When Isobel fell, Chris lost his mind. The rage consumed him, and he killed.

And killed.

Killed until the angels were all dead.

Every. Single. One of them.

Dead.

Pulverized.

Only two people—and a handful of demons—were left standing. Chris and Bambi stood amongst the carnage while Isobel died on the ground.

Because I failed her.

He’d not been able to reach her in time, could only watch in horror as an angel stabbed her in the back.

The fucker died with his guts on the ground.

It didn’t rewind time.

Isobel lay on the ground, covered in blood, her breath hitching and whistling, moments from dying. He didn’t know what to do. Wail at the injustice. Beat his chest. Kill something else.

He knelt beside her, afraid to touch and yet also wanting to gather her in his arms and rock and sob and scream, “Why?” He understood why people did it now because the helplessness overwhelmed.

It blanketed him in despair and anguish and—

“Would you stop that?” Bambi snapped, cuffing him upside the head. “She’s not dead yet, but she will die if we don’t get her some help.”

“She’s been stabbed. With a sword.” Just in case it wasn’t clear.

“And? It’s healable.”

He blinked “Is it?” he asked. “How?” He looked down at Isobel’s body, and the despair swallowed him again. “She’s got a huge fucking hole in her. There’s blood. So much blood…” It spread everywhere in a pool.

“I’ve seen worse.”

Where? Because he’d certainly never seen anyone survive something like this, and he’d seen his fair share of shankings in his days on the streets.

“Don’t move. I’m gonna have to drop a portal on us.”

A what?

He heard his older sister mumbling, and the air around him became charged. An icy cold wave hit him, bringing with it a blinding darkness. For a moment, he couldn’t see or feel or hear, yet at the same time, he felt himself rushing through a dark abyss, a void that hummed and whispered, “Set me free.”

Before he could hear more, the air around him became hot, searing. As he sucked in a heaving dry lungful, he caught a hint of ash and brimstone.

Only one place he could be. Hell.

On the bonus side, he didn’t find himself in the cell he’d visited before. This time, he was on a mezzanine floor, red and amber striated stone, a film of dust overlaying it.

With him was Isobel, her features gray, her breath but the barest whisper of movement.

Hands, the fingers not quite human, long and gray, some of them green and claw-tipped, reached for Isobel. Chris slapped at them until Bambi grabbed his wrist and said, “Stop it. They’re going to help her.”

He watched and tried not to flinch as the creatures that were only vaguely human in appearance shifted Isobel from the floor to a gurney. He had to wonder how anyone could fix that kind of damage. Human doctors surely couldn’t. “Can they fix her?” He couldn’t help a hopeful lilt.

“Of course they can fix her. We have the best doctors serving in Hell. Pisses Uncle God off to no end. But it’s his fault for making his rules on entrance so strict.”

“So she’s not going to die?”

“Not today, she isn’t.”

But she could have—because I failed her.

She still might—if I don’t protect her.

“Why did they want her?” he asked his sister, using the question to stem his intense desire to rush after the gurney. The rational part of him knew he’d only get in the way. He didn’t fucking care. He needed something to distract him.

“I’m not sure, but I’m going to guess it’s because she’s part of your prophecy. She must have some important role to play. Eliminate Isobel, and they shift it somehow.”

It made sense, and yet a crease still formed between his eyes. “Why would my mother want to stop me, though? I thought she wanted me to take over Hell.”

“Does she? Have you talked to her and discussed exactly what she wants from you?”

Actually, he’d not heard her voice since Laveau’s house. But he doubted she’d given up. “I don’t know what she wants. And I don’t give a fuck.”

“Maybe it’s time you did, little brother. In case you haven’t noticed, people aren’t too happy you showed up.”

“The attempts on my life might be a clue,” was his dry reply.

“Expect them to increase. Word is still getting out about your existence. Once those opposed to you truly get organized, it will only get worse.”

“Worse than angels coming after me?” He arched a brow.

“You obviously haven’t met the Templars. Fanatics, even worse than the angels.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Being the Antichrist isn’t all about getting laid and drunk.”

Which really blew. What exactly were the perks again?

Oh, yeah, eventual world domination.

“What do you propose I do about the pissers and moaners? I can’t exactly change the facts of my birth.” Nor did he care to. His time had finally come.

“No, you can’t change who you are, but perhaps you need to change the narrative to make people understand you’re not out to destroy the world.”

He blinked because, um, hello… “It’s my destiny.”

“Only if you,” she emphasized, “make it your destiny. You still have a choice.”

That didn’t mesh with the indoctrination of his youth. “But everyone says—”

Her red-tipped finger jabbed him in the chest. “Everyone isn’t you. You are the one who makes the choices. You are the one this affects. Let me ask you, why do you want to rule the world and take over Hell?”

Why? That was simple. “Because it’s my birthright.”

“It’s your birthright to start a planet-encompassing war, pit Heaven against Hell, get rid of our father, and start a reign of terror?”

“When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound so cool.” Actually, it sounded downright evil, but not in a way that made him smile and want to rub his hands in glee.

“What do you get out of it?”

Aha, this he could answer. “A title. Money. Power.” People obeying him. Respect at last.

“You already have those things. You are the Prince of Hell. You have access to the Baphomet riches if you so choose. Although it might come with strings. Father isn’t one to just hand over the gold doubloons. You have access to so many resources. You have so much power already. How much more do you need? How much is enough?”

A good question he’d never thought to ask himself.

Why am I doing this?

Because it was his destiny.

A destiny foisted onto him by others and old prophecies. Did he really want to start a world war? Did he really want to kill and destroy?

The very fact that God and his minions thought he did had almost cost Isobel her life. So long as he followed this path, they would try again.

And again.

Was a destiny chosen for him by strangers worth that price?

“What’s this I hear about someone harming my future daughter-in-law?” Lucifer blustered as he swept into the emergency room area, his dark cape swelling behind him. Impressive, and a reminder that Chris stood there in grime-covered clothes that even a bum might turn up his nose at.

