspawn escort, guiding me to a meeting with Lucifer.
“What am I looking at, here?” I ask it—and I use it because I cannot be sure that it has a gender, or even a functioning set of reproductive organs. It’s a four-legged doglike thing, except that its legs are designed like those of an insect, originating underneath the beast and splayed out to the sides. It’s colored like an insect, too, all green and teal. “Is this the hell of Milton, Dante, or Hieronymus Bosch, perhaps? Scenes out of a Doré etching?”
“You’ve done your research. It is all those and more,” it replies, in a voice that sounds like it’s chewing on rock salt yet somehow finds it sour. “There are circles of hell. There are realms of darkness. There is a lake of fire. There are dukes of hell, and imps, and hellhounds, and most anything collectively imagined by humans.”
“And the being I will be visiting shortly? How does he appear?” I ask my escort, who is decidedly from the Bosch lineup of hellions.
“However he wishes. I have seen him take many forms.”
“Interesting.”
“Do you not take many forms? I have heard you have the power to do so.”
“I do. I do, indeed. But they are forms that I imagine, rather than forms that have been imagined by others. They are not my natural manifestation, merely suits of clothes, so to speak, that I wear for short periods of time.”
The landscape—or hellscape—wobbles in front of me as if I have drunk too much mead before snapping back together with an audible pop, looking as sharp and threatening as the tip of Odin’s spear.
“What just happened?” I ask the thing.
“Hell constantly readjusts itself according to the fevered imaginations of mortals.”
“Does this happen in heaven, too?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Maybe the clouds move around or something. I suspect it is not so richly imagined as hell.”
When I am finally brought before Lucifer as arranged, he does not appear in any form close to popular conception. No horns on his head, with a pointy mustache and soul patch. No forked tail or trident or any weapon at all. No goat hooves or ram’s head. (Damn it—I was rather hoping to see that one.) No suave good looks, and certainly no leathery bat wings. There are wings, however—four massive ones, which take turns flapping and hiding his spherical body from view, keeping most of his bulk shielded from sight as he slowly rotates in place only five feet above the ground. What’s he hiding under there? Tiny dinosaur arms? An embarrassing angelic erection? A series of mouths and other orifices? Mostly all I see are eyes. Many eyes, black and winking at me with jeweled eyelids, always three or more trained on me as he spins and flaps and waits.
As I watch them, the wings are not merely attractive, they are glorious. Shiny, shimmering, and rippling with a spectrum of colors, prismatic coyness that defies simple description. It is, no doubt, why humans took to describing him as having more beast-like qualities. Cherubs are beautiful and difficult to imagine as agents of evil. And Lucifer was—and remains—the most powerful and beautiful of the cherubim.
Such sublime magnificence is far more intimidating than any bestial appearance he could have taken, and as soon as I think it, I know that is why he chose to appear this way to me.
“Lucifer, I bring Loki of the Æsir, who seeks audience,” the demon says. I am surprised and pleased that he keeps the introductions so short. We do not need a long list of titles and ego fluffing. We know who we are.
~What do you wish to ask me? Lucifer says. The words do not come from him so much as the air around my ears, a chorus of deep musical voices rather than a single one.
“Your aid, as you no doubt have surmised. The Norns are dead, killed by a lucky Druid, and I am no longer doomed to suffer defeat in Ragnarok. Fate no longer applies to me, and I, along with many others, may choose my own.”
~So?
“So we who desire to play a different role than what we’ve been assigned may seize this opportunity to sweep aside the current world order and forge a better one. I have already secured the assurances of many others who will act when Ragnarok begins, and your help will ensure our collective victory.”
~Oh, yes. I know of your machinations. These eyes see much. But I am not one to indulge in collective victories. I am not what humans would call a “team player.” I am the adversary.
The blanket statement disturbs me. “Surely not my adversary?”
~Not yet.
That’s not reassuring. “Does that mean you may become my adversary later?”
