Most times, being a lone wolf, a single swinging guy, didn’t bother him. Chris didn’t make friends easily. Most people he met had no respect for his destiny. Those who did believe in his future as the Abomination of Desolation—wickedest title ever—usually ended up behind bars. It didn’t pay to sin on Earth, but that would change when he was in charge.

In the meantime, he tended to be a loner, which meant Chris had no friends he could really call to ask for help. Then again, how did that conversation work?

“Yeah, so some ghosts kidnapped my girlfriend while we were fighting an army of the undead at the museum.”

Who the fuck would believe that?

The reality of what happened meant he couldn’t even call the cops. Then again, how would a missing person’s report work if he only had her first name? Because, yeah, he might know how her lips felt and how she smelled, but he’d yet to find out her last name.

The world conspired against him.

It made him mad.

So mad that he didn’t stop for the cops arriving on the scene who dared to ask him his business.

“You aren’t worthy to speak to me,” he shouted. “Go away.”

And they did. Had he been less pissed, he might have enjoyed watching them scurry from him, lowly beings that weren’t worthy of being in his presence.

Their departure gave him a clear path out of the chaos, but where should he go? He didn’t have the first clue who had taken Isobel. Obviously, some badass magic dude. Probably the bloody necromancer they were looking for.

He attacked and won. It burned Chris to know he’d been bested.

What good was being the Antichrist and having some power if he couldn’t keep Isobel safe?

Much as it galled him to admit, he needed help. Not the kind that came from the Internet, where a Google search for the best pizza came with all kinds of results. Nor the kind of help found at the bottom of a bottle.

I need real help from someone who knows about magic shit. Only one person fit that bill.

He bypassed all the bars and their sweet, tempting calls—Come in and drink. Forget all your worries. A siren song he ignored. For once in his life, he wouldn’t let distraction sway him from his path. Isobel needed him.

The cab he took cost more than he liked but soon disgorged him in front of Madame Sauvage’s shop. A shop with the sign turned to Closed.

Oh, hell no. How dare she play with him. She knew he was coming. Her power would have told her, and yet, she’d purposely switched the sign.

How. Fucking. Dare. She.

I am the Prince That Shall Come. The Son of Perdition. You will not turn me aside.

Glaring at the door had the most interesting effect. It didn’t explode into splinters of wood and shards of glass—which would have been totally cool—but it did suddenly open, the bells above the jamb silent for once. He stepped inside the shadowy space, immediately confronted by cigarette smoke. The haze and dim lighting didn’t hide the tip of the cancer stick or the creased and displeased features of Madame.

She crushed the cigarette. “I’m closed.”

“Not anymore,” he retorted.

“You can’t just barge in whenever you please. That door was locked for a reason,” she said in a raspy voice.

“I want answers.”

“And like I already said, I’m closed.”

He slammed his hands on the table, causing some business-sized cards on it to slide around. “I say you’re not.”

“You don’t have the power to tell me what to do.” The disdain dripped thickly. “You are not the first boy to think he’s more important than he is. You won’t be the last.”

“Boy? I am more than a boy, fortuneteller. I am the Son of Perdition. The King of Fierce Countenance.”

“You are nothing. Look at you. Dressed no better than a bum. Demanding respect. Respect is earned.” A sneer curled her lip as she pulled a fresh cigarette from her pack.

“Not so long ago, you believed in who I was.” Something had changed.

“The portents are cloudy. The paths many. The true son of the Fallen Angel shall battle for the right to rule the Underworld.”

“I am that son.”

“Then you are a disappointment.”

The words, echoing what he’d often wondered himself, tipped something inside him. Roused a rage that would not calm down.

A part of him understood some people would hate him on principle, that others would stand in his path. Some might even mock him.

But that didn’t mean he had to accept it.

I will have respect.

He gripped the table and tossed it to the side. Flung it as if it weighed nothing. The crystal ball resting atop it flew and hit the wall.

Crash.

Crystal shards rained down, and he found it interesting to note there were no wires or circuitry inside. The lights within it came from another source.

Madame didn’t seem impressed. “Bully.” She sucked on her cigarette and blew smoke.

The problem with having a tantrum that no one paid attention to was, what did you do to escalate it? If destruction didn’t work, then what next? Had he reached the point where he’d lay hands on an old woman and demand answers?

