Ultimatum
Nye Verden’s remaining city-states are few and far between. New Chicago and the Western Alliance are, by far, the most powerful. Yet, it’s the Order of Columbus that scares me most. That cult is far too willing to start a holy war.
Alice gives me a cursory once-over and a quick smile when I walk through the front door.
There’s only a few other patrons in the small shop, so I find my spot towards the back and wrap my jacket around the seat.
Alice’s tentative smile is enough to know she has no desire to discuss the run in with The Dark One, which is fine by me. I have no desire to lie today. To her or anyone.
Maybe ever again.
After my payment goes through, she hands me the steaming mug, and I move back to the chair. The coffee is just the right brand of scalding, warming me in a way that actually matters. It’ll be a good final meal.
My eyes wander the shelves until I see the section for Remnant history. Curiosity and a general “fuck it” attitude spur me to stand and examine the shelf properly.
Several titles look boring. Some are by known experts and others seem like biographies written by Guild members from after the war.
One, though, catches my eye. It’s the only one that looks short enough to read in single sitting, but it makes sense given the subject.
“Gods of Nye Verden,” I whisper out, before grabbing the spine and making my way back to my seat.
I place the book on the table in front of me and flip it to the first chapter.
The oldest Remnants date back before the Second Disruption. It was only then that we officially began the usage of the A.D. nomenclature (After Disruption). As such, the dates in this book will be listed using the Christian dating system that, coincidentally, follows the same structure.
In 1700, the event that became known as The Disappearance took countless lives and left the world with few Remnants and even fewer humans. It was then that whispers began about two beings of unimaginable power.
These were not gods in the religious sense, but by virtue of the pure inhumanity that each being possessed. The available, overwhelming evidence suggests that these beings may never have been human to begin with. It is not even certain if they are, indeed, Remnants at all.
Darkrend first appeared in Europe in the 1700s. The being’s origin, identity, and motives are still yet unknown. Yet, wherever Darkrend went, death and destruction followed. Despite this, Darkrend never made attempts at conquering world governments, instead he seemed content to simply meddle.
The chapters repeat the same warning over and over. Each time, the message is clear: To meet Darkrend is to meet uncertain death.
The latter half of the book switches focus.
After the Second Disruption, it became clear that Darkrend is not the only god in Nye Verden.
Bloody Mary, unlike Darkrend, has not been properly identified.
It is assumed the being is feminine, though that, too, has never been confirmed.
The very few attributed sightings place her somewhere between beast and human.
At times, it is believed she is nothing but an Afflicted animal, roaming the countryside.
At other times, a humanoid figure, basking in power that ripples the reality around her.
Her exploits have always been difficult to assess, but she has never been as sadistic as Darkrend.
Instead, documented encounters express a nomadic being that brings exacting violence whenever necessary.
And, unlike Darkrend, her goals do not seem to be tethered in chaos, rather in discovery—though of what is still unknown.
When rumors of her activities emerge, they are often linked to strange deaths and inexplicable displays of power. As such, rumors are often dismissed as her very existence is still up for debate.
Clothing ruffles as someone slides into the chair across from me. I glance up and let out a small shriek.
In the din of the shop, no one notices, but Mary’s quirked lips pause my call for help.
“Dignified as always,” she purrs, her grin seemingly genuine as she swirls a cup in front of her.
I blink a few times as my mind tries to process the woman across from me.
Rather than the black robes and hood, this woman wears a pair of light grey slacks. Her off-white blouse is tucked in neatly and a dark grey peacoat hangs around her chair.
If she’s wearing makeup, I can’t tell. Yet, her ruby red lips are as plump and bright as ever.
Dark hair is pinned back behind her head; the messy bun somehow looks refined on her. Her slim neck ends at just visible collarbones.
The entire look is captivating.
Bloody Mary is downright stunning.
“What—” I gulp out, staring around at the people beside us. No one seems to realize the danger that just strolled into the shop. That a goddamned eldritch being is simply sitting here, sipping her coffee.
“To see you, of course,” she says, lips pausing at her cup again.
Her nonchalance shoots a flare of anger through me.
“If you’re going to kill me,” I hiss, leaning forward, “get in line. I’m turning myself in. I just wanted to enjoy a book and a cup of coffee.”
Though the coffee doesn’t even look very good anymore.
Mary’s grin falls as her eyes widen. Eyes that glow a soft orange. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to be different.
“I can’t beat you. I can’t beat DAEMON. And the world thinks I killed—”
I let out a choked wheeze, feeling like the world has me in its own vice-like grip. My head throbs painfully as I try to collect my scattered thoughts.
I meet Mary’s eyes and find something like distress in the orange irises.
“I don’t want your pity. I don’t want whatever it is you came here for. I’ve been backed up into the fucking corner, and it turns out I’m not all powerful. It turns out I have a limit.”
Mary’s beautiful face falls. She actually does seem devastated.
“You’re a good actress, you know,” I huff, staring down at my coffee. “Almost had me convinced you were some beautiful Good Samaritan.”
She continues to stare at me, apparently lost for words.