“You do know they tried to kill me, too.” Actually, Chris came out with barely a scratch, which, in retrospect, seemed odd.

Eyeing him with a curled lip, Lucifer replied. “I see they failed.”

“Your concern warms me,” was his dry rejoinder.

“Stop whining. It’s unmanly.”

Resisting the urge to scratch his balls, he resorted to insults to reassert himself instead. “I wouldn’t talk about unmanly given the tie you’re wearing. Ostriches, really?”

Lucifer held out the eye-popping creation. “Fanged hell ostriches, vicious flightless birds found in the wilds past the ninth circle. Lovely plumage, but they are most renowned for their taste. They’re great roasted over a coal fire and basted with herb-infused butter.”

Sounded tasty, but off topic. “What do you want?”

Lucifer clutched his breast. “Does a father need a reason to see his son?”

Chris glared in reply.

“And you wonder why I don’t visit.” The Devil sniffed. “I expected thanks.”

“Thanks for what? We almost died!”

“No, she almost died.” Lucifer pointed to the closed operating chamber. “You acquitted yourself rather well. Which is surprising.”

“Don’t you mean disappointing? We both know you’d rather see me dead.”

“If that were the case, would I have sent my beloved daughter”—he bared teeth at a wide-eyed Bambi—“and much-needed minions to help you with your angelic scuffle?”

“That was more than a scuffle.”

“Yes, it was,” Lucifer agreed rather ominously. “It seems my brother has chosen to meddle, an oddity for him. He usually prefers to hide in his clouds and ignore mankind’s pleas.”

“Are you going to confront him about it?” The little boy in Christopher wanted his father to stick up for him. To finally come to his rescue in a bold fashion.

It didn’t happen.

“Let’s not be hasty. From what I hear, my brother had ample reason to believe he could have the girl. Your supposed mother did, after all, bargain her away.”

“She didn’t have the right. No one has that right.”

“Then that’s between you and your mother, wouldn’t you say? I don’t see why you’re getting so pissy with me.”

“I’m pissy because I’m sick of being jerked around.”

“Then perhaps it’s time you decided where you stand. Son.” An ominous timbre rolled through the word.

“How about I don’t fucking know?” Because the more Chris thought he knew, the more confusing shit became. And now, there was more than just his life at stake.

Isobel fought for hers in Hell of all places. His sister, his damned sister who came to his rescue, bore some bruises and a few scratches—currently being licked by some salamander-type fellow with two legs in a white coat.

How many more would come to harm?

Why do I care?

“It’s time you figured it out, boy. The world and our enemies won’t wait while you dilly-dally.”

“Stop talking like you care. We both know you’d prefer it if I didn’t exist.”

“Are you presuming to speak for me? I never said any such thing.” Pause. “Recently.” A smile with too many teeth appeared. “I will admit, your demise would simplify matters, but I’m a demon who enjoys a challenge and exhibits excellent fashion sense. Speaking of which, really, you should make more of an effort. We have an appearance to uphold.”

For some reason, the petty remark about his wardrobe—still drenched in blood and gore—snapped the last straw holding Chris together. He lunged at his father, who only had to hold up a hand to stop him in his tracks.

“Calm down, boy.”

“I don’t want to fucking calm down. Shit is not happening like it should. And, Isobel…” He cast a glance at the door, wondering what happened behind it. He took in a shuddering breath, and his shoulders slumped. “I’ll calm down when Isobel is safe.”

Which took hours. Hours of Chris verbally sparring with his dad, his toe-to-toe glares with the demon and almost physical confrontations interrupted by his calmer sister.

Despite all the rancor, Lucifer stuck with him—irritating the fuck out of Chris—but the demon didn’t leave. Didn’t abandon Chris in his hours of need.

Chris wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Eventually, the doctor emerged from the operating chamber and stripped off bloody gloves.

His expression bland, his eyes expressionless, it took a moment for Chris to register what the doctor said. “She’ll live.”

The most awesome words Chris ever heard. He might have scooped up the doctor in a hug that lifted his feet off the ground.

“Ahem.”

Chris put him down. “I want to see her.”

“She is not yet conscious,” the doctor explained. “We had to use a combination of mortal-based medicine and magic in order to repair the damage. She will require extensive rest.”

“I don’t care. I need to see her.” Needed to see with his own two eyes that she lived.

The doctor led Chris to accommodations down the hall, a spacious room filled with the oddest mixture of appliances.

“What’s with all the junk?” he asked to distract himself from the pale and unmoving figure lying on the bed.

“Machines from the mortal plane don’t always work well in the Pit, so we tend to pad them with magical artifacts.” Bambi, who’d followed him into the room, was the one to reply.

The remark had him scanning the room in more detail, again avoiding the bed. Modern medical equipment, some of it blinking with lights and whirring, with wires extending out to a bed. Other machinery, dark and silent, but there in case of need. The walls were drawn with symbols, some of them glowing, pulsing with magic. Charms, some of them tinkling and swaying in an invisible breeze, dangled overhead.

“How long will she need to stay here?”

“A few days by mortal standards for a full recovery,” the doctor replied.

“A few days? We’ll have to tell her family.”

“Do we have to?” Lucifer’s lips pursed into a moue of displeasure. “That woman who birthed her will harangue me, and I can just hear Rasputin claiming I owe compensation. After all, this did happen while she was with you.”

“But they weren’t after me,” Chris reiterated, forcing himself to move closer to the bed. He looked down at Isobel’s features, her creamy skin waxen, her lips almost bloodless. Her eyes remained shut, her fair lashes touching the tops of her cheeks. A stroke of his knuckles over her silky skin didn’t rouse her, but the heat of her soft breath eased something in him.

She’s alive.

The doctor said she’d wake in a few days. But impatience burned in him. He whirled and paced the room, falling into deep thought.

What am I going to do?

What would happen when she woke? Should he cast her from him, send her away to keep her safe?

No. I am too selfish for that. And, besides, would his enemies retreat or think to still use her against him?