Taking in a breath, feeling the smoke in it filling his lungs, he reminded himself that violence wasn’t always the answer.

He sat down on the chair across from Madame. “I came to you for help. Why are you acting like this?”

“You stormed into my shop and demanded. I don’t do demands.”

“What if I asked you for answers? Please. Tell me what’s going on.” Pleading felt vile, and he wanted to punch himself for the weakness. Then he wanted to punch her for mocking him.

“The weather is lovely for this time of the year. Lots of sunshine.”

A growl rumbled from him. “You’re intentionally pissing me off. Not a good idea. You don’t want to push me.”

She perused him without any sign of respect. “Or what? You’ll come barging into my place of business, make threats, destroy my things? I owe you nothing.”

“You’re a seer. I want you to see.”

“But you don’t want to listen. I know why you’re here. You’re here to ask about the girl. The one that I specifically told you wasn’t for you.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” No point in asking how she knew. Madame always knew.

“Well, you should, because if you want the future preordained—”

“What if I don’t want to be the Antichrist and the Son of Perdition?”

“—then… What?” Madame blinked at him, eyes heavily creased in lines, looking more astonished than he’d ever seen.

“I said what if I want to change my future? Did it ever occur to anybody that I’m not interested in ruling mankind? Dealing with all kinds of bitching and moaning people. Getting up to work every single day. Doesn’t sound like fun at all.”

“You can’t just refuse.”

“Why not? You said yourself I might not be the true heir.”

“I said that so you’d finally act. Laziness is your biggest enemy.”

“I thought laziness was a sin. And isn’t sinning what I’m supposed to do?” He offered her a grin and loved how pinched her face grew.

“Your kind of inaction will lead to failure in achieving dominion over mankind. It’s why you must act.”

“And I say let mankind rule themselves.”

She sputtered. “No. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. Ruling the masses is why you were born. Ensuring you grew into your power was why you were hidden.”

He seized on a word. “Hidden? Aha! You know who my true parents are.”

“Of course I do. You’re the son of Satan.”

“And?”

She held his gaze, steady and unblinking. “Your mother was Clarice. May Hell cherish her soul. I heard about her passing.”

Said with a straight face, but he heard the lie. “Clarice wasn’t my mother.”

“Don’t be silly.” The high-pitched laugh emerged as false as the lie she tried to feed him.

“Tell me the truth.”

“The truth isn’t important.”

“To you maybe. But I’m finding it’s not enough for me. Who is my mother?”

“Not someone you should be calling, boy. Trust me when I say there are things you are better off not knowing. Your mom, your true mother, is one of them.”

“How bad can it be?”

“Worse than anything you can imagine.”

No mistaking the fear on Madame’s face. Who could instill that kind of fear? There was no one worse than Lucifer, surely?

“Fucking secrets,” he growled. “I’m so tired of them.”

“You say you hate the secrets, and yet you want the girl.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Do you know who she is?”

I know she’s perfect. He didn’t think that was the correct answer, though. “I know enough. I need to find her.”

“Perhaps she should remain lost.”

“And perhaps you should stop dicking me around. I’m not in the mood to fucking deal with this runaround bullshit anymore. Tell me where she is. Now.” The power, the new force he’d discovered inside, shot from him; he could almost see it.

“The card will take you to her.” Spoken almost robotically.

“What fucking card?” There were quite a few on the floor. He scooped up a few and shoved them into his pocket. He then sighed as he looked at Madame. No longer did disdain curl her lip.

“You’ve found the path to some of your powers,” she stated.

“I did. No thanks to you.”

“You must show care in how you use them. Through them, she can find you.”

“Who is this she? Are you talking about my real mother?”

“You have to leave. Now. Before she finds you. You must—” As if abruptly cut off, Madame stopped speaking.

“I must what?”

Except it seemed she’d fallen into one of her trances. Madame’s head snapped back, her eyes rolled, showing the whites and then bleeding black, which never boded well in the movies. She thrashed her head from side to side, a low moan escaping from her lips. The lightbulb overhead brightened then shattered, and he had just enough time to duck his face and cover it with his arm.

The room plunged into darkness, and his skin prickled.

Not with fear.

