CHAPTER TWO
FLUMPH
Mortal Realm
When the stone hits the vamp’s hand, his eyes roll back in his head like he possessed by a demon. But I knows he ain’t. I knows it’s the stone doin’ it to him.
“What’s he see?” I ask the group.
They all jist standin’ ‘round, watchin’ him like he the most interestin’ man in the three realms. I guess, maybe, right now, he is.
“How the fuck should we know?” asks Cambion, real rude-like.
“Okay, fuck me fer existin’!” I shout, offended that everyone’s still bein’ snippy even though I be a hero an’ all.
I look over at Baron again and he don’t look so good.
“What’s happenin’ to him?” I asks.
“We don’t fucking know!” Cambion respond, even ruder-like.
Dick.
I grunt and lean over to whisper in Eilish’s ear. “How long’s Baron gonna be like that for?” There’s only so long I wanna stare at a sick-lookin’ vampire havin’ visions.
“I don’t know, Flumph,” she say, an’ then she shrug me off her shoulder. I’m about ta get offended but when I looks at her face, I realize she ain’t bein’mean, jist worried. Her expression show she all kindsa anxious.
If this transmuter rock work for the vampire, then that mean it probly gonna work on her memories, too. If it fail, though, then maybe it fail for her, too. An’ without her memories, we can’t hope to go up ‘gainst Variant. We dunno what she know or what kinda power she got in her—or how much o’ that power she got.
I turns my attention back to the vampire. His skin’s even worse lookin’ than before. Sun is shinin’ in from beneath the trees an’ where it touch his skin, the flesh turn gray an’ sickly lookin’. I’m ‘bout to say somethin’, but don’t wanna get shushed agin.
Finally, though, I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Shouldn’t we be gettin’ him outta the light?”
For once, I ain’t met with a chorus of assholish comments. ‘Stead, King Shadow Taint look up at the sky an’ frown.
“Flumph is right,” he say an’ it be the first time I liked somethin’ that came outta his mouth. Usually, he jist be a right twat.
Eilish lift her hand to place it on the shoulder o’ the vamp like she gonna wake him up. The elf sees her an’ shouts somethin’, but he be too late. Her eyes roll back in her head, jist like what happened to the vamp! Her expression go nearly blank, and her free arm hangs limp at her side.
Dragan starts freakin’ the fuck out.
“What’s happening to her!” he shout. He’s lookin’ at Cambion like it be his fault she gone an’ touched the hallucinatin’ bat.
“I don’t know!” says Cambion, “but don’t touch her.” After a moment he adds, “We still need to get Baron out of the light.”
But no one move to touch him, ‘cause no one want their own eyes goin’ all demon white.
“What do we do?” Dragan asks.
“Get his bag,” orders Elf Boy, never takin’ his eyes off the white-eyed pair.
“This isn’t the time for poisons; we need to wake them!” yells Dragan.
I’m sensin’ the start to another fight ‘tween these turd-for-brains. An’ we ain’t got time for none o’ that.
“I’m well aware, Dragan,” Cambion say, like he the king o’ the world. He got him a real self-importance problem. “I watched Baron take something when we first crossed over into the Mortal Realm. It allowed him to stay in the daylight without being burned.”
“What are you talking about?” ask Dragan, an’ he eye the elf real suspicious-like. ‘Course, Dragan do that with everyone so maybe it ain’t a big deal.
“Didn’t you notice it was daytime when we left Grimreap?” Cambion demand of Shadow Fuck. “When was the last time you saw a vampire out in the daylight?” He look real flustered, like he ain’t got time ta talk to Dragan. He start scannin’ the ground, lookin’ for the bag of poisons.
I see the satchel still propped ‘gainst a tree an’ fly to git it. Cambion nod his head in thanks when I make my ways back to him. He take the bag an’ open it. Then he start readin’ the poisons an’ potions out loud.
“ Blue Dragan Juice , Assassin’s Blood , Draught of the Living Death , Wyvern Poison , Unlabeled, Unlabeled, Unlabeled… fuck!” He toss the bag to the side an’ exhale real loud. Then he scratch his head, like he real upset or like he gotta take a shit.
“What’s Draught of the Living Death ?” ask Dragan.
Cambion got his real handsome head in his hands. He don’t look up when the gargoyle talk to him, but he respond all the same. “I don’t know. But it’s too risky to give him something if we aren’t sure what it does.”
“Look at him!” Dragan say.