~It remains to be seen. As you said, a significant aspect of fate has been unchained. What will happen cannot be told.
“If I begin Ragnarok, then, what should I expect from you?”
~You may not expect my aid, Loki Firestarter. It may come should it amuse me at the time, but do not count on it.
“May I at least hope you will not interfere?”
~You may not. I may also find interference amusing. At this point I am primarily interested in amusement. The world is going to hell largely without my involvement, and that has been most entertaining to watch. The chaos increased significantly after the deaths of David Bowie and Prince in 2016.
“Who?”
~Bah! Mediocre. I am revising what I said earlier: You may not expect my aid at all. I have no interest in your dreams of power. Whether you win or lose, I shall remain as I am: Puissant. Sexy. The naughtiest cherub.
My mouth gapes at his words and something flies in, diving down my throat. It’s hot and squirming and tickles, and I begin to hack desperately to get it out. Something eventually gets ejected—a many-legged winged creature with a tiny human head, teal and green and still alive. It hacks and coughs, too, suffers through some high-pitched wheezing, and then it shakes itself free of phlegm and saliva and giggles. At the same time, Lucifer’s wings shudder, and he wobbles slightly in the air.
~Hurr hurr.
He laughs. At my expense. Because he probably set the whole thing up. Say something shocking to make my jaw drop, and a minor demon dives in to make me choke. Very well.
“Apologies for taking up so much of your time, Lucifer. I will not waste any more of it.”
~Nonsense. I was amused. But do be careful upon your exit. Some of hell’s creatures are jealous and have been known to attack those who have spoken to me personally.
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything diplomatic, and turn to exit the way I entered.
“Not that way,” the dog-insect says. “That road’s closed now. You never leave the same way you came in. Follow me.”
My muscles tense but I follow, seeing little other choice. Perhaps it is an ambush he leads me to. Perhaps I will have a chance to pay someone back for the humiliation I just suffered. Once out of sight of Lucifer, I change myself to the shape of a true fire giant and set my skin aflame. I pull out two weapons I hid before: a tremendous bastard sword, which I also set alight,
and an unusual ice knife crafted by the yetis that I stole from the young Druid Granuaile MacTiernan. Even in the blistering furnace of hell it remains frozen and unmelting.
Satisfied that I look nothing like my usual self and quite a bit more intimidating, I keep scanning my surroundings for possible threats and follow the Bosch nightmare.
It’s fine, honestly, that Lucifer will not be joining us. If he stays out of Ragnarok, chances are his opposite will stay out of it, too. It’s simply not the Christian pantheon’s fight. But I think he’s wrong to assume that he’ll remain the same afterward. There will be significantly fewer believers of his particular faith afterward and his power will necessarily wane.
Something moves in my peripheral vision, and I look up and to my right. There’s a creature much larger than the green and teal thing descending from above. He has bat wings and a humanoid body with a giant dangly snake between his legs and eyes that glow pale yellow. When he sees that I’ve spotted him, hellfire blooms from his outstretched hand. I point my sword at him and send a gout to block his incoming one. Neither of us will be burned, but there is a certain kinetic force behind such attacks, and I’d rather he be off balance than me when it comes to a melee. He has no weapons except for some wicked claws and probably twice the brute strength I possess. Those wings will no doubt cause some trouble, too. Another muscle-bound bully like Thor.
I keep the sword raised and pointed at him just in case he’s stupid enough to fly onto it, but he turns off the fire, folds those wings in, and veers to my left. More difficult for me to guard against that way, with the sword in my right hand. I have seen this before in fighting against some of the Fae: there is a claw on the tip of his wing, and as he sails past on the left, he will open those wings and try to cut me with it. He’s going to be about at neck level, aiming for my throat, so I take a knee and thrust up with that ice knife as the wing shoots out and over my head. It pierces the leathery membrane, and I hold it there as his own momentum forces it to tear through his wing.