Contents
Title Page
Copyright Information
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part II
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part III
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Give the Devil His Due
By Rob Blackwell
Copyright Information
Copyright 2013 by Rob Blackwell
Cover copyright: Travis Pennington
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This work is entirely fictional. Any similarity between characters and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and pretty much all in your head. While Leesburg and Loudoun County, Va., are real places, I have taken liberties with the geography. The spelling of “Sanheim” is an alternate spelling of the traditional Irish word for Halloween: “Samhain.” It is not a typo or misspelling.
Dedication
For Finn and Pippin, who always like a good ghost story
Prologue
Sanheim took no particular joy in killing people.
However, he did admit to a certain satisfaction in the death of Quinn O’Brion. He had nothing against the reporter personally. Indeed, he found him pleasant and endearing in a completely naive way. He wasn’t even his first choice to die on Halloween; that had been Kate.
Still, Quinn was a threat. Just an emerging one, but a threat nonetheless. So when Sanheim stared out at the deep, black ocean before him, he smiled at the memory of Quinn falling over and beginning to bleed. Sanheim knew how to deal with threats and had done so with his characteristic, ruthless efficiency. There was seldom a better feeling than watching a plan come to fruition. It hadn’t been exactly how he saw the situation playing out, but it was sufficient. He could cross this particular concern off his list of worries — which had grown long in the past half century — and begin to focus on other matters.
Sanheim was feeling so pleased that he decided to be polite to the man approaching him. He knew in advance that the conversation would be both vexing and pointless, yet he resolved not to let it ruffle him. This was a time to be magnanimous.
“My lord, I’m sorry to disturb you,” the man said.
Sanheim did not turn around, but continued to look out across the cliffs and the roaring surf below. It was his favorite view in the world that he had created.
“Rippon, how wonderful to see you,” Sanheim replied, keeping his tone even.
“I doubt that, my lord, but it is kind of you to say so,” the man replied. “I come on urgent business.”
Sanheim let his smile grow deeper.
“Why else would you be here?” he asked.
“The council has taken a vote,” Rippon replied. “They declared you in violation of the treaty and have begun preparations.”
Sanheim rounded on the man in an instant, crossing the few feet that separated them. His eyes were aflame with rage as his right hand grasped Rippon’s throat, his plan to stay calm already abandoned.
“How dare they?” he said, his good mood evaporated. “I’ve broken no rules, crossed no lines. They have no cause.”
His fingers dug into Rippon’s flesh and Sanheim could see he was causing the man pain. Rippon looked soft, his portly appearance always reminding him of a slightly lazy butler. He even dressed that way, always wearing dark pants and a white shirt. Yet he would say this for the man — he bore the pain remarkably well. His pale face showed no outward sign of distress. He did not grimace, shout or react in any way, despite the fact that Sanheim’s fingers were drawing blood. But Sanheim could see the pain in Rippon’s shrunken eyes.
“You violated the rules of succession,” Rippon spoke with some difficulty.
Sanheim brought his face inches from Rippon’s.
“The challenger, Sawyer, was killed before he could begin the challenge,” Sanheim replied. “He was killed by the next Prince of Sanheim. This has been the way for thousands of years. How have I violated the treaty?”
Sanheim bore in harder and was tempted to reach up with his other hand and snap the man’s neck. It wouldn’t help. Once Rippon was gone, there would be another. It would, however, make him feel better.
Rippon could undoubtedly see the murder in Sanheim’s eyes, likely knew his life was hanging in the balance. But he was clearly no coward and refused to shrink away.
“They have no problem with the challenger’s death,” Rippon said. “But they are aware that you interfered — providing a weapon and a shield.”
“Just the shield,” Sanheim replied. “The sword was forged by another.”
“They weren’t referring to the sword, my lord,” Rippon replied. “The knife you gave your agent, Kieran. That was your handiwork, was it not?”
“Does it matter?” Sanheim said. “I fail to see how this is relevant or a violation of our long-standing accord.”
Sanheim broke off his attack, pushing Rippon backward. Sanheim regained his composure, straightening his tie and smoothing his jacket. As Rippon touched his injured neck, Sanheim adjusted his silver cuff links.
“The knife was used to kill Quinn O’Brion,” the man said. “You are not to interfere in the right of succession. Giving one side a shield is arguably a violation of that accord, but you went far beyond that. You conspired with your puppet to murder the winner while the battle was still engaged.”
“I took no hand in it myself,” Sanheim said. “Kieran acted of his own free will. He chose to murder Quinn. The fact that it suits my purposes is no matter. I took no direct action.”
