Chapter Text
“BLITZY!”
“Ah, sh*t.”
Stolas appears at IMP office, not in full demon form, but clearly clearly pissed as a wad of hornets in a milk jar. “Can someone please explain to me why my grimoire continues to get stolen!?”
Blitzø waves his hand, as if this happens every day. “It was a group of sinners who wanted to go above world to save their friend.”
“So, what? You lost it in the human world?”
“No! We didn’t go! We told them no, we kicked them out.”
Stolas stares at Blitzø. “Why?”
“We are assassins. Not superheroes.”
“So, when you sent them away, they stole the grimoire.”
“A..yep.”
“How many times will this happen until you begin to properly store the magical f*cking Goetian artifact I have illegally lent you--” Stolas’s feathers ripple as he attempts to calm himself.
Blitzø bristles, his spines forking, “Do you think I have a zillion body guards surrounding it at all times?!”
“You should have some protection--”
“Well if someone taught me how to use it--”
“You never want to come over outside of the full moon! When the f*ck would I have a moment to do such a thing!”
“That was YOUR idea, Stolas! Your deal. Don’t blame this on me by using your pretend play dates as an excuse--”
Stolas shrieks, feathers popping, “Pretend?! Are you f*cking serious?!”
The door bangs open and both Millie and Moxie leap toward the quarreling couple, plucking each of them by the ears and dragging them aside. “Ow f*ck Mox!” Blitzø yowls as Moxxie pulls him to the left.
Millie drags a flapping Stolas to the right as he chirps, “Oh--dear will you please desist!”
Millie plops Stolas into a chair far away from where Moxxie tosses Blitzø and both of the imps fold their arms like disappointed parents.
“Okay,” Millie frowns at them, “you two need to quit bickering and go fetch that book.”
“But--”
“But--”
Millie silences them with a speared glare. “I don't wanna hear another word from yall. Yaint gettin nothin done by bitchin at each other. Now, we would go ourselves but Mox and I have been planning our sex scavenger hunt for months!” her tail flicks angrily.
“Months!” Moxxie adds with an overt gesture.
“And I swear to heaven if we have to cancel, I am gonna be so goddamn pissed off, I’ll cut off a piece of your dick for every org*sm I miss out on,” Millie swings to point at Blitzø.
Stolas and Blitzo share a sweaty look. They spend zero seconds reaching a silent agreement--they’re going to earth and retrieving the grimoire. Millie nods, horns bobbing.
“That’s what I thought.”
Before Angel can summon the energy to peel his eyes open, he hears rustling across the cabin. Clinking of dishes, grinding of stone over something wet, the scraping sound making him wince.
“Who…” his voice is thick and feels full of cotton. When he finally blinks the dark splotches from his vision, he sees a woman--sleek long hair falling down her back. Feet bare and stained brown with aged grime. Her calloused hands hold a pestle over herbs, grinding them with lean muscles under glowing skin.
He tries to swallow through the desert of his mouth and attempts again, “Who?”
Her head cranes around and her gold flecked eyes lock on him. “Hm, you are still human.”
“What??”
She turns back to her brew. “You should be pigs.”
“Rude,” Angel coughs and looks around. He sees that he’s been roped to an oak table--nailed to the floor. Husk and Alastor are as well. Husk is close enough to nudge awake and he kicks at him with a raspy alert.
Husk grunts and opens bleary eyes.
“Tha..f*ckg…” His throat sounds like sandpaper.
”You must be very different from the men who normally come to take from me.” The woman says, her tone not quite casual, but not quite firm. She picks up two clay bowls and brings them to her new prisoners, her dress slinking over the worn planks as she kneels before them “Drink.” She offers them a thick cream colored liquid that looks like paint.
Angel’s lips curl, neck bending back. “f*ck no.”
She doesn’t respond, merely sets the bowls on the floor before them.
Her golden eyes bore into Angel’s and she inches closer, studying him with an ancient wisdom.
Angel’s heart picks up speed as her lithe fingers reach out, cupping his smooth cheek, her touch gentle as her eyes fall from studious to commiserative.
“You have suffered a cruel fate.”
Angel’s teeth saw. “You don’t know sh*t.”