“I tried getting angry. I tried being vengeful, but I just feel numb. I’m tired. So fucking tired.”
Mary leans forward and, before I can stop her, she wraps her hand around mine. Her touch is surprisingly gentle, warm even. “You did nothing to deserve this, Arya.”
I glare up at her. My frayed nerves can’t handle this shit. Like this is a conversation between two people. Like we’re friends.
“It’s not about what I did or didn’t do. It’s that I don’t want to be this anymore. I don’t want to be here anymore,” I spit out.
Mary’s jaw works wordlessly, but as I make to stand, my knee strikes the table, causing the drinks to clink dangerously.
Alice shoots me a concerned look, but I wave her off.
“Call it suicide by cop. I don’t care,” I sneer as Mary’s eyes widen further. “I’m done.”
I move through the shop and push through the back entrance into the alley outside. The cold air hits my skin and burns at the rage boiling in my chest. Rage that only barely hides fear and pain.
“It’s easier this way,” a voice hisses from the shadow of a dumpster.
“I know—” I turn in time to feel something strike my side.
The scent of something spiced hits my nose as I’m pinned to the wall opposite the shop.
“Get off,” I growl and unleash a bolt of shadow into Mary’s gut.
She doesn’t really react, but she drops her hold against my chest. Her dark bun has fallen from the hold, dark flyaways fall along her face.
“Why are you so ready to die?” she asks, her voice sounding desperate. Like she might actually care.
“Not all of us are mythical gods,” I yell, not caring who hears. “I can’t handle the voices, Mary. I just want to be normal.”
“There is nothing wrong with the way you are,” she says, voice softer. “You are so much more than you believe, Arya. I see it. Let me help you.”
“Help me?” I say, voice bubbling with laughter that feels more like mania than humor. “There’s no helping me. You can’t take the Affliction out of me.”
I snort, tilting my head.
“Actually, you could,” I say, turning a grin on her that feels out of control.
I take a step back, hoping to dive further into the alley and portal away before she can try and stop me again. Or whatever this is.
She could stop me if she wanted. We both know it.
“I’m tired, Mary,” I say, fight leaving me as I watch her step forward. “What the hell do you want from me?”
A laugh bubbles out as I gesture at her. Gorgeous and powerful. Someone to fear.
She runs a tongue along her lower lip, eyes studying me like I’m a wild animal.
“I want you to trust me,” she almost whispers. The admission seems physically painful. Like she’s not used to begging.
She steps closer, the space between us narrowing by the moment.
“Trust you?” I squeak, this time letting out a real laugh. “And then what?”
“And then I help you find yourself,” her eyes find mine and something in the look steals my breath. She leans close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her body.
Gorgeous, powerful, deadly Bloody Mary with her stunning appearance and all the right words—it almost works.
“Next time you want to recruit a weapon,” I whisper, shadows roiling around our ankles, “choose one that isn’t unstable.”
Shadows open around me and I fall through them. A pale hand barely misses my wrist as the portal closes. The suffocating darkness isn’t terrifying this time.
Maybe because it’ll be the last time.
I find my cloak and mask amongst my shadow realm. In the space that somehow was only ever meant for me. They slide on easily in the weightless, reality-defying pocket.
Another rift opens and I fall through it, landing gracefully in the Guild conference room. The floor-to-ceiling windows are open to the foggy afternoon light.
It makes the perverse scene that greets me almost surreal. Like a dangerous fever dream with all my favorite sleep paralysis demons.
Omen’s mirrored mask turns to look at me, their head tilting in curiosity. Beside them is The Angel, arms folded and face still hidden by his mask. Next to him is some blonde woman that looks oddly familiar. She’s stunning in a way that supermodels are.
And there are a lot of bodies.
Harlot’s corpse is strewn over the table, a dagger driven through her skull. Beside her is Tyrant. His metallic crown is dug into his back like a final farewell.
“I—” I start to speak, but words fail me as I try to understand. “Omen?”
“You’ve come to turn yourself in, yes?” The Angel asks, rumbling voice sickly sweet.
“There’s…” I try again, but—that’s Omen, right? “There’s three different murderers for three different bodies.”
Four, I guess as of this morning.
Omen?
“We know,” the blonde woman says, her smile is delightfully disturbing given the environment. My eyes flick back to Harlot. To the beautiful woman who’d extended friendship not two days ago.
She can’t be dead?
“What the fuck?” I breathe out, taking a step back from the group.
The room’s Affliction lights blink in a rapid rhythmless beat as a jagged, red rift digs itself through reality gliding right through the granite table as if it had never existed.
It spreads and a figure taller than me steps through the portal. The wound spits red goo that hisses as it strikes the table and the floor around it.
The being looks like a mythical dark knight. Their horned helmet accentuates the ridges and angles making the armor itself look like a weapon.
Like Omen, they tilt their head a little, staring at me.
“You know, Arya,” they say, voice like brass instruments being smashed to bits. “You certainly eluded us for some time. I would have never guessed that it had been you.”
My mask lights up in recognition.
WARNING: DARKREND.