Apocalypse: Councils of War

"There the companions of his fall, o'rewhelm'd
With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
He soon discerns, and weltring by his side
One next to himself in ower, and next in crime,
Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd
Beelzebub."
-John Milton, Paradise Lost, I.77-81

Seryph's eyes burned. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. On the bed before him, Phil's chest rose and fell slowly, the shadows enfolding his ruined form. The first rays of morning light filtered through the Venetian blinds, slitting the darkness with brief bands of color.

You don't have to stay here, you know. I am more than competent to watch over him.

Seryph did not reply, and before long, the Grimspire's presence faded away, moving to other, more important tasks than a silent swordsman. The chair creaked beneath him as he straightened. His eyes flicked to the long folds of fabric that covered Phil's body, the green-white lines of the cardiac monitors keeping pace with the shallow beating of the comatose man's heart, the long plastic tubes running from a bandaged face to a set of oxygen tanks, IV lines snaking below the covers to interface with his flesh, and then back to the window again. Phil's breath hissed, low and harsh, countering the harsh, metallic beeping of the EEG speakers.

He licked his lips. "Phil..." There was no response. He hadn't expected there to be. When Sam had arrived, two hours ago, he had been surprised to see that Phil was still alive, under the layers of blood and broken bones. Grimspire said that he could recover, given time, but how could one recover from something like this? Whatever had attacked him - Sam had been uncannily silent about that part of his story - had barely left him able to breath, let alone to walk and think. How they were going to get him out when Grimspire fell, as it would, if he was hardly alive now, plugged in to the machine as he was?

"Phil. I don't think you can hear me." Another pause, and no response. "I'm not really sure how to say this, or who I'm supposed to say it to. Stella, Sam, even Bryn, they haven't been here, not like we've been here." He stood, the strips of light from the venetian blinds raking over his flesh, and looked down at the bed. "We've been through a lot together, you and I. Saved the world a couple of times, kept this... this place together when it looked like everything was falling apart. And now, it looks like it's all for nothing." Turning away from the bed, he walked over to the blinds, reached to open them, then thought better of it and clasped his hands once again behind his back. "If there is a way to fight these things, really fight them, then I don't know it. Everybody is just skating around the main point: this is the End. If what they're saying is true, then we don't have any way out. All we're doing here is keeping ourselves alive a little while longer, until the End."

His feet passed soundlessly over the floor, until he stood over Phil's bed, looking down upon the swath of bandages that covered his ruined face. As he reached out to touch the other man's shoulder through the bedclothes, he thought he felt him move a little, but after that first twitch, Phil lay placid.

Seryph sat down on his heels next to the low bed, and for a long time said nothing, crouching there beside the sick bed in the darkness of most early morning. "I just wanted to say, if you don't wake up again... If we have to leave before I can speak with you..." He broke off, shook his head, and tried again. "I've always been honored to be your friend, Phil."

The room was silent, save for the low hiss of the rebreather and the steady beep-beep of the cardiac monitor.

Soundless, Seryph stood, retrieved his sword from where it leaned against the dark gray walls, and walked out of the room.

*

Stella Aurorae watched the sun rise, gray and slow as molasses, from the observation room at the very top of the Grimspire. Her green eyes held firm to the last of the stars as they were devoured by the coming light, and the clean darkness of fire-cut night gave way to the sun-bleached morning.

Below, armies were gathering. Demons flicked through the alleys around Grimspire, tearing at the foundations of the buildings around it in the hope of creating open ground. The Spire's weapons fired sporadically, picking off anyone who strayed too close. The killing field had already taken over the buildings outside of those immediately surrounding the spire, reducing them to mounds of rubble, crushing their inhabitants, any of the humans who still survived and has sought shelter within the ruins of their civilization, beneath tons of rock and rubble.

Angels flitted above, waiting, allowing the demons to do all the real work. Once the killing ground had been created, though, they would have no qualms about using it, tearing into the demonic horde before carrying the destruction on to the walls of Grimspire itself. They shone against the billowing gray clouds that obscured sun and sky alike, wingspans of ten feet or more beating rhythmically against the scream-clogged air.

Her fingernails bit into her palms hard enough to tear the skin, stopping inches away from drawing blood. She unclenched her hands with a concentrated effort, forced herself to look at the angels, forced herself to feel the dull, distant itch between her shoulder blades. Their light reflected and bent in her eyes.