“You are like me. You have felt the unwanted touch of a man.”
“I’m feelin’ unwanted touch right now, bitch!” he wrenches back, breaking from her grasp, “Get the f*ck away from me!”
“Alright.” She rises, grace carved in every bend of her body.
Angel wrings his arms, attempting to free himself but the ropes are twisted tight. He looks at Alastor who is still slumped into his chest, unconscious, breaths heaving through his ribs in deep strains.
“Alastor! Wake up!”
“Your friend is ill,” Circe says from the kitchen.
“Yeah, because you f*cked him up!”
Her lips press together but she doesn’t respond. Only returns to her herbs. Angel peers into the bowl of weird soup and swallows. “What are you gonna do with us?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether or not you eat.”
Husk snorts. “And if we don't?”
She shrugs. The men stare at the clay bowls, considering. Husk growls. “Is it magic?”
She bears down those eyes on him but Husk doesn’t flinch. “No.”
“Fine. Release us and we’ll eat. We don’t have weapons.”
“Men don’t need weapons to dishonor women.”
“Well then turn us into those pigs and eat us or whatever!” Angel snarls, anger pitching.
The woman’s head tilts as if she really is considering that option. Angel’s eyes narrow, daring her, but a huff slings from her cheeks and she finally smiles.
“I like you.”
She approaches Husk, however, kneeling to untie him. The ropes creak and he lurches forward to massage his wrists with a grunt.
“Now, eat.” She rises and leaves him to it.
Husk looks at Angel, “What about him?”
Again, the woman chooses not to answer. Fine. Husk figures he’s as good as anyone else to test the food. If anyone’s going to get f*cked up it might as well be him.
He sits with the bowl and starts sipping. Oddly, it tastes like spring. Spring shouldn’t have a flavor, and he can’t describe it with any other food he’s had before.
“What gods do you worship?” the woman asks.
Husk chortles. “It’s a little late for us to worship God.”
She raises her eyebrow.
“Who…are you?” Angel asks.
The woman reclines against her untidy counter, palms bracing against the sides still giving them that inquisitive look. “I am Circe. Daughter of Helios--witch of Aeaea.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”
“So we’re on…Aeaea?” Husk asks.
“No.”
“Then why’dya say that??” Angel kicks at the air.
“It is polite to give your names now,” Circe says.
“Husker.”
“Angel Dust.”
The glow of her eyes intensifies. “Your real names.”
“Well, you ain’t gettin those.”
“Mmm. I see.” She separates herself from the counter and approaches the still sleeping Radio Demon. “And him?”
“That’s--”
Alastor chooses that exact moment to wake, his spine jutting ramrod straight as he gasps for air as if breaking water. His chest inflates and he hisses in pain. His face crimps with it, shoulder shaking as he folds back into himself and jackknifes into a throat grinding sneeze.
“Jesus.”
“f*ck.”
Circe hums and turns back to observe the grimoire as Alastor gulps lungfulls of agonizing air. “That is unfortunate…”
Angel snarls, teeth gnashing. “He’s hurt and sick! Did you hear that sneeze!?”
“An omen.”
“A what?!” Angel squeaks. She is way too apathetic about this!
“A sneeze once prophesied the slaughter of a dozen men by one of my previous lovers.”
“Are you for real?” Angel whirls to face Husk, his body twisting against the confines of the ropes, “Is she for real?”
Husk’s face is drawn, attempting to mask how f*cked he thinks they might be. “I think we should assume everything she says…is for real.”
“Hah!” Angel barks the laugh but it reeks of mania.
Husk approaches Alastor who looks much worse for wear than either of the other two. Dark circles under his eyes, lips dry and parched, his right arm primed with a yellowish tinge.
“Boss?”
“You don’t have to call me boss, as I do not own your soul here.”
Husk blinks at him. This…this was not how he expected Alastor to react to losing the power he had over Husker.
“I…” Husk swallows. “I’m gonna untie you.”
“That would be much appreciated.”
He works the ropes until Alastor’s arms are released. He lets out a heavily restrained noise, half grunt, half gasp, before losing himself to the floor again. Husk dives for him and Angel feels the icy poison of rage pumping through him.