“We need to move him,” Cambion agree. “He can’t stay out here like this!”
King Shadow Dick nods. “But if we touch either one of them…”
“If we touch them, we’ll fall victim to the same thing that’s happening to Eilish now,” Cambion argue. “It’s too risky.”
“If we can’t get Revenant out of the daylight, the least we can do is get the daylight off him,” the oversized gargoyle say.
Both Baron an’ Eilish still got their eyes completely rolled back in their skulls. Part o’ me wants to touch them, to reach out an’ see what they’re seein’. But I ain’t dumb. So ‘stead, I make myself busy findin’ somethin’ to shade the sun off the vampire.
“Dragan, take off your cloak,” instruct Cambion.
“Why?”
“Because we need to block the sun from B... Stop asking me fucking questions for once and just do what the fuck I’m telling you to!” Cambion yell.
That ain’t gonna go over well.
“You don’t tell me what the fuck to do, faerie ,” King Demon Prince respond, an’ he eye King Pretty Face real pissed-off-like.
Just when I think it’s gonna be another version o’ the Great War, Dragan strip hisself down to nothin’ but his pants. He hand the cloak to Cambion, who produces those yellow fire bits ‘fore sendin’ the fabric up into the sky. Then, the cloak start to come down over the vamp and the angel, castin’ them in shade.
That be good, I guess.
Still, lookin’ up at their eyeballs that ain’t showin’ nothin’ but white, I still feel scared for what they’re seein’ together. Maybe Cambion made the stone wrong? Maybe both the angel an’ the creepy vamp be stuck like that… forever?
Shit, I hopes not ‘cause Pretty ain’t gonna be so pretty no more with her eyes all rolled up.
***
EILISH
At first, all I see is black.
Soon the blackness begins to clear.
But I can’t make sense of the scene before me.
I’m once again in the castle in the sky, but this time the scene is different. The art on the ceiling isn’t the same as I remember it. Instead of powerful images of the King of Angels, Variant, the ceiling is divided into four segments. Each segment depicts one of the four kings: Baron, Dragan, Variant, and Cambion. Two kings of dark. Two kings of light.
Bringing my attention from the ceiling to my surroundings, I take in a large room filled with all races: demons, gargoyles, angels (male and female), dwarfs, halflings. They’re dressed in bright colors and sheathed in fine jewelry and fabrics.
At the far end of the room is a wide set of stairs. At the top of the stairs, where once I’d seen Variant’s ice throne, now stand four impressive chairs. One made of stone, one made of ice, one made of wood and ivy, and one, black as night, seemingly formed from dark glass or mica . In front of each throne stands its respective king. My breath catches to see them. Each so terribly handsome in his own way and together, the power that reverberates off them is truly spectacular.
Baron, Dragan, and Cambion appear the same as I now know them, and yet, there’s a quality they possess here that makes them appear even more powerful, terrifying, and beautiful. And Variant is just as stunningly handsome as his comrades.
The four kings stand straight and proud. Their robes, of differing colors, styles, and fabrics, are tailored and regal. Their faces are locked in expressions of pride. Due to their immortality, they’ve never aged, and yet their youthfulness in this moment surprises me. Their eyes dance, the corners of their mouths tip in triumphant smiles. These men are kings, regal in a way I’ve never seen them before.
Of course, my gaze returns to Dragan. In thick gray robes, he appears more handsome than ever. His body fills out the clothing well, revealing the broadness of his shoulders, the swell of his chest and the narrow tapering of his waist that leads to long and powerful legs.
In this vision, he appears more proud, less cynical and brooding. It’s from a time before he was forced into banishment, before Variant proved his disloyalty. Thus, I suppose it makes sense that this version of Dragan would appear so hopeful and gratified.
It depresses me to know what Dragan will become, what he is today—angry and sullen. Perhaps the most damage Variant inflicted on Dragan was stripping him of hope.
Regardless, I find I can’t tear my gaze away from Dragan. And, despite this being a vision, I feel the familiar pluck in my lower abdomen that communicates my longing. I feel that same longing when I look at Cambion and when I look at Baron. Each of them is so strong in his own right, so stunning. But I feel that yearning most for Dragan.
I even feel pulled to Variant, for how terrible he is. This surprises me, as Variant is clearly our enemy and he wants me dead, I’m certain. And yet something draws me to his face, with his sculpted arching brows and high cheekbones. His golden-hued skin seems almost dewy in the light that filters in from the stained-glass windows surrounding the room.