I have to find a way to protect her. But how? His power was still so raw and unschooled. Not to mention, he only rarely saw glimpses of it unless he touched Isobel. The battle they’d almost lost remained an unpleasant reminder that he still had much to learn.

“Would you stop pacing? All this worrying and caring is giving me indigestion. The girl is fine.” Lucifer interrupted with his usual brashness.

“Fine?” The fact that Isobel survived didn’t calm Chris in the least. “She could have died.” Those angels didn’t seem to care that her only fault was by association.

It’s dangerous to love me. Yet, he’d wager if Isobel opened her eyes right now and was asked, she wouldn’t care.

She loves me.

“Could have and should have don’t mean shit. The girl didn’t croak, and that’s what matters. Good thing she’s an excellent fighter. I watched some of the replays of that battle. She’s got some mad skills. Think I could convince her to train some of my minions? Since you’re engaged, I wonder if I could get a family discount?” Lucifer mused, rubbing his chin.

“Would you stop making this about you?” Chris yelled. “Someone attacked my fiancée. I won’t have it.”

“It is rather rude,” Lucifer agreed. “Not God’s style at all. Do you think my brother is trying to curry my favor?”

Chris couldn’t help but glare. “This isn’t about you.”

“Let me guess, you’re going to try and claim it’s all about you instead. Which still leads back to me, given you’re my by-blow.”

“Aren’t you bothered at all that the angels are coming after Isobel and me?”

“Not really.”

“You should be. By striking at me, your only son, they’re striking at you. Demeaning your status. Making you look weak to your demons in Hell.” The sly words came easily to his tongue.

Lucifer’s eyes widened. “By all that is hairy, you’re right, boy. They are. Fuckers! I can’t have them striking now, not when Hell is in the middle of a crisis. What do you suggest we do?”

“We? I’m already doing my best to keep her safe. What are you doing?”

“I sent you a legion.”

“Not enough. You owe me,” Chris growled.

“What do you want from me?” Lucifer asked. “I’m already being nicer than I should by letting you live, especially since you’re not quiet about trying to take my place.”

“Are you afraid? Scared the prophecies are true, and my rise will mean the end of the world and your reign?”

“No, which is why I’m going to help you both out. Mostly because I know it will piss off my brother that I’m meddling.” Lucifer approached the bed and waved his hand over Isobel.

For a moment, a red glow of dust or particles or something hung in the air before it sank onto the sleeping Isobel, coating her in an amber nimbus. It melted into her skin, and her lips parted on a gasp.

“What did you do?” Chris rushed to her side and grabbed her hand.

“Put the equivalent of an alarm system on her. If anyone tries to go after her again, the spell will trigger and call upon a squad of demons to protect her.”

“You’ve given her bodyguards?”

“Not just any guards, my most elite soldiers. The deadliest of my warriors in the Pit.”

“And what if it doesn’t work or the enemy kills the soldiers?”

“Then you’re fucked,” Lucifer said on a high note.

Chris glared.

“What more do you want from me?”

I don’t know. Lucifer had already offered more than Chris expected. Yet, Isobel still lay prone. Vulnerable. “I want your word you won’t harm her. You or anyone else associated with you.”

“You drive a hard bargain, son. Then again, it is in your genes. But I have to ask, if I agree, what’s in it for me?”

Cockiness made him reply without thought. “A quick death when I come for your throne.”

Lucifer chuckled. “Such a funny boy. You can’t beat me in a head-to-head battle. However, I am looking forward to your failed attempt. Nothing like the threat against the throne to get an old demon’s blood running hot. Speaking of which, I need to go harangue the shrew who birthed Muriel. The nerve of the woman, showing up after all this time. Of course, that time isn’t this time, it’s actually still in the future, but you’ll meet her soon enough. The hag. Can you believe she refuses to blow me in apology? I won’t have it.” With a snap of his fingers and a lack of goodbye, Lucifer was gone, leaving Chris alone with Isobel.

Not entirely alone.

A rustle of fabric saw him whirling to note a new person present in the corner of the room.

“Who the fuck are you?” He stood protectively in front of Isobel. “Whoever you are, leave. Lucifer gave his word that no harm would come to Isobel.”

“Did he, now? Surprising.” The cloaked figure drew nearer, short, much shorter than Chris, and slight. The cowl went back to reveal an old woman, skin shriveled, creases deeper than that of a raisin. Silver-gray hair crowned her head, the strands bound in thick, braided coils.

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Is this how you thank the person who saved your female’s life?”

“You? You’re not her doctor.”

“As if I would stoop to such physical means to cure someone. I am a sorceress, the mightiest one in Lucifer’s employ.” The pointed chin angled with pride. “The Dark Lord had me fetched personally to deal with your fiancée. It took much of my magic. I’ll have to replenish myself for days.”

“You saved her?” Much as the word galled him, he managed to utter, “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t her time,” was the reply from the shriveled crone. “You and the female have a destiny ahead of you.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say it given who you work for.” Did this kooky witch have mutiny on the mind? He could use allies.

As if she read his thoughts, she laughed, a richer sound than he would have expected. “No, I do not betray my lord. I see more than many and understand that what we think we know isn’t always what it seems or what will be. Your destiny, for example, isn’t quite the one you perceive, and yet, your belief will lead you to it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you need to live a while longer. The female, too. Give her this when she wakes. She must wear it for it to work.”

The sorceress held out something that glinted in the candlelight and jangled as he took it from her. He held the object up and frowned. “A bracelet?” The chain links appeared made of black metal, the charms dangling from it odd shapes, not quite letters and yet…

“Don’t stare overlong, son of Lucifer. The magic is potent in that gift.”

“What’s it for?”

“Place it around the wrist of your fiancée. Tell her to guard it well and never remove it. It will give her access to magic even if you are apart.”

“You mean she can draw on my power?”

“As you can draw on hers. It is a temporary physical link until you find a more permanent way to bind your magics.”

“How do we do that?” he asked. The thought of being able to touch his magic all the time, without implement or bracelet, appealed.