INSUFFERABLE, AREN'T THEY? GIVE THEM SOME WINGS, A LITTLE AUTHORITY, AND THEY THINK IT'S AN EXCUSE TO LOOK DOWN THEIR NOSES AT EVERYONE ELSE. IT'S ALL JUST A GAME TO THEM. THEY NEVER SAW THE WORLD AS REAL, JUST AS SOMETHING TO PASS THE TIME UNTIL THEIR FINAL BATTLES. AS IF WAR COULD RESOLVE ANYTHING, ANYWAY.

"It wasn't always that way." Stell kept her eyes focused on one angel, busily burning away a city block with the light of his eyes. "There was a point to it, once."

When Sam spoke again, he behind her left shoulder. She had not heard him cross the intervening distance. ONCE? PERHAPS. I CAN'T SAY THAT I REMEMBER, ANY MORE.

She turned to face him. He did not hold the Scythe now, but things shifted in the darkness of his robe. The white plate of bone beneath the all-encompassing hood shone with unnatural brilliance, and the black eternity around the sparks of his eyes seemed alive, almost moreso than the blue sparks themselves. The cold glass of the window pressed against her back, and she became dimly aware that she had taken an involuntary step backwards. She blinked once, and straightened. Staring up into the brilliant blue sparks of Sam's eyes, she reached out and took hold of his arm, feeling the smooth hardness of white bone beneath the not-quite fabric of his robes, slick and oily to the touch. "Sam... You have to remember. We were young, once. We thought we could fix everything, change the world. We thought we could make it work this time around. That for once, it might actually mean something."

I WAS YOUNG, ONCE. I THOUGHT I COULD CONVINCE THESE PEOPLE THAT THERE WAS NO POINT IN DESTRUCTION. I THOUGHT THEY WOULD SEE THAT WE HAD FINALLY CREATED SOMETHING THAT WENT BEYOND OURSELVES. I WAS WRONG.

"People have to change, Sam. I did what I thought was best..."

The shadows of vacant eyesockets hardened beneath her stare. AND LOOK WHERE IT GOT YOU.

She held his gaze for a moment more, long enough for him to see the dim, grievous sparkle of water welling up within her eyes, before whirling away, looking anywhere but at the window, at the Horseman. Except for them, the conference room, plush as it was with gray, leather-upholstered chairs and brilliant mahogany tables, was empty. Her rapid, catching breath fought against the silence, and failed.

He reached for her, touched her on the shoulder with fingers that pierced like ice. She flinched away from his touch.

STELLA... I'M SORRY.

Still turned away from him, she shook her head, the dull morning light flowing down her red-gold hair. "No. You're right, and you don't like seeing that it hurts me. There's a big difference."

The lights in the skull winked on and off, blinking. AS YOU SAY. He settled his hand on her shoulder again, and this time she did not flinch, but reached up to cover his long, white bones with her own flesh.

YOU COULD STOP ALL THIS, YOU KNOW. OR AT LEAST TRY TO.

She laughed once. "With the Maskim and the Seraphim breathing down my neck? Not likely." She had turned to face him, staring up into the hood. "And suppose I do try. What then? I almost made a terrible mistake the last time I attempted to order the world. Who's to say I won't make another one?"

The tall figure gave no reply.

"But that's not even it. If I try that, who's to say that I'll even be human any more? It took me centuries to learn compassion, jealousy, boredom, desire; an age to be able to love as a woman loves. And if I throw that all away, what's to stop me from becoming just like them?"

He did nothing except hold her small, sweating hand within his own.

"Christ, Sam, I'm scared."

Outside, the forces of Heaven and Hell continued to gather.

*

When Astarte woke up, Azaquiel was gone, and her bed cold, despite being carved of flame. She shivered and threw back the sheets, which lay in a sizzling heap on the floor, orange-white against the blood red of the carpet. When she sat up, she was surprised to feel her insides tighten with sorrow, breath catching in her throat. He had gone again.

She sat up, swinging her long, sweat-slick legs over the edge of the bed, feet resting firmly on the carpet. Next to her squatted her bedside table, constructed of skulls and dead men's legs, and upon that table was a small piece of paper, untouched by the fire, pinned down by a small box wrapped in paper with a pattern of silver flowers. She recognized the handwriting on the note.