“You hurt him!” he lashes at the ropes, snapping his teeth at Circe as if he still had fangs. “You f*cken bitch! I’ll tear your ears off--”
“Ah, now, there’s the rage I expected from you,” she says cooly.
“You don’t know rage yet you c--”
Circe hums. “Your friend is fine,” she says as Husk helps Alastor back to a sitting position. “My magic healed the bulk of his wounds. So…what is it mortals are saying now? ‘Chill’? Or is that colloquialism ancient too?”
“Shut the f*ck up!” Angel continues to flail against the bonds, but all it does is give his wrists rug burn. Nothing he hasn’t experienced before. It doesn’t stop him. “You don’t know him like I do! Whatever you did, he’s--”
“Angel.” Alastor’s measured voice silences the younger sinner much more than a yell ever could have. “Your concern is appreciated. But the lady is right.” Alastor pushes himself up and forces a strained smile back onto his face. “I am perfectly fine.”
Emotions flash across Angel’s face like a silent movie, but he calms enough to still. “Fine.” His teeth scissor shut. “Let me go then.”
“I will release you once your temper has cooled.”
“Why?”
Circe lifts her brow at the question. “I do not trust you.”
“No, why did you heal him?” Angel asks.
Husk looks impressed. “That’s a damn good question.”
Circe flicks her wrist at Alastor, “Your heart speed was dangerously high while you were unconscious. I feared for your life and,” her gesture turns toward the book on the table, “I want answers about that.” Their eyes follow hers as she continues. “Do you know what you have brought to my home?”
“Lady, we didn’t even know this was a home," Husk says. "You might wanna put a sign up or something.”
“I enchant this place to look abandoned to deter visitors.”
“And that worked out real well for ya.” Angel snorts.
Alastor reaches for the grimoire but Circe’s extended arm blocks him quick. He gazes up above his glasses, politely as he can.
“Madam, I need the book.”
“The magic in that book is meant to be used by a being far more powerful than you. It will make you body deteriorate faster than it already is.”
“You seem to be under the impression that I am powerless in this form. I assure you, that is a mistake.”
“Is it, follower of Artemis?”
Alastor inspects her tone, unsure if she is taunting him or praising him. “I believe we have our wires crossed, madam.”
“Be it so. Ordinarily, I do not appreciate men encroaching onto my property. But you are no ordinary men.”
Alastor’s neck cricks as he co*cks his head, “And you are no ordinary woman.”
“No.” Her voice is honey and vinegar. “I am not.”
“We came across you by mistake. We are not here to harm you.”
“Is that so? You did not intend to bring demonic forces to my doorstep?”
Angel stiffens. “They’re here?? Already??”
Circe turns to him. “You know these forces.”
“Yeah,” Husk says. “We know ‘em.”
“I assume you require sanctuary?”
“I…we…what?”
“Sanctuary. Is that not why you are here?”
“Listen, toots, we just wanted a place to crash. We’re here to save our friend. She's in danger.”
“So you are heroes on a quest.” She cups her chin in her palm. “And you do not seem to have ulterior motives for rescuing her.”
“What the f*ck does that mean?” Angel says.
Circe waves her hand as if parting fog, “Presumptions. I often find my thoughts muddied in ancient stories. Time moves and I remain…stagnant.”
“So…does that mean you’ll help us?”
She heaves a breath. “Perhaps. You have piqued my interest. And I have grown dreadfully bored in my solace. And,” her eyes flick to Angel, “I quite like the blond one.”
Angel’s lips pop open and shut like a goldfish. “Who? Me??”
Husk laughs, “Yeah you, twiggy.”
A sound has Circe snapping to attention, her head jerking toward a window. She lifts a hand and whispers, “Be still. They come.”
At the prow of the deteriorating lawn, Blitzø and Stolas hesitate. A woman approaches them in a long silky dress, walking barefoot along the dead sheafs of grass.
“f*ck, it’s a human.” Blitzø begins to pull out a weapon, but a firm grip on his shoulder halts him.
“No,” Stolas says. “It isn’t.”
Blitzø blinks back toward the woman striding toward them. He notices her footprints leave glowing pools of light in her wake.