“The answer will come in due course. Everything in its time.”

“That’s a bullshit answer.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a seeress or sorceress if I spoke plainly.” Shriveled lips tilted into a smile. “You are in a rush to meet your destiny, but that future isn’t yet.”

“Then when? I’ve been waiting my whole life for it to come.”

“When the time is right, you’ll know it.” The crone glanced past him. “I think your bride-to-be awakens.”

What? He whirled to notice lashes fluttering, and he didn’t need to turn back to feel the pop as the witch transported herself out of sight.

Who cared? Isobel awoke, and the first thing she did when she opened her eyes? She smiled at him and asked, “Did we win?”

---

Isobel recovered quickly after she regained consciousness. Within a week, and at the insistence of her mother—who arrived in Hell via a portal and proceeded to complain about everything she could until minions scurried to fix it—they returned to the mortal plane.

The first thing Chris did? Greedily sucked in the fresh air not tainted by ash. He’d never tasted or smelled anything so good. Hell wasn’t exactly the most awesome place. Dirty, crowded, noisy, violent. Think of the worst ghetto and multiply it. That was the Pit.

The inner circle where the most privileged lived was somewhat better than the outer rings, the homes large and nicely appointed. In that exclusive first ring, staff constantly swept the ash-strewn streets.

Yet the basics he took for granted, like television and DVR, didn’t really work down there. Not that there wasn’t anything to watch, but there was a recurring violent theme in the HBN channels—Hell’s Broadcasting Network really enjoyed virtual shows that always seemed to devolve into battle. A particular favorite was one called Last Sidekick Standing, something about a demoness on a quest to find the perfect minion. According to the commercials, she was penning a book about her experience titled Last Minion Standing. Her way of cutting the show out of a cut.

Simple things like cold drinks from a fridge were hard to find. Technology only worked in spurts, making things that required electricity more of a rich paperweight than practical appliance. Frosting a mug could be done with magic, but that took money to hire witches because not everyone could cast spells. I can’t. Which really pissed him off.

As the Prince That Shall Come, he kind of expected to be able to do magical things. Cool things—literally cool because it was blistering down there. He couldn’t. So he sulked.

And then scratched his balls because he couldn’t get any respect when people caught him doing it.

I hate that place.

A week spent without the comforts he enjoyed, dealing with disrespectful demons who thought they could sneer at Chris, evading the grasping souls of debutantes, and ignoring his dad—who never shut the fuck up—made him long for the world he knew. A world he missed.

Being in Hell made him wonder why he wanted to fight to rule it. Do I really want to live in the Pit forever?

Not without proper air conditioning, he didn’t.

Thus he greeted his return to the earthly plane—as they called it below, or in between, he never did quite grasp where the fuck Hell lay in the grand scheme of geography—with great joy. Then irritation because he still had nowhere to go. His cottage in the cemetery hadn’t magically rebuilt itself after the explosion. He had no money to his name. Not a single friend he could call to crash on a couch. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. Bambi did offer for him to stay at her place, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the fact that she brought her work home and banged it for dinner.

Given Chris currently found himself homeless—because he wasn’t about to beg for aid from his father—the Rasputins graciously offered him a suite, on the opposite end of the house, far from Isobel’s room, keeping her virtue well guarded.

Oddly enough, he didn’t mind that her family wanted them separated. During her recovery, he’d come to an interesting decision, one his blue balls lamented.

He would wait for the wedding to indulge with her. Partially because he knew it drove his dad nuts that he’d not yet deflowered her, but also, oddly enough, the thought of taking her maidenhead on their wedding night just felt right.

The magic will be strongest then. The odd thought whispered to him, encouraging it.

With him determined to wait, and his fiancée objecting—because, “Why the fuck did we yank off the belt if you weren’t going to take advantage?”—Isobel threw herself into a frenzy to get things organized.

This time, they were both determined to do it right, which took time. A few weeks, apparently.

Weeks. Sob.

Be strong. It would be worth it in the end.

Living with the Rasputin family meant little privacy for either of them and virtually no chance to go searching for a certain missing body.

They didn’t dare tell anyone about it, not with all the opposition to their plan. And Isobel didn’t want to raise her mother’s hopes.

But the delay didn’t mean they’d given up. When Marya left town to book the perfect locale, Eva went off on some work-related task, and Rasputin went to harangue Lucifer just because, they took advantage and went searching for the crypt supposedly holding Isobel’s father.

Despite Chris keeping his eyes open, the ghost had been sparse since their return. Meanwhile, while Isobel was excited about possibly finding him, the many warnings Chris had heard percolated.

Set her father free and destroy the world.

Don’t set him free and disappoint Isobel.

Guess which seemed more important?

Since Isobel knew the property well, she declared only one section could hold what they were looking for.

But at first, she kept wandering away from it.

The third time she spun and did an about-face, he grabbed her hand. “I thought we were exploring this section.”

“We are. Aren’t we?” She looked so confused.

Tugging her behind him—dragging her for a few yards, too—there was an almost audible pop as they crossed some kind of invisible threshold.

The moment they did, she stopped resisting. Her lips flattened as she muttered, “What are you hiding, Grandfather?”

Whatever these woods hid didn’t affect Goshen. The big dog stood just past the boundary, head cocked as if asking, “What took you so long?”

With a bark, he bounded off, and they followed. With him as their guide, it didn’t prove too difficult to find the crypt, and the setting proved just perfect for it.

The woods surrounding it were old, the trees tall and towering, the ground littered with needles and leafy detritus. There was no path to it. No signs to lead the way to the plain, crumbling stone crypt.

On Rasputin land.

Because, apparently, the body Isobel had searched for all these years was under their noses the entire time.

Hand-in-hand, Chris and Isobel stood in front of it and stared.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know this existed.” Isobel canted her head, a puzzled crease between her brows.

“Probably hidden by a memory spell.” The concept slipped easily from his lips. In the weeks since his awakening to the world lying under the mundane one he’d always known, things such as magic and spells were now commonplace.