“You gave him the knife,” Rippon said. “You set the trap, then sprang it. You know the terms of our treaty. You broke them in spirit, if nothing else.”
“Since when does that matter?” Sanheim said, and it came out a sneer.
“It matters to the council,” Rippon replied. “They have declared the agreement null and void.”
“If that’s the case, then I will gladly give them what they want,” Sanheim said. “Of course, I plan to kill you first. I assume you are aware of that.”
“My death would be of no importance to them,” Rippon replied.
“Excellent,” Sanheim said. “I am so pleased to know that.”
He raised his hands and grabbed Rippon on both sides of his face. It would take only a small gesture to snap his neck. Sanheim could see Rippon was
afraid, terrified even. Yet he didn’t try to struggle.
“Very well, my lord,” he replied. “But killing me will deny you an alternative arrangement.”
Sanheim smiled at this.
“What makes you think I even want one? What makes you think I haven’t waited for this moment?”
“Then you are free to turn it down,” Rippon said. “We cannot force you to accept.”
Sanheim held the man’s fate in his hands.
“Tell me, then,” he said. “But be aware they may be the last words you speak.”
Rippon swallowed but otherwise gave no reaction to Sanheim’s threat.
“They would be willing to come to an accommodation,” Rippon said. “If you were to make amends for your transgression.”
“And how would I do that?” Sanheim said. “The man in question is dead. Not even I can restore him to life.”
“Of course, my lord,” Rippon said. “We would not ask the impossible.”
“Then what?”
“We ask for the test of trials,” Rippon said.
“For whom?”
“Quinn O’Brion,” Rippon answered.
“How would that be possible?” Sanheim said. “I made no claim to him. His soul is free to travel where it deserves to go, wherever that may be.”
“The council has stayed that decision until this matter is decided,” Rippon replied. “Quinn O’Brion has been placed in limbo. If you accede to our request, he will be given to you, but only upon the condition that the trials be fair. If you refuse, we will let his soul free.”
Sanheim made the decision instantly. Even before he spoke the words, he had formulated a plan. But he did not want to seem overeager.
“Why should I agree to this?” Sanheim said. “Perhaps it would be better if this farce were over, the treaty nullified.”
“This peace has lasted a long time,” Rippon said. “Longer than it ought to, by rights. But are you really prepared to let it go? Are you ready to face the consequences? Can you be so certain of victory?”
Sanheim looked into his eyes and saw a mixture of anger, fear and distrust. Perhaps this was a sign of weakness on the council’s part. Maybe it really was time to be free of the accursed agreement that so bound him.
But when given another option, he couldn’t bear to throw it away. The agreement would be broken only when he was ready and that time had not yet come. Once again, he released Rippon from his grasp.
“Very well,” Sanheim said. “If you will deliver Quinn to me, I will give him the test. But I warn you, the outcome is already assured. I do not want the council crying foul when he is destroyed.”
“All we demand is that you take no part,” Rippon said.
“I won’t have to,” he replied. “He’s beneath me now.”
“Is he?” Rippon asked. “The council is not so sure.”
For a moment, Sanheim regretted not killing the stout messenger. His hands flexed at his side, anxious to remedy his mistake.
“I do not know what your true plan is,” Sanheim said. “But even if he survives the trial, he cannot overthrow me. The council knows that as well as I.”
On this point, however, Rippon was maddeningly silent.
“Go,” Sanheim said. “Go tell your precious council I will adhere to their request. Our agreement still stands at least for a while longer.”
Rippon did not wait a second more, but turned on his heels and walked away. Sanheim watched him as he moved down the path and out of sight. Slowly, he turned back to face the roaring waves below him.
The wheels of his mind were already in motion, filled with plans within plans. He would leave nothing to chance.
It seemed that Quinn O’Brion was once again a threat. And Sanheim knew exactly how to deal with those.
Part I
I feel my life ebbing from me.
It has taken all my strength to come here, to deliver the message he wanted me to. And I must do what he wants now, because soon I will be in his domain, until the seas burn away.
I am Lilith Crowley, wife and consort of Robert Crowley, and the sole surviving witness of his destruction. It breaks my heart to write those words. Robert was so sure, so calm. Since I met him more than a decade ago, he’s never doubted his destiny, his place in the world.
I know that he was scared at times. When he lay next to me at night, sometimes he would awaken suddenly. It was always the same dream, the same monster that haunted him: Sanheim. But he always knew what he would do.