The audience fills the room with the buzz of multiple conversations. I can’t make out individual words, but a sense of excitement fills the hall. This is a grand occasion, and the gravity of such an event isn’t lost on the parishioners.
The large double doors at the entrance to the hall thrust open, and through them streams the most heavenly light. This light gives way to men and women, beautifully adorned in ornate armor. The armor is silver and glossy, not a scratch or dent to be seen. Each warrior is an angel, proven by the soft, white feathers that protrude from the hard shells of metal on their backs—a juxtaposition heightened only by the angelic beauty of their faces. They wear their wings openly, proudly. Their skin shines, young and vital, in varying shades of ebony, olive, porcelain, and bronze. They walk in unison, the shifting plates of their armor and chain mail echoing through the otherwise silent room.
Slowly, they split off into two lines and come to occupy the space before the kings, separating the royalty from their constituents.
Then, a woman, with ebony hair and eyes, enters the room. If the crowd had been hushed before, that quiet is nothing compared to the silence now. All attention is riveted on her.
I can’t explain why or how but this woman looks familiar to me. As far as I’m aware, I’ve never laid eyes on her before, yet I’m unable to shake the feeling that she’s known to me, all the same.
She’s tall and slender, elegantly dressed in a shimmering and diaphanous gown of midnight blue. It appears almost black, but its lustrous surface catches the light and momentarily shines with brilliant blues. The colors appear for only a brief moment as she walks and the fabric settles around her ankles. She moves slowly and purposefully, her pointed chin high and her shoulders back.
Her olive skin is pale and glows with vitality, and her eyes are a fierce black. Behind her head, her hair is wrapped tightly in a low and formal bun. Atop the sleek black hair sits a silver tiara, ornamented with emeralds, sapphires and rubies.
She doesn’t look at the crowd around her, only at the kings, who stand still like statues atop their platform. Each of them returns her direct gaze. Her footsteps echo throughout the room, the only noise beyond the occasional sniff or throat clearing.
When the stunning woman finally reaches the marble steps leading to the thrones, she turns to face the audience. For the first time, I notice a table before the angel warriors. Four depart from their ranks and approach the table, where four crowns rest. Each crown is different—crafted in the style of the king to whom it will soon belong. With great significance, the angel soldiers retrieve the crowns from the table and hold them aloft as they approach their kings.
“Today is a momentous occasion.” The woman’s voice rings out clear and loud.
I know it immediately.
It’s the same voice I’ve been hearing in my head since I found myself alone and running from something. I study the beautiful, yet intimidating woman more closely.
Morrigan. The Midnight Queen.
“Before you stand your kings,” she continues. “These men will guide us into a new era: one of peace, balance, safety, and prosperity.” She pauses and walks closer to Baron, offering him a smile which he instantly returns.
“I present to you, Baron, a king of Shadow.”
A female angel walks up to Baron and places a dark crown on his head when he bows. Then, the newly-crowned king steps forward. He’s greeted with thunderous applause. I can’t help but smile to see him standing there.
The Baron I know is a dour, quiet, and menacing man. He’s a man chased by questions he can’t answer, and he trusts no one. But, this man is different. Yes, he’s handsome, just as I know Baron to be, but this Baron is… happy. His eyes scan the room and his chest swells with pride.
Missing are the dark shadows that plague him currently. Even though he’s a man born of shadow, the shadows that chase him now are much darker.
“Next, I present to you,” the woman continues, “Cambion, a king of light.”
The process repeats again. And again, as the woman presents Dragan and finally Variant to their people.
Once the four men each wears his crown, they take their seats and the room erupts into claps and laughter. On either side, trumpeters fill the large hall with the happy sounds of music. The people cheer.
My heart swells and my chest feels full of pride for these men I’ve come to care about.
And Variant…
As I stare at his boyish smile, it seems impossible that this is the same man who wants us dead. He appears just as happy and proud as his brothers. I don’t understand how it’s possible that one day, he will murder Baron, then commit genocide against half his race and steal the power of four, all for himself.
In that moment, he’s simply one of four kings—and he appears to be the happiest of them all.
“Your kings!” says Morrigan as the four men stand and the room’s applause grows even louder.
Then the vision fades to black.