“I can’t believe he’s in there.”

“We don’t know yet for sure that he is.”

“We don’t, but if we do find my father…” She trailed off.

“Then that means your grandfather or mother knew.” An immutable fact. Given the tight defenses and alarms placed throughout the property, there was no way someone in the family didn’t know that Isobel’s father lay at rest on their lands.

Who knew the secret? And why hide it?

“Are you going to open it?” he whispered.

“You open it. That’s man’s work.”

“That’s sexist.”

“Not really. It’s traditional that when things need opening, like pickle jars and long-closed tombs, men are the right tools to employ.”

“Traditional doesn’t mean it’s not sexist.”

Her slender shoulders rose and fell. “Fine, it’s sexist. I’m okay with that, and besides, why wouldn’t you do it? You’re the expert.”

Referring to his stint in the graveyard. “It was a temporary job.”

“That lasted over eight years.”

“Not my fault bringing about the apocalypse took its sweet time.” And, according to the sorceress he’d met in Hell, had a while to go yet. Would he ever fulfill his destiny?

Do I even want to?

Remaking the world after bringing it to the edge of destruction might be more than he wanted to take on.

Perhaps he could pass on the whole Destroyer thing, get to know his dad, enjoy the benefits of being a Hell prince.

Perhaps you should grow a set and stop taking advice from those who want to see you fail.

The ghostly whisper twined through his thoughts, pushing against his doubt, feeding rather than starving his long-held dream.

“What if this doesn’t work?” The query was bereft of hope. “What if my father isn’t here? Or what if he is and we can’t bring him back?”

What if Chris restored her father and she reneged on the deal to marry?

He eyed her askance.

Would Isobel truly betray him?

Of course, not.

Yes, she would. Everyone betrays. Everyone has an ulterior motive.

She loves me.

She loves her daddy more.

There is nothing here. Nothing but pain and sorrow. Forget this mission. This place. This nonsense.

All the voices in his head jumbled, and he frowned. Since when did he worry about shit? Since when did he doubt his own awesomeness?

They would succeed and bring back her father. Isobel loved Chris and was totally going to marry his ass—and finally give him what he’d been craving on their wedding night before his balls fell off, starved of sex.

For some reason, the word starved struck him.

“Isobel?” he asked as she palpated the tomb, looking for a way to open it. “There are four horsemen, right?”

“Yes. War, whom you met, then there’s Pestilence and Famine. And, of course, Death.”

“So, a horseman of sickness and starvation. Do they mean that literally?”

“Hunh?” She turned from studying the nondescript stone crypt to give him a puzzled frown. “What are you asking exactly?”

Except the thought, more like the realization, coalesced on its own. He tested it. “Do you love me?” he asked.

“What a silly question.”

But was it?

He could see her eyeing him with a frown. “Do you love me?” she asked.

“How could you doubt it?” How indeed after everything they’d gone through?

“I feel so—”

“Alone?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Unloved? Starved for affection? Doubting my devotion to you. Sick at the thought I might not care.”

“Yes, and yet… Yet…” Her nose scrunched up. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“Because it’s not.” He turned to face the overgrown graveyard, the shifting shadows hiding them, but he knew they were there. He could feel them.

“Show yourselves,” he commanded.

“Who are you talking to?” she asked, backing from him and putting her back against the crypt.

Either he talked to the trees and shadows, or they weren’t alone. “I’m working on a theory,” he muttered, then more loudly said, “Stop your tricks, or I’ll do to you what I did to War. I won’t have you meddling in my affairs.”

You need us on your side.

You can trust no one else.

The whispers came to him alone, and he was tired of it.

He grabbed Isobel’s hand and squeezed it. The bracelet meant he didn’t need the contact, but the emotions battering him needed an anchor.

The touch steadied him, and in a calmer, low tone, he said, “Show yourself.”

From the trees, he saw the bilious billow of fabric as a gaunt woman stepped out. Despite the lack of wind, her gown never stayed still, a constantly moving miasma. Her mincing steps left dead spots on the ground, wilting all living things, sickening them with her mere presence.

“Pestilence.” He murmured her name and was startled to hear another voice speak to him from behind.

“Don’t forget Famine.”

Chris whirled to face the newcomer as his stomach gurgled in hunger. The other man proved less slim than the poisonous woman, but the loose skin of his jowls and oversized clothes indicated a guy who’d lost a lot of weight.

Giant balls gave him the cockiness to say, “How nice of you to stop by. Did Mother send you?”

“When are you going to realize you have nothing without her?” Famine stopped a few paces away.

“Your mother loves you, unlike the treacherous harpy at your side,” whispered Pestilence.

“I love Chris,” Isobel said with calm certainty.

The truth in her words bolstered him against the doubt that would starve him of her love and the poison that tried to ruin their trust.

“What do you want?”

“Come with us.”

“Join us.”

Chris cocked his head. “Shouldn’t you be asking to join me?”

“We serve the mistress. Your mother. And so should you.”

“See, there’s that whole serve thing again. I am the Antichrist. I serve no one but me.” And maybe the woman by his side. “You, on the other hand, need to think long and hard about what you want to do. Serve my mommy, or the true King of Babylon?”

“Stubborn man-child. Have you not realized yet you have no choice?” Famine hissed. “Starve for your stubbornness.” The words sucked the oxygen from the air.

Immediately, his throat tightened, his lungs squeezed. Beside him, Isobel gasped but could draw nothing to ease her pain.

It angered him that this thing, this being that wasn’t even human, would dare to attack him and his duckie. The rage rushed into him, filled him to the brim, and on impulse, he let it spew out. He pushed all his anger and frustration, so much of it, and fed it to Famine. Threw it at him and watched him stagger back under the copious weight of it all.

The loose skin filled as if a balloon inflated. And still, Chris pushed his rage—the times he’d gone without food or clothes or video games because his adopted mother had no money. The kids who’d mocked his destiny. Those who’d picked on him in high school. The lack of riches and respect as he hit his twenties. The dad he hated but, at the same time, wanted.