Sorry I had to leave so early, ma chere. There are some things I need to do... last affairs to put in order and all that. I'm sure you understand. I had a great time last night.
Love,
Az.
P.S.: Hope you like the present. Found it at a bazaar in Istanbul about fifteen hundred years ago, and thought of you. Might show you something you've never seen before. See you around, kiddo.


Astarte put the letter back on the table, and picked up the parcel. The paper burned and peeled away into ash beneath her gaze, and beneath it, nestled in a small, foam-lined box, was an elegant ivory mirror, carved in the shape of a dragon, with the wings curling back to frame the glass, and the great, leonine head descending to form a handle. Tiny fragments of jet clustered to form the eyes. She picked it up and held it before her face.

It reflected perfectly the glittering fires of her bed, the walls of flame-polished bone, even the obsidian mirror in her bathroom, just visible through the door. She could see every detail, perfect and fine as the instant she had created it.

It did not reflect her face.

As she rose to her shower, something glittered in her dark eyes, but whether it was tears or mirth, there was no one else in the room to say.

*

They hovered, wreathed by mist and cloud, several miles over the surface of Khazan. Their wings beat slowly at the air, scattering particles of mist away from their shining forms. In the center of their loose circle was the world, picked out in every detail, from the heart of the city to the most distant reaches of the imagination, and it was any man's guess whether it was a representation of the world, or the world itself. They did not make such distinctions. They were the Seven, and their glowing eyes beheld eternity.

One of them spoke to the others, in a tongue of air and fire. "We have isolated the LaCroix. He is inside the Grimspire. There are others with him."

A second member of the circle arched his perfect, guinea-gold eyebrow.

"There is the Avatar of Time, whose perceptions we altered to bring ourselves to this place. There is the former Avatar of the Universe, who we know from past experience." He paused.

The second leaned back in midair, angled his head a half-degree from the norm, and waited, eyes fixed on the first. A long pause followed. Finally, the first licked his perfect, carved-ivory lips and nodded.

"One of the other two is the Fallen Horseman." As he spoke these words, the image/world shifted, swirling within itself to form the figure of a hunched-over skeleton, holding a Scythe in its two bony hands. The Seven nodded appreciatively, and the world resumed once more its proper shape.

A third raised one hand loosely before his elegantly cut body and made an intricate gesture, his fingers catching and twirling the strands of reality. The world-image changed once again, this time into the forms of four horsemen: a woman, two not-quite-men, and an angel, colored red, white, black, and the pale of morning mist. The figure in white bore a crown on his head that gleamed like the setting sun. When the third spoke, his voice echoed like the sound of a babbling brook. "They must be told."

The first hesitated for the briefest of moments. "Yes."

The second simply nodded.

A fourth spoke, idly feathering one hand down the ridges of light that formed his body. "Grimspire is old."

"Yes."

"It is also a Freehold, recognized by compact with our persons and with the Others."

Again, the first nodded. "Yes."

"We are to assault an acknowledged freehold?"

"Yes."

"How to you propose to do this thing?"

A fifth cleared his throat, and pointed downwards. The clouds beneath them parted to reveal the city below, broken and bleeding trails of black smoke. Their eyes, gleaming like seven pairs of stars, scanned through the screaming, fleeing crowd, past the lovers, friends, bitter enemies all dying, without a hint of remorse. They had been warned, time and again over the ages, and, failing to repent their ways, they had been judged. And found wanting.

In time, they saw the GrimSpire, surrounded by an ever-widening field of rubble. The land around it glowed eagerly with the power of demons and angels and other things, as they gathered for war on opposite sides of the mighty building. The angels formed a host of light, shining like hundreds of thousands of miniature suns in the night, while the demons, their power gathering with their numbers, devoured the strained, stagnant light with equal rapacity.

The fourth shook his head. "This has never been done before."

"This world has never ended before, Brother. This is the first time we've had to end this with legitimate opposition."

"Point conceded."

The sixth, a creature with long, dark hair and sharp, aqualine features, raised its head for the first time in the conversation to fix the first with a piercing stare. "And the final traveling companion? What of it?"

"Her." The first inclined its head in the direction of the world-image, which resolved into the vague outline of a human female, blank-faced, lacking spirit or soul. "I have been unable to identify her. She walks in a haze of confusion, and her soul is hidden from my eyes."