***
My eyes flash open, and I quickly pull my hand away from Baron’s shoulder. I rub at the skin of my palm, which stings like it’s been exposed to a flame. Baron still holds the stone; his eyelids are pressed tightly shut, but the movement beneath them is quick and erratic, like he’s dreaming.
Dragan and Cambion both look suspicious, their eyes squinted in distrust. Immediately, I’m filled with shame.
“You shouldn’t have touched him while he possessed the stone,” Cambion admonishes sternly. The shame I feel worsens. Flumph is the only one who seems unconcerned.
I look back to the vampire, but he’s still deep in the stone’s trance.
“What did you see?” Dragan asks. His body is angled away from me and he avoids eye contact. I stare at the ground, questions flooding me. I can still see the powerful images of the four kings. The pride I held in my chest only moments before has evaporated. Looking at Cambion and Dragan now, I can only feel the cold pressure of their dislike towards me.
I take a deep breath, not knowing how much to share. Putting my shoulders back, I try my best to summon whatever confidence I have left. If these men don’t want to trust me, that’s fine. But trust is a two-way street and at the moment, I have my own questions. As boldly as I can, I say, “Tell me about the midnight queen.”
The men exchange a look I can’t read. Cambion begins to speak but then stops. Dragan’s brows are furrowed in an expression of frustration he wears more often than not.
“What did you see?” he repeats.
“Your coronation,” I reply matter-of-factly.
Dragan and Cambion look back at Baron, who is still stuck in his vision.
“The Midnight Queen is Morrigan,” says Cambion simply. The name stirs something within me, like a half-remembered dream.
“What happened to her?” I ask.
Dragan stares at his feet; his lips are pressed together in what looks like anger.
Cambion seems equally evasive. “We don’t know,” he tells me after a protracted silence. “She disappeared during the Great War. No one has seen nor heard from her since.”
“Call it what it is,” Dragan growls at Cambion before facing me again. “She abandoned us, her loyal emissaries… What a load of...”
Cambion and I both look at him, and he looks right back at us. We wait for him to finish his sentence, but instead, he leaves the haphazard meeting circle without ceremony and disappears behind the trees. I fight the desire to follow. I know it’s better to leave him alone. I’m probably the last person he wants to see, anyway…
I turn my gaze back over my shoulder to Baron, wishing he would come out of his vision so we could discuss what we both just witnessed. Right now, he seems to be my only ally. I fight the instinct to laugh at the unlikeliness of that scenario.
The soft purr of wings announces Flumph’s arrival as he comes to rest on my shoulder. I suppose I have two allies. But as endearing as the sprite can sometimes be, I doubt he has much to contribute in my search for answers.
Cambion speaks again. “Let’s leave him,” he says, looking over at Baron. “We could both use some rest.”
He’s not wrong; I’m beyond tired but I’m also worried about Baron. “Should we leave him… like that?”
Cambion nods. “He’s in the visionary state, and who knows how long it will last. Regardless, we can’t be the ones to wake him from it.”
I nod and suddenly feel light-headed in my exhaustion. My legs ache in protest of standing and my head thrums with a headache that clouds both my thoughts and sight.
I wonder how long we’ve all been awake—it feels like forever. The last reserves of my energy are gone. I think back to Dragan’s explanation of Succubae in the woods, how I get energy from sex. The thought makes me shudder, because I can feel the truth of his words.
I feel the pull Dragan described—this burning need or desire within me. For every day that passes, the need grows stronger. It scares me, to have this thing within me I didn’t even know existed.
And I still know nothing about my past—my memories, why I hear Morrigan’s voice within my head, why Dragan distrusts me so much...
Am I someone worthy of such scrutiny and dislike? I don’t feel any different than I did before we crossed the River of Souls, and yet I am different. I must be different.
I want to rip the thoughts from my head.
As an angel, I was a creature of light and purity. Now, I don’t know what I am.
Slowly, I make my way over to a patch of ground that hasn’t been covered by the nearly ubiquitous shade of the trees. The spot is warm; leaves fall softly to the ground from the branches above. The whole forest is buzzing with happy life, completely unaware of the thoughts plaguing my mind.
Such is nature.
It exists with firm, unwavering confidence.
As I allow my body to melt into the warmth of the soft, leaf-covered ground, I find myself envious of the trees—only ever witnesses to the trials and tribulations of men. I crave their disinvolvement, their anonymity, their assuredness of self… or, perhaps, no knowledge of self at all. No identity to confuse.
My eyes fold into the comfort of the thought and, before I can even think to protest, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.