The gathering he planned was momentous. I wish I could describe it for you — the food, the music, the dancing. It was a celebration of Robert’s ascendance. For the first time, I stood by his side in public. Many of his closest moidin already knew me, of course. I have been with Robert for a long, long time.
But for the new ones, I was a sight to behold. I chose my white silk dress with care. I looked and felt like a Queen. “And you will be one, my love,” he whispered as we walked down the stairway together.
How quickly our dreams turn to ashes.
The ritual was completed flawlessly. The doorway opened and our campaign began. I could not believe what magic I wielded, what I was able to do with Robert’s assistance. In those moments, I truly believed that we were invincible. Sanheim, and Hell itself, would tremble before us.
But we never had a chance.
I will not describe to you what happened, how our glorious assault was so quickly thwarted. Many of our most powerful brethren were torn apart within minutes.
Sanheim was waiting for us. His eyes are everywhere. He knew what plans Fara had planted in Robert’s head. He knew what my husband was going to do. I now wonder if he had it planned from the very beginning. What plots and schemes lurk in the Devil’s heart? How must he spend his days, but in building elaborate traps for us to die?
I have been sent back as a warning, but I cannot linger long. My Robert lies on a table of stone, stretched limb to limb. The Lord Sanheim has promised him a quick death if only I will deliver this message.
Read closely, those who would follow in Robert’s footsteps. Lord Sanheim knows you envy him, sees your greed for his realm. But he will brook no pretenders to his throne.
All who attempt to destroy him are doomed to fail. All who stand against him will be driven to despair. The Lord Sanheim is as eternal as the sun, as furious as the maelstrom.
Lord Sanheim rules forever.
—Lilith Crowley, 1873
Chapter 1
“The universe is change; our life is what our thoughts make it.”
— Marcus Aurelius
The man lay on his back, struggling to remember his name. It felt like it was just on the tip of his tongue, a word he had momentarily forgotten.
He stared up at the sky, a stretch of black void that seemed to extend for eternity. In the distance — very far away — he could make out a single pinprick of light. He was dimly aware that it was moving toward him, growing larger. The man’s confusion didn’t particularly bother him. Instead, he felt calm and serene. The answers he sought were important, but he knew they would come in time.
You are the love of my life.
The words rose up through his mind, but he couldn’t remember who had said them, or why. An image came to him of a woman with blond hair that fell to her shoulders, gazing down at him with eyes the color of sapphires. He sensed great sadness in those eyes. Had something happened to her? Had she died? No, that seemed wrong, the man thought. But it was close. Someone had died, someone close to her.
The light above him was growing bigger and brighter. What had been only a tiny spot was now a sparkle of white.
The man realized the light wasn’t coming toward him — he was moving toward it. He had no sense of how or why he was moving, only that he was flying through a tunnel at incredible speed. The light above him grew brighter and he could sense its presence. It glowed like a living entity, radiating warmth, love and compassion.
The man forgot his search for a n
ame and the memory of the blond woman. Instead, he reached his hands toward the light, willing himself to move faster. He wanted nothing so much as to reach the light and bathe in its radiance. He knew without being told that it was the answer to all his questions.
It was so close it was almost overwhelming. The circle of light now blocked out everything else in his field of vision. He breathed a great sigh of relief as he felt himself flying out of the tunnel, being enveloped in a warmth he had never known.
That was when he felt the hand on his leg.
Just as he was about to enter the light, something started to hold him back. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t holding him in place, it was dragging him down.
The man fought to see what was holding him, but could see nothing. He kicked violently, trying to shake it off, but it was futile. The grip was like iron, solid as a vice. It no longer felt like just one hand, but many, pulling him back into darkness.
He struggled one final time to reach the light, saw his fingertips near the tip of it, but then the force yanked him downward. As fast as he had flown toward the light, he was pulled away even quicker. The man held out his hands in a pleading gesture, but he had no hope of freedom.
The light seemed to fall away in the blink of an eye, rapidly becoming just the pinprick he had seen at the beginning. He forced himself to look away from it, turning toward whatever force was now dragging him downwards. It was then that he noticed something in the distance. In a panic, he realized what it was.
The light was small and red, barely noticeable amid the encroaching blackness. But even from far away, he could smell the smoke. What lay below him was a pit of fire, vast and incomprehensible to him — a funeral pyre for billions of lost souls. It was the flame at the end of the world.
As the red light grew brighter and hotter, he saw he was no longer in the void. Instead, what had been a sea of blackness had given way to an earthen tunnel. Along its sides he could see faces contorted in anger, hatred and madness. Some of them had arms that jutted out of the dirt and were screaming soundlessly as he streaked past.
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