The Sixth's elegant eyebrows raised in something quite like amusement, even though his mouth twisted downwards into a frown. "From the eyes of Gabriel the messenger? Something lies hidden? And this goes unremarked?"

The first's full lips tightened into a thin line, and his voice was strained. "It is a thing unprecedented in my experience, but it is true. Her soul is hidden from me, and you all know that none of you can look so deep as I."

The fourth blinked, once. "Granted. But, given these unprecedented factors, how are we to proceed with this battle?"

"This is the reason I have convened the Council."

The fourth bowed his head.

"One of us must be present during the attack, both to oversee its success, to capture LaCroix and remove him from the battle, and, if necessary, to assist the Horsemen in their engagement with the lost Brother."

The Second made a motion like the unfolding of a fan, and the woman's image appeared again, in the small, infinite space between them. Its eyebrow arched in the forming of a question.

"If it is needful, our representative will deal with her, as well."

A moment of silence passed, and another. A sound came, then, like the rasping of steel over broken bones, and the Six turned to look at the Seventh, whose skin was black as coal, black as night, black as a broken dream; whose eyes did not glow, but instead devoured light; whose wings, razor-edged, beat against the mist and left behind trails of empty space. He had cleared his throat, and now he raised his head. The other Six shrank from his gaze, and flinched when he spoke in a rasping voice stolen out of dead men's throats.

"I will go. I will rend the forces of Hell. I will destroy the GrimSpire. I will punish the lost Horseman. I will scatter the unrighteous before me," he said in a tone that made the Seraphim consider, very briefly, if they themselves were righteous. "I will find this woman, whose identity I believe you all, as I do, know or greatly suspect. I will find her, and I will kill her. Her soul shall find no soft place to run. I will bathe in her blood."

The Six did not reply. They did not even nod.

With a great beat of his mighty wings, the Seraphi Raphael descended towards the world.

*

The man who had once been Nedarion Aleketh Tai'ban, and was now simply Old Ned of the Hill, sat in the kitchen with Cacus Itoryx, Prince of the First Men, former High Lord of the city of Baddel.

The Prince addressed his guest. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Black."

Behind Ned, there was a rustling sound, followed by a loud tinkling sound and a stream of muffled curse words that had not been heard in the omniverse for many, many hundreds of thousands of years. A few moments later: "Second-best china okay?"

Ned didn't turn, didn't take his eyes from the potted gardenia on the far wall of the kitchen. "Fine." For a blindingly brief moment, the left corner of his lip twisted upwards into a half-smile. The intense, heady aroma of the gardenia blossom mixed with the smell of burned coffee to make war in his brain. It was good.

A moment later, Cacus moved back into Ned's field of view, bearing a small plate of buttered toast and jam in one hand, two brimming cups of straight black coffee in the other. Moving slowly, he set his burden down on the dark, laquered-wood coffee table, and sat himself across from Ned. He wore clothes now, a white shirt and khakis instead of the rotten, torn half-rags he had worn since emerging from the Pit, and he had taken a shower. "So, what do you have in mind?"

"Coffee, first. Plans, later." Ned raised his mug, Cacus raised his, and they clinked mid-table. "To a successful partnership."

"I'll drink to that."

They both drank, paused for a second, and drank again. Their mugs were now empty. Cacus sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward, then blurred for a moment, lifted the coffee pot in his fist, and poured them both another mug.

Three cups. Four. Outside the room's one window, the mute dawn was obscured from view by the burning wreckage of a fallen skyscraper.

"So." The slender wooden chair creaked threateningly as Cacus leaned forward, staring frankly into Ned's eyes. "Do we have a plan?"

Ned shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. "Beyond killing the arch-bastards in the Seraphim and the Maskim? Not really."

Cacus laughed, picked up his white mug and stared into the dark liquid for quite some time. When he raised his eyes again, Ned was looking at him, legs crossed, hands folded over his white t-shirt. "Great plan. A bit lacking on detail, though."

"Quite frankly, no matter how we try and execute it, the odds are that we are both going to die. It'll take them two minutes, three tops, to undo the cords tying us into the world. We can take out a few of them, but anything we do will be as effective as the old woman pissing into the sea."

The Prince of the First Men swallowed his coffee. "Every little bit helps."