Stolas browses the strange aura of the hut, the cruddy lawn and the baked ground. “This entire area is covered in a veil. It is disguised. But I see it as it truly is.”
“And what is she?”
Stolas’s throat constricts, nerves sparking. “I…am not sure.” He wipes away his apprehension and they straighten, Blitzø tugging at his hood, Stolas brushing a hand over his human hair just as the woman reaches them.
“May I help you?” her voice reverberates somehow in their ears and their minds.
“Yeah,” Blitzø sniffs, his fangs flashing, “You can step the f*ck aside and--”
Stolas swings his arm out, barring him from the woman. The imp jerks his head up to see stars oscillating in his pupils, basking in the glow now emanating from the lady. It makes Blitzø fall uncharacteristically silent.
Stolas lifts his chin a fraction of an inch, “Is this your home, madam?”
“It is.”
Stolas bows, “Most sincere apologies. We were tracking an artifact that was stolen from us. Our spell led us here.”
“I see.” Yet she makes no move to allow them further.
“Well,” Blitzø flicks his tail impatiently. “Can we have it back?”
Her gaze drops to him. “And you are?”
“Pissed off.”
Stolas clears his throat. “Excuse my associate. We are quite anxious to return the artifact. It does not belong in this realm.”
She nods, “I am inclined to agree.” She opens her arm, suddenly offering a welcoming gesture, “Please, come. Eat and rest. Then you may take your treasure and be on your way.”
Blitzø snorts. “It took us like eight seconds to get here. I’m still digesting half of my Mamonalds meal. Not sittin well to be honest,” he pats his stomach under the cloak.
The woman’s lips press firmly. She circles them both, inspecting. Blitzø tugs his hood to hide his horns but her eyes flash. “I have not seen many satyrs like you, sir.”
“Satyrs?”
“Your horns are strange--and you lack fur.”
“Because I shave. I’m classy like that.” He delivers a sly wink to Stolas who swallows a hot flush.
“Madam,” Stolas opens his hand, “May I inquire? Who are you?”
“I am Circe, daughter of Helios.”
Blitzø snickers, “Oh is that the guy who made those rolly shoes?”
“Come,” Circe says, ignoring his snipe, “you look weary from your journey.”
“Yeah, you said that earlier lad--hey!”
Blitzø lets out a curse when Circe lowers herself near his hips, arm brushing near the slit of his robes. “What the hell are you--wrhg?!” he lets out an incandescent yawp. “Hey! You just groped me! She just groped my ass!” He throws an accusatory finger at the shining woman as she rises to stand before them.
Stolas places a hand on Blitzo’s shoulder, “Madam, I must insist. We have just arrived. We do not hunger nor are we weary. We will claim that artifact. Whether you help us or not, that choice is yours. If you would like to inform the sin--the guests you have of our arrival, you may do so. But we will be taking action very soon.”
Circe nods. “As you wish.” She turns to leave and Stolas forces himself not to shiver with nerves.
Blitzø turns to him, anger setting fireworks into his vision. “Stolas what the f*ck?” He pauses when he sees the look on Stolas’s face. “Wait…is she really that powerful?”
Stolas inhales. “She…” What should he say? She’s celestial, he knows that. His truesight can’t define her though and that makes him nervous. He feels Blitzø’s hand on his, a tiny bud of pressure squeezing.
“Stolas?”
He can’t know I’m scared. If not power then what do I have to offer him?
He gives a forced smile of comfort and pats Blitzø’s hand. “We'll be fine, of course. Not to worry.”
The sinners await as Circe reenters the cabin and begins rustling through belongings, seemingly nervous--seemingly.
“Arm yourselves,” she says. “Use whatever you have at your disposal. If you perish…”
Circe presses the flat of her palm over the spine of a board and it flips to reveal a small steel blade.
Angel gaffs, “With knives? You know what guns are, right?”
“Would you prefer bullets or magic?”
Alastor picks up the grimoire from the table and flicks through the pages, teeth brushing against his thumb as he considers each spell.
“Alastor,” Husk approaches the Radio Demon, “If we die here, what happens to us?”
“We’re already dead, Husker. Likely we will simply return to hell, where we belong. But I am not certain the grimoire will follow us.”