Not with trepidation.

Anticipation fueled him, and when he uncovered his features, he noted that a strange illumination lit the room, as if the shadows themselves carried motes of light, mauve and green, ducking and swirling, swept around on an invisible wind that didn’t touch him.

The colored specks coalesced and spun, faster and faster, surrounding Madame, who remained still with her chin tilted upward.

This was a new trick. Usually, Madame didn’t resort to so many theatrics when doing a reading.

With an audible creak, her head snapped, and she faced him, eyes covered in a black sheen, her features more pallid than usual even under the caked makeup.

Freaky looking, but Chris didn’t recoil. Rather, he leaned forward and said, “Mother?”

“Aaaaah.” A low moan escaped Madame, a moan that transitioned into a hum. She opened her mouth, and a cloud of bugs flew out, things with dark bodies, shadowy wings, and an angry buzz. Again, never a good sign in the movies, but he didn’t flinch, especially once he realized they wouldn’t come near him. They flew up and away, to where he didn’t care because Madame finally spoke.

“My ssson.” The words emerged on a sibilant hiss.

“Are you my real mother?”

“So long have I searched. The flesh of my flesh. Hidden from me by my enemies.”

“What enemies?

“All of creation thinks to keep me imprisoned. To keep me from my son. But I am coming. I’ve found a way. And I am coming for you…”

Now that did send a shiver through him because he doubted she was coming for a happy reunion. “Who are you?”

“The end of everything. The anathema to life. And you shall be the vessel of my vengeance.”

“How about we meet first and get to know each other before we make any decisions?” Because more and more he began to think there was a good reason to keep hidden from the entity speaking from Madame’s body.

“You belong to me!” The words boomed, and he could feel the hair on his body stand.

But he didn’t cower. He had balls, big fucking balls, and he snapped back, “I belong to no one but myself, lady. So cool it, or you’re not getting shit for Christmas or Mother’s Day.”

“Arrrgh.” The low-pitched scream grew in tenor, and Madame began to convulse in the chair. The tiny body with its voluminous layers rose to the ceiling and hovered for a moment before beginning to spin.

Ever get a bad feeling at a party? You know the kind that said to get your ass out of there before the cops raided? Multiply that feeling and you still wouldn’t come close to what he felt.

Self-preservation had him diving for the door, and Chris flung it open to throw himself outside.

Just in time.

A body exploding made more noise than expected—it kind of reminded him of the boom when he’d exploded that egg in the microwave. It also sounded rather wet and proved somewhat messy he noticed when he rose from the sidewalk, brushing off the chunks that had managed to make it out the door.

Gross. And all over his favorite coat, too.

Unbothered by death, he dared a peek inside.

Guts and gristle everywhere. Poor Madame. But on the flip side, she’d led a long life.

It’s my fault she’s dead.

Yes, but Madame had known what to expect when she signed on to advise the future King of Babylon. If her soul made it back to him someday, he’d ensure she got rewarded.

Farewell, Madame.

He shut the door, wiped the handle clean of prints, and walked away, trying to look casual, or as casual as he could manage given that spatters of blood covered his back.

For a while, he wandered aimlessly, at a loss for what to do next. His life, the one he’d lamented not that long ago as being boring, had taken a nosedive into the surreal—and exciting.

The doubt about who he was remained, yet at least now he had some kind of confirmation that he was the son of someone powerful.

And deadly.

With Madame and Clarice gone, he had no one to talk to about it, no one to turn to but…Isobel.

She listened to him. She believed he was someone.

Poor Isobel was also still missing.

Yet, hadn’t Madame said the card would take him to her? He dug into his pocket and pulled out the handful he’d saved. Dry Cleaning for robes—specializing in the removal of blood stains.

Tossed it.

Another card for an apothecary—dried eyeballs for your spells. Open twenty-four hours.

Also ditched.

Then he saw it. A card made of thick black cardboard, etched in silver that read, Welcome to Wicked Incorporated, where the insults are always free.

And look who ran the company, one Evangeline Rasputin. Not exactly a common name.

Chris didn’t believe in coincidences, but he did believe in fate, which was why he rang up the number, and when a familiar brusque voice replied, “What do you want?” there was only one thing to say.

“Where’s your fucking sister?”