"Indeed." Ned settled the mug softly to the tabletop, picked up a salt shaker with a silver top, and turned it about in his hand. In the alley, someone screamed, and fumes of scorched flesh filtered up to stagnate in the kitchen. It smelled hardly different from burned pork, or chicken. Ned had once heard a cannibal remark that mankind tasted a bit like chicken, but, having never tried either, he reserved judgement. His attention drifted back to Cacus, who had leaned back once more in his chair, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "If we are to strike at them, it must be when they are together, and we must do our best, for as long as possible, to make them unaware that we move against them." He ticked off the list on his fingers: "Firearms, even if either of us had proper training in their use, are of course out of the question. No bullet or charge would scratch them. Both sets of beings are unassailable spiritually, and we cannot contest them mentally. Our attack, then, must be physical. We don't want to weight the balance to one side or the other, so the attack must be simultaneous. If the Hordes get involved, we are lost, so they must be isolated at the time."

"A Grand Council." Cacus finished off his coffee.

"My thoughts exactly. An event which, I note, only occurs twice in creation. The first time was after the problem with the rebellion, and the second of which is due to take place sometime in the next few days. The only question - and you can stop eyeing my coffee like that, I am going to drink the rest of it - is how we get there. The deliberations are private."

Cacus sighed. "For your information, I was not eyeing your coffee. I was considering it. And, someone has to know where this council is, or when it is, or at least how to get an invitation. ArchDaemons, maybe? Would one of the Grand Dukes be informed?"

"No." Ned stood, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as his legs pushed it away from the table. He leaned forward, overshadowing his coffee cup, so that his head was only a few feet from Cacus' own. "The deliberations are private. I'm not even sure if they take place in this multiverse. They need to set the rules for the final confrontation, and that's not something that the lesser ranks are allowed to hear. We need a time, we need a place, neither of which are forthcoming."

"Could we follow them?"

"They'd see us, and if that happens, we're dead."

Cacus laughed, and shook his head. "The way you put it, we're dead anyway."

Ned leaned even further forward, his ice-blue eyes, a halo of yellow clinging close to the pupil, glaring into Cacus' black. He obscured the overhead light and the muted sun, casting a shadow over Cacus' unperturbed form and onto the white linoleum. "If we attack them in council, each one will assume, for a split second, that it's part of a plot from the other side. We'll have the couple seconds we need to do some damage. Wait, figure a few things out, and we're honored dead, died in the service of a cause. Move now, and we're just dead."

A small flame flared in the shadows surrounding the door to the living room, and the tip of an unfiltered cigarette flared. Two leather shoes tap-tapped onto the linoleum, and the smell of high-grade tobacco wafted through the room. "Excuse me, gentlemen-"

Before the words were halfway out of his mouth, the newcomer found himself pressed against the refrigerator, raised an even foot off the ground, and staring down the front of his crumpled white shirt and suit coat at the glaring, suspicious faces of Ned and Cacus, the latter of whose left arm currently pinned him in the air. Calmly, he let his hands drop to his sides, depositing the gold-and-silver Zippo in the pocket of his white trenchcoat. Despite the difficulty of breathing while someone is holding you pinned off the ground against a refrigerator by your shirtfront and a rather large handful of neck, the man manage to take in enough breath to speak.

"My name is Azaquiel. I am a humble purveyor of information and services, and I think I can help you."

*

Her face was warm. Not hot, not lukewarm, just... warm, as if it received light from a long way off. This was the first sensation of the morning. She raised one hand to her face, and the smooth motion of silk sheets over her bare skin became the second. Without opening her eyes, she reached out to put the hand beside her once more, and the quiet warmth of flesh on flesh was the third.

She opened her eyes, allowing them to take their time in focusing. A large, pinkish blob in front of her, dabbed here and there with black, resolved slowly into the figure of a man, lying on his side, facing her, dark hair swept back from his delicate features. His lean, hard body glistened dimly in the soft, not-quite dawn. They lay together on sheets of white silk, cool to the touch. He shifted as she feathered one hand down the pale skin of his chest, twisting the sheets, already nearly torn off her half of the bed, further around him. His brow creased, lips twitching up, then down, as if he couldn't decide whether to be happy or sad.

She knew that she enjoyed this feeling, as she had enjoyed last night. What else did she know? Her pleasantly sleep-fogged mind searched for a name, and, after a few minutes, found one.

Angie Blackfeather