“Rgh, Right. Okay. And Niffty?”
“Whatever fate she is suffering, I doubt she was summoned just to be sent back.”
Angel whirls the blade in his palm, grin winking. “Let’s kick some ass then.”
Circe leads them out of the cottage. Stolas and Blitzø stand on the other side of the lawn, peering toward her. Circe lifts her chin and calls out to them.
“I do not recommend a brawl on these grounds. It will end poorly.”
“YEAH! FOR YOU!” Blitzø waves for Stolas to back him up. “DEMONS. NOW!”
Circe lifts her hands in surrender. “Very well. They are here.” She moves aside from the cottage. As she does, the area she passes changes, dilapidation fading away and revealing flora encircling the cottage. Gardens vibrant, catered, and cared for, animals snuffling inside their once empty deserted pens. The muted cottage wipes clean, repaired windows gleaming. And on the porch, the human forms of the three sinners who stole--
“My grimoire?!” Stolas screeches, eyes blazing bright when he sees Alastor spreading the tattered pages of his precious book. “How dare you!”
Husk and Angel move in front of the Radio Demon, holding small blades and Blitzø coughs up a withering laugh.
“Swords? Seriously? You literally brought a knife to a gunfight?” His wicked grin makes his eyes shimmer with gleeful malice as he aims right between the blonde’s eyes. “Enjoy your ride back to hell, assholes!” His finger squeezes the trigger and it clicks.
Angel feels the cool ice of adrenaline as the nozzle flashes, waiting for his swift demise. But instead of a bullet zinging out of the barrel, a yellow bud shoots out of the muzzle, blooming into buttery petals to fan out over the metal.
Blitzø’s eyes bulge, his heart pitching to beat in his throat. “What!?”
“Blitz!” Stolas surges forward, inky feathers coating his body as he blocks the incoming attack from the sinners. Angel’s blade rebounds off of the hardened shell of his magic and Stolas shoves into him, wrestling him to the ground, letting out an unbridled caw.
Blitzø tries the trigger two more times before cursing and chucking the useless weapon. He pulls out a curved dagger and wades into melee combat. He targets Husk, who was ready for him. The knife came from the left and Husk delivered three well-timed chops to disarm Blitzø before sweeping him onto the ground.
Husk pins Blitzø at the same time Stolas pins Angel Dust.
Both of them held to the floor by stronger opponents, their throats yawn with twin moans.
“Oh yeah!” Blitz and Angel holler. “Harder Daddy!”
Both Stolas and Husk freeze over their enemies and all four of them share an equally ‘what the celestial f*ck’ expression.
“Did you just--”
“Well,” Alastor ambles down the porch steps, “As entertaining as this cat fight was, I believe we have a job to do.”
All four of Stolas’s eyes narrow at him, cheek chittering. Alastor fingers one of the grimoire pages, plucking at it as if he were going to turn to the next chapter. “We need you both to leave now.” With a gut punching RIP, he tears the page out of the book and squeezes it in his fist.
The noise Stolas makes upon seeing this has everyone else pressing their ears shut and grimacing. In an instant Stolas is in the air, black wings dripping with power. Alastor fists the page and emerald fire consumes it, wreathing his arm. He arcs the magic toward the charging owl. His teeth clench, his dimples thicken painfully with his manic smirk as the flames make his eyes dance.
Something squeezes his ankles. His gaze flicks just before he’s wrenched down to his knees, the flame extinguishing like a snuffed candle. Stolas’s body hits the ground closeby, sending a cloud of dust into the air. His owl form is bound by the same foliage that wrapped around Alastor’s legs--the same foliage now imprisoning Blitzø, Angel, and Husk not far away.
The demons all writhe on the ground, grunting and cursing, while Circe wades between them, feet caked in dried dirt and flakes of grass. She bends low enough to speak to Stolas.
“I did hope you would be reasonable. You seemed level headed when we spoke. A shame.”
“I beg your pardon--”
She moves to pick up the grimoire and pats Alastor on the head, ignoring his snarl before continuing to Husk. She drops the book in front of him and snaps her fingers so his bonds wilt and fall away. “You are clearly the least unhinged of these people, so I put this artifact in your charge.”