All of it, every angry moment spewed from him in a torrent, and Famine couldn’t help but gulp it. He grew in size, straining the seams of his clothes, his face turning puffy, his body quite round.

His companion didn’t appreciate Chris giving Famine a full meal.

The blades of grass that Pestilence killed underfoot screamed. He could hear them in this sense-heightened moment.

He turned to face her and cocked his head. “Are you sure you want to challenge me?”

“It doesn’t take much to poison the mind. Already the seeds of doubt are planted and taking root. I can see inside her. See her wondering. Does he really love you or just want you for your cunt?” The words slapped at Isobel, making her wan features pale further.

Chris raised a hand, but before he could do anything, Isobel straightened and addressed Pestilence. “I know he loves me. He’s proven it over and over. How that must kill you to see what real love looks and feels like. It’s not like you’ll ever know it. You’re just a second-rate lackey. Not tough enough to send out on your own, they had to send you with a man.”

Pestilence’s eyes flashed with green fire. “I am strong on my own. I needed no help.”

“Yet, here you are, playing second fiddle. And for what? Surely, you don’t think you will gain anything, do you? Chris’s mother has plans for him to rule. He will have a general in War. An advisor in Death. Even Famine will know how to feed him what he needs to be king. But you, you’re just a pustule on the world. One that no one wants or needs.”

Fascinating how turning the poison against Pestilence caused her robes to snap in an invisible wind. Words alone wouldn’t beat her, but it gave Chris time to see how he could control her.

Senses still heightened, he looked inside Pestilence and saw the throbbing darkness at her heart, the sickness in the center of her.

Thrusting out his hand, he shot power into that roiling, tumescent mass.

With a sharp scream, Pestilence recoiled, hands to her breast.

“Stop,” she yelled.

“Let me cure you of the poison,” he said much too sweetly, still pouring his strength into her. He couldn’t jolt her for long, the power required proved quite draining, but it was enough.

The poisonous horseman dropped to her knees, lips parted in a gasp, her green gown shifting, getting paler in color until it was almost white and her hair a healthy, shining platinum.

When Pestilence stood, shoulders back and proud, for a moment, he could have sworn he saw ghostly wings.

Angel wings?

“No. What have you done?” Screeched into the wind, the notes dulcet sweet and causing flowers to suddenly bloom all around.

“Why not spread some good for a while?” he suggested.

“Never.” A strident whistle brought a galloping steed, its eyes a fiery green. Grasping its mane, Pestilence heaved herself astride, her off-white robes pushing up her lean legs. As she galloped off, she leaned down and grabbed Famine by the collar, heaving him along with her.

A slash of her hand split the very air itself, opening a rip to another dimension. She urged her steed through that hole while uttering a second piercing whistle. A second horse, a fat and tall bastard, tromped out of the woods and followed.

The rift sealed shut, and the day was bright and full of hope again.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Isobel declared.

Not really. It was, however, a time waster. “We should get moving. Their appearance on your grandfather’s land is bound to attract attention.”

“If they set off alarms, then he won’t waste time coming back.” Isobel’s lips tightened as she turned to the crypt. “How do we open it?”

She pounded on the door, shoved it with her shoulder, kicked it.

“I don’t think that’s working,” he remarked.

“I see that, smartass,” she snapped with a glare. “Maybe it’s sealed with magic.” She slapped a worn-out crest carved into it and squeaked, the sound almost drowned out by the grinding of stone.

“Good job, duckie. You unlocked it.”

Indeed the crypt revealed an entrance, the stone door swinging open with a mighty creak.

Drawing her magical sword, Isobel darted inside, and he followed, only to find himself vastly underwhelmed.

The chamber within sat empty, not a single coffin to be seen. No niche holding a body, just stone. Lots of boring stone.

“But no dust,” he murmured aloud, noting the clean, swept floor.

“Someone’s been coming here,” she noted. “Who?”

Only a few people could make it on and off Rasputin land without being noticed.

“It’s empty.” She whirled around, eyes rife with disappointment. “We’re too late.”

“Better leave. Nothing to see.”

He ignored the voice, the motherly one this time determined to have him quit.

Why do you want me to go, Mother? What don’t you want me to see?

“You’re wasting your time.”

Thanks for confirming we’re on the right track.

Did he imagine his mother gnashing her teeth?

“There’s something here.” He dropped to his haunches and trailed his fingers over the floor. “Something hidden from the mundane eye.”

“How do we find it?”

“With magic, of course.” For the first time since they’d gotten the bracelet, he intentionally pulled on the link he could feel stretching between him and Isobel.

She uttered a soft gasp. “What are you doing?”

“Revealing the truth.” Exposing the lie. In this case, the lie was the appearance of a full floor.

It shimmered, the shape of it wavering until it finally disappeared, the shredded magic quickly dispersing and revealing what was hidden. A simple set of stone steps leading down.

“How did you know?” she whispered.

Because he was feeling more things these days. Getting stronger.

Not strong enough.

You’re weak.

A failure.

Don’t go down.

Fuck it. He put a foot on the first step, and when a puzzled Isobel, shaking her head, hesitated, he grabbed her hand and tugged her after him.

Goshen showed no such hesitation and squeezed past, bounding down the steps.

A single steep flight led down about twelve feet. At the bottom of the carved-stone stairs, light flickered from torches set in metal sconces bolted to the wall. How they burned, or what they consumed, he couldn’t have said. The blue and white flames emitted no smoke or heat. Yet, they burned coldly if you stuck a finger in them.

He found that out the painful way.

The area under the crypt proved to be much larger than above. The chamber reaching at least ten feet overhead and at least thirty or more feet deep. The walls were set with runes, intricate carvings that ran around the room in a jumbled mess he couldn’t read. But he’d bet they had to do with the only other thing in this place.

In the center of the room sat a wide, solid slab of stone. Upon the carved altar lay a body.

Guess who.

“Papa!” Isobel exclaimed, racing to the edge of the stone, only to find herself bounced back. Chris caught her before she could fall.