Husk looks gobsmacked. “W- you let us fight just to..to test us??”
Circe shrugs. “It’s what we do.”
“f*ck that!” he kicks the book and Stolas lets out a squawk. “I don’t want it.”
“Then give it to whomever you choose. Either way, the results will be your responsibility.”
Husk’s eyes widen. He looks from Alastor’s envious eyes to Stolas’s indignant ones. Then to Blitzø and Angel who are looking at each other as if trying to read one another’s minds.
He looks back at Circe, fists shaking. “No. Please, no.”
“You are no stranger to power, young one.”
“I am not young.”
“Alright.”
He glares up at her and her face is unreadable. He can’t tell if she’s patronizing him or letting him have his moment out of respect. Husk heaves a sigh and bends to pick up the book. “Fine.” He turns to stomp inside, “I need a drink. Now.”
Circe’s house is packed full but it’s oddly spacious even with the six of them sharing it. Alastor chooses to sit at the table again, his glazed eyes roaming the kitchen cabinets.
Blitzø and Stolas fill glasses with water at the sink and Blitzø takes a gulp, giving Alastor a snarky wink. “How’d my Goetia dick measure up to your shadow puppets, asshole?”
Angel hears this and scoffs, “Big talk for someone shootin’ blanks.”
Blitzø’s voice cracks, “Hey! My dad circumcised me! I didn’t have a choice!”
“That’s not what that means, moron!”
Stolas tugs Blitzø’s arm, “Blitzy, can we talk?”
“Eh? Yeah fine, whatever.” They wander into another room and shut the door between themselves and the sinners.
Blitzø flops onto a bed with pillows and sheets the color of sand, and walls decorated with a variety of shells. “I bet that demon woulda kicked your ass, Stols.”
“That’s not funny, Blitz.”
“It’s pretty funny to me.”
Stolas’s chest constricts, “Why? Why is it funny? Do you want to see me suffer?”
Blitzø scoffs, lazily flicking his claw against a glass lamp, “Don’t be stupid. Don’t make me the f*cking bad guy, Stols. That’s not what I mean.”
Stolas folds his arms. “I don’t know what you mean, Blitz!”
Blitzø launches himself into a sitting position, face twisted with anger, “Because every time I try to tell you what I mean, you don’t…” he hesitates, words clunky in his throat. He gulps them back and lets out a small shivery laugh. “Y’know what? Nevermind. It doesn’t f*cking matter.”
Stolas throws his hands up with a clicking whine. “I can not do this right now. My grimoire is in danger and I have to get it back,” he storms toward the door, shoving out of the room before he can say the wrong f*cking thing again.
Blitzø snarls into one of the sand colored pillows and buries his face in it. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Out the door you go.
Stolas rounds the corner and sees Husk seated on the couch, sipping at a goblet. “Oh, excuse me, I…”
Husk looks up at him, “Oh, no. You’re good.” Husk sees the sheen of tears in Stolas’s eyes and his forehead wrinkles, “Are…are you good?”
Stolas lets out a shuddery breath, rubbing his arm, “Oh, it’s nothing. I..” he trickles toward the couch and Husk scooches over.
“Your boyfriend?”
Stolas squeaks, “Oh no! He’s not my--I mean, we’re not--we…I just mean, we’re not even... I’m just…Oh…” Stolas buries his face in his hands defeatedly.
Husk frowns, “What, uh, what happened?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Sounds like that’s the problem.”
“That seems presumptuous of you, person I’ve known for 2 hours.”
Husk sighs. He dips below the couch and pulls out the grimoire, making Stolas’s eyes widen. “Can you use this to find our friend? If you do, you can have it back.” Stolas reaches for it but Husk pulls back. “I’m not giving it to you unless you agree to find her.”
Stolas clicks his beak and nods. “I shall do everything in my power to find her.”
“Alright,” Husk hands it over. “The sooner the better.”
Stolas nods and he heads off somewhere else to study the book. Husk then notices Alastor is no longer sitting at the table. Instead he’s up and actively browsing Circe’s herbs and potions. Husk feels the prickle of suspicion bubbling in his gut.
He lifts off the couch and watches, just long enough to see the Radio Demon pocket something he very likely shouldn’t be stealing.