“What happened? Did you trip?”

“There’s a wall around him,” she huffed, quite indignant.

A probe of fingers by them both showed a force field surrounded the body, preventing them from getting too close.

“How do we remove it?” she asked. “Can you smash it with your magic?”

“You will do no such thing.”

Isobel might have gasped at the unexpected voice, but Chris had expected it. Someone in the family knew of the crypt and its secret, someone with the right kind of magic. There was only one person strong enough to keep it quiet for this long.

Rasputin, wearing one of his many long robes, stood at the bottom of the stairs, his bald pate shining in the torchlight. Goshen, sitting in the shadows by the stairs growled.

“You did this!” Isobel hissed, her expression quite—delightfully—feral.

“This isn’t entirely my doing.”

“Mother—”

“Knows not of this, and you shan’t tell her.” The elderly fellow spoke quite sternly, his brows a raised caterpillar on his forehead.

“You knew where he was all this time and lied. Traitor.” Isobel spat the word. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t reveal your perfidy.”

“You weren’t supposed to find out. This was a secret I promised to never reveal.”

“How could you? You know Mother and I have been looking for him, searching for answers. All this time, you could have said something.”

“Which would have accomplished nothing.”

“Says you. Just because you don’t know how to fix this doesn’t mean I don’t. Madame Laveau told us how to bring him back.”

Not really. The old voodoo witch had muttered some mumbo jumbo about joining the body and spirit, which weren’t exactly clear instructions, but hey, they’d winged it thus far, so why not now?

“Foolish child, you can’t bring him back,” the elder Rasputin declared.

“Can’t?” Her brow arched in that stubborn way Chris knew all too well. “We’ll see about that.”

Chris played silent spectator to the conversation. The sensation that there was more to this scenario tickled him. Therefore, he wasn’t surprised when Rasputin stood in front of Isobel and prevented her from approaching the altar.

“You don’t understand what’s at play here.”

She crossed her arms and glared. “No, I don’t. Because you have yet to explain. Why is Papa here? What have you done to him?”

“I did nothing.” Rasputin angled his chin, brows as high as they could go without leaving his head, the picture of indignation. “What you see here”—he waved his hand—“this was all your father’s doing. Done to protect you, I might add. The foolish man thought he could stop fate and then blackmailed me into helping.”

“What are you talking about?”

“And here I thought you had some measure of intelligence.” The old man blew a hard tsking breath. “I’m talking about your marriage to the Antichrist.”

“Papa did this to save Eva?” Because, originally, Evangeline had been the bride slated to marry for the bet. But Eva intentionally lost her coveted cherry, throwing Isobel in to replace her.

“No. He did this for you. Your father knew the day would come that you, not your sister, would join with this boy.” Rasputin slid a side-eye Chris’s way, so he flashed him a bird. “Your father was determined to prevent it.”

“Why would he want to stop me from marrying Chris?”

“Actually, his intent was to prevent you from ever meeting. He’d hoped to circumvent fate.”

“Wait, he knew about Isobel and me?” Chris asked.

“He saw it in a vision and then had it confirmed. He was determined to stop it. But he miscalculated. He went somewhere he shouldn’t, and got stuck.”

“So, we’ll unstick him.” Isobel made it sound so simple.

Chris had a feeling it was anything but.

“You can’t. If you do, you’ll open the door your father sealed shut and start the very thing he wanted to avoid.”

“I don’t understand. What door are you talking about?”

Locked me away. Hid the key. Even my soldiers couldn’t find it.

But you did…son.

Oh, shit.

“A door leading to my mother.” Chris made the leap of logic.

“Someone tampered with the seals on her prison, creating a crack, one into whatever dimension is holding her. Large enough for her to act in this world but not enough for her to fully emerge.”

A tiny little sliver through which I wiggled and found you, son.

“So his mother isn’t free in this world?” Isobel asked.

“Not yet.” Rasputin shook his head. “But she’s getting stronger, which isn’t good considering there are some who say she is a catalyst to the prophecies.”

“Which is why my dad wanted to stop her.”

“Indeed. The breaking of the seals by Lucifer’s daughter almost set her free. Only one lock remained when your father found the door to her prison. He is using his soul to keep that last seal from breaking.”

“How did he know that would work?” she asked.

Rasputin shrugged. “He didn’t. He went dream walking for information and found out by accident that he could hold the seal with his spectral form. Right now, he is the only thing preventing the opening of that prison; however, so long as his body remains in stasis, there is a risk.”

“What kind of risk?” Chris asked.

“He is the glue that binds. Should his soul be called back to his mortal body, then there will be nothing holding that last lock. I fear there is only one thing left to do.” Rasputin sighed and looked at the body lying prone on the slab.

“What are you saying?”

Isobel refused to face it, but Chris understood, saw the sorrow in the old man’s eyes. “He’s saying that so long as there’s a link between the body and the spirit, the last seal can be broken.”

He could tell when she understood. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. “You can’t kill Papa. There has to be a way we can deal with this. Perhaps we can yank his essence back and seal that door shut with something else. You have magic. Chris, too. Surely, we can—”

“Do nothing. Because removing him would only accelerate the weakening of the lock,” Rasputin softly said. “All the seals but one are gone. There is only one path left open to us. By sacrificing his life and using his soul to bind the seal, we can buy time. Time enough for you to live your life. It is what he wanted. I have to respect his choice.”

“You’re talking about killing him!” she screeched.

“One death to save many. One life to save yours. He thought it worthy enough. He was willing to pay the ultimate price. It is I who asked him to wait, to see if there was another way.” Judging by the sad look in Rasputin’s eyes, he’d failed to find another path.

“No.” She shook her head. “I won’t do it. I won’t let you kill him, and I won’t leave him trapped. He’s my father. There must be another way to save my papa.”

As if her words summoned him, a wraith appeared, a translucent version of a man, thick of frame, thunderous of expression, hovering over his body.

“Papa!” she cried out. “Don’t worry. I’ll save you.” Chris snared her when she would have lunged at the ghost.

The link between them vibrated, and all of a sudden, they could both hear and understand the ghost of her father.

“Don’t you dare interfere. Do as your grandfather says. Destroy my body before it’s too late.”

“No. I can’t. I won’t.” Isobel’s lower lip trembled, and moisture glistened in her eyes.

“You will obey me!” Thomas spoke quite sternly, and she burst into tears, which, of course, made Chris angry.

He tucked her trembling body close. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

“Be gone, son of Lucifer. You shall not marry my daughter.”

“Says who? You? In case you hadn’t noticed, dude, you’re a disembodied ghost. You can’t do or say shit.”

“I gave my life that she might avoid the fate you would drag her into.”

“I’d say that’s her choice.”

“I am her father, and I forbid it.” The hovering body lunged at Chris, a man in his prime, fierce of expression, a father ready to kill.

The spirit stalked toward them—or would the correct term be ghost-walked?—his face thunderous.

Isobel threw herself in front of him. “Father, stop. Chris isn’t bad like you think. He’s good. I swear.”

Good? He made a face. Chris considered himself many things, but that wasn’t one of them.

The ghost of her father spoke, the words carrying their own chill breeze, the kind to pimple skin. “He’s the son of that harridan and demon. He must not be allowed to live.”

“But I don’t want to lose him.”

“Make a choice, then, my sweet Isobel, because we can’t both live. I would rather die permanently and forsake my soul to perdition, cementing the last seal, than set in motion the future I see for you.” A sacrifice for love, the strongest magic that existed.

“What if I promised to not destroy the world?” The words slipped unexpectedly from his lips.

“What?” The exclamation emerged from a few mouths, even one not physically present.

“You heard me. What if I said I didn’t want to rule the world or start Armageddon? The more I’ve thought about it, the more I gotta say it sounds like a shit-ton more work and hassle than I’d like. Then there’s the fact that I’m kind of in love with your daughter. If giving up this whole prophecy for the Antichrist thing keeps her safe, then”—Chris shrugged—“maybe it’s for the best.”

“You would deny your destiny?” Incredulity marked the query.

“No, I’m thinking it’s time I created my own destiny. One that doesn’t involve mass murder and shit. One where Isobel is safe. Which is what we both want.”

“You lie!” The ghost reared up, swelling in size, and a magical ball formed in its hand, full of crackling lightning and swirling smoke. It didn’t look very healthy.

“How about if I swear?”

Isobel’s father paused, magic ball bobbing above his hand. “Swear on your life that you will not start the apocalypse.”

“I won’t, but can’t be held responsible if others do.” Chris couldn’t forget about the horsemen and his mother working against—or was that with—him.

“As part of the pact, you’ll kill the body on the altar.”

“No!” Isobel screeched. “I forbid it.”

The ghostly expression softened. “You are too soft. This is why I did what I had to. If your grandfather had acted sooner, we wouldn’t even be discussing it.”

“You’ve already done enough. I can’t…I just can’t…” She sobbed.

Chris hugged her close. “She’s right. Killing you is wrong. Surely there’s another way. Give us a chance to look.”

“There is no other way. You can’t allow her to escape.” The ghost bristled, his form swelling and shrinking with agitation.

“Who? Who is it, Papa? Who is Chris’s mother?”

The ghost clamped his mouth shut. “I cannot tell. To speak her name is to give her power. But if you promise to leave this place and never return, then I will agree to let you marry this”—cue a disdainful gaze and sneer— “boy, so long as he promises to abandon his fantasy of ruling the world.”

Chris put a hand on his heart. “I swear that so long as you’re bound to that final seal, I will not lift a finger.” Unless it was to drink a beer. Then all promises were off.

And since he was a liar… Over Isobel’s head, he exchanged an understanding look with her father, one that stated he knew what had to be done.

“Then I give you my blessing. And now must say farewell. I’ve been gone much too long from my post.”

The ghost began to fade, and Isobel reached out to him, hands grasping, crying, “Papa! No. Please.”

Chris exchanged a glance with Rasputin over her blonde head. The grief in her wouldn’t allow her to keep any promises made. She loved her father too much.

With a snap of his fingers, Rasputin sent her into a deep sleep.

Chris cradled her in his arms, holding her close, somewhat overwhelmed by the promise he’d made.

I gave up the future I always dreamed of for her.

But looking down into her face, he didn’t regret it.

“What are we going to do?” he asked the old wizard.

“Nothing, just as her father asked.”

“Isobel won’t let this rest.”

“Which is why, when she awakens, she won’t remember this. She’ll only recall finding an empty crypt and being disappointed that Madame Laveau lied.”

“Are you going to destroy him as he asked?”

Rasputin sighed and shook his head. “I know I should, but I can’t.”

A low whine from Goshen helped Chris understand why in a moment of clarity. “Because what if he’s wrong, and killing him is the key that opens the door?”

At the statement, they both stared long and hard at the body.

---

When they left, neither noticed the ghost peering at them from behind the stone altar or the shadow sitting in a corner.

As the humans, and not so human, filed out of the tomb, Goshen remained behind. He stared at the spirit tethered to the body. Looked at the fine line of soul magic spooling from it, spiraling off into the ether and holding closed a crack.

A whisper came. “Do it. Free me. Free me, and you can have all the snacks you want.”

It would be simple. A chomp, and the line would be cut. The soul would snap back to where it belonged, two would once again become one, and the door would swing open.

Goshen took a shaggy step forward and ignored the misty figure waving his hands. Just one bite.

From outside, he faintly heard, “I can’t believe the tomb was empty. What a letdown.”

“We’ll keep looking,” said the male.

“Let’s look later. I’m hungry. Where’d Goshen go? I thought he was following us. Gooshie! Come here, boy. Who wants a steak?”

Red meat, and then probably a belly rub? He turned around and galloped up the stairs and out of the tomb, ignoring the disembodied woman who screeched, “Come back here, you filthy mutt.”

Not today. Not anymore. He now had another mistress to serve.