Alright. Suspicion confirmed. Husk marches over to him and while he wasn’t subtle about his approach, for some reason, Alastor doesn’t take it upon himself to dodge or outmaneuver Husk before Husk shoves the Radio Demon against the wall.
“What the f*ck, Alastor?”
“What troubles you, my friend?” the sick f*ck asks casually.
“You think I haven’t noticed your…activities?”
Alastor chuckles under his breath. “I really…really…hope you can back this up with something.”
Husk shoves harder and Alastor growls, his face grinding a grimace. “Huskerr…” he pants.
“You don’t want me treating you like my boss anymore? Well, here I am. Not your f*cking servant anymore.”
“That may..kff…be, but you still should take caution, Husker. Boss or no, I am dangerous.”
“You don’t f*cking scare me, asshole.”
Alastor’s left cheek climbs wildly, “Really now? I could remind you…” something sharp presses against Husk’s arm and his veins ice. Alastor leans closer into Husk’s ear, breath hot and taunting, the knife pressing firmly against Husk's skin. “Or would you like to do it yourself?”
Red paints Husk’s vision and before he can think, he’s disarmed Alastor and delivered a thorough punch to his gut. The knife clatters to the floor and Husk twists the taller man with a knee, hurling him to the floor. Husk stands over Alastor, rage simmering. “Don’t forget, asshole, I’m the one good at close quarters combat.”
Alastor chokes out a laugh, then kicks the side of Husk’s knee. It makes him wobble and doesn’t immediately take him down, but Alastor pulls out a strange rectangular device with metal prongs. He thrusts it at Husk and as soon as he presses a button, Husk feels a current jump through his skin.
“Eyff what the f*ck!!” he hits his knees and gasps until the prongs lift and the current stops. Husk flops onto the floor, gulping air. “What..the hell…was that?”
Alastor admires the object with a smile, “So, this world has lovely new devices. No blood involved. Weakens opponents…the opportunities…”
“Did you just piss me off to test your new--” Husk chokes on his next breath. “Where did you even…get…”
How long was he gone yesterday?
Blitzø chooses that moment to walk out of the bedroom and see the two sinners splayed across the floor panting.
“Oh, you guys f*cking?”
They both immediately push through their pain and fatigue to get the f*ck away from whatever position made Blitzø say that.
The imp laughs, slapping his knees. “We found your friend.”
Husk perks up. “You did?”
Alastor snorts. “In a matter of moments?”
Blitzø laughs “What you thought you’d find her? Using f*cked up MacGyver magic?” Blitzø leans down, smirking now that he’s on Alastor’s level. “Not. A. Chance. But we’re here now. So--boop!” Blitzø taps the Radio Demon on the nose.
Alastor growls and swats him away and stands with a grunt. “Well then, as long as you have--”
A dark shadow in the hall silences them all. Stolas appears, holding the grimoire, eyes blazing white fire. Husk and Blitzø share a ‘f*ck this’ and slink away. Alastor tilts his head as Stolas approaches, feathers fluffed.
“You ripped pages out of my grimoire??” Stolas throws his finger at Alastor’s chest.
Alastor knocks it away, undisturbed. “I wouldn’t have needed to if your associates had taken the job.”
“You do not get to use that as an excuse for destroying an unholy artifact! Do you have any idea what you have done?”
“Do you have any idea how little I care?” Alastor hums.
“I could end you right now.”
“In this realm?” Alastor’s teeth flash. “As I see it we are equally matched.”
Stolas snarls, beak shuddering as he inches closer to Alastor’s face. “Your power would rebound against my overripe balls you mother f*cki--”
“If we were in hell, I would have vicarious power you could only dream of--”
Stolas closes the distance between them, their noses touching now. “I sincerely doubt that.”
The clap of Circe’s hands startle them out of their verbal argument. “That is enough,” she announces. “You have found your maiden. Go rescue her and I will repair your book.”
Stolas tweets, “Oh really? And how do you intend to do that?”
Circe glowers at him. “It’s funny,” she draws a circle with her finger around him, “you think your pantheon is the end-all-be-all of celestial knowledge when ours predates yours.”
Stolas looks ruffled and offended but the sinners can’t help but seem pleased by her moxie.
The car zooms past buildings so fast they’re a blur of color as if painted in a rainstorm. Stolas is once again disguised and in the driver’s seat with Blitzø riding shotgun, feet propped on the dash, twirling his knife between his claws.
In the back, Alastor clutches whatever he can get his hands on, holding himself steady for deer life. “Slow the f*ck down!!” he yells, chest vibrating with tiny scoops of air.
Blitzø cranes his neck to speak to Husk, “Your friend doesn’t like car rides, huh?”
“People were not meant to go this fast,” Alastor breathes, “In such monstrous vehicles.”
Angel feels quite the opposite. His window is down, head hanging out of it as his cheeks taste the cold wind. “I dunno what you’re talkin about. This is amazing! I love the new cars today!”
“Angel! Get the f*ck back in here!” Husk hollers over the wind.
“Why? Try it Husk! It’s rtmgggjf…”
“I can’t even hear you, come on!” Husk tugs on him fruitlessly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Stolas veers suddenly and Alastor lets out a tiny whimper.
Blitzø snigg*rs, “Awww, baby scared?”
“Have you even done this before?” Alastor snaps at Stolas.
“Of course! Plenty of times!” Stolas lies.
“Is that so? Because you drive this contraption like a newborn waterfowl!”
Stolas clacks indignantly and veers on purpose this time, causing Angel to bang his head on the roof.
“Told ya,” Husk grumbles.
They stop at a two story building with lights on the second floor but completely dark on the first. Blitzø helps Stolas park and they file out, Alastor’s knees wobbling like jello.
“Are we sure this is it?”
Stolas nods. “Yes.”
Two knocks and, “No one’s answering.”
Blitzø scoffs, “Allow me.” He rears his leg back and fireman kicks the door down. “There. It’s open.”
“That’s more like--”
Alastor shoves past them. His eyes roam the first room and his breath catches when the familiar scent of blood and entrails hits them all.
“She…”
“Be silent,” Alastor rasps before pressing on.
Blitzø takes out his gun, weighing it in his palm as he creeps through the dark room. Stolas hangs back, using his true sight. Husk and Angel fan out around Alastor. As soon as they round the corner of the hallway, the carpet squishes under their shoes.
Alastor’s heart rate shoots up and he feels a wave of dizziness when they see the bodies. Humans splayed out along the floor, skin scooped out in potholes. Silverware litters the floor around them covered in thick dark liquid. And in the middle, a small, familiar figure.
“Niffty!”
She grins up at them, veined eye wide and pleased with herself.
Circe carries the bucket around the corner of the cottage and the crackle of foliage behind her makes her pause. She inhales, nostrils filling with the essence and she sighs, dropping the buckets. “What now?” she croons, sweeping her hair behind her shoulder.
A man leans against the cottage siding, propping a sandal across his left ankle and twirling a long staff entwined by two serpents. When he lifts his polished chin, his cheek sharpens in a smarmy grin.
“Hey Cirs~”
“Please tell me you're here to f*ck, not fight.”
“Just here to deliver a message this time.”
Circe snorts. “Oh, actually doing your job today?”
He hisses, “Low blow, Cirs.” He pushes himself up and whirls the staff behind him playfully. “Sooo,” he titters as he dances toward her. “Word around the watering hole is,” his voice becomes singsong, “You’re playing in another pantheon’s sandbox~”
Circe folds her arms, “And?”
The man tuts, stroking the staff. “Naughty girl. You always make trouble for our poor, poor dads.”
“Helios hasn’t been prominent in eras. What could he possibly be irate about?”
A shrug, “Influx of demonic beings, holy war, angering a certain thunderbolt fondler?”
“There will be no holy war. The pantheons are at peace. This is not a breach.”
“Is it?” he points his staff toward the cottage. “Those weren’t demons?”
“Did they look like demons to you?”
“Clever tricks? I thought that was my domain.”
“And why are you here? Isn’t any godly presence a breach?”
The man gives a small bow, “I am a mere messenger, nothing more.”
“Of course. And your message is…?”
“Delivered.” He winks at her and whirls, vanishing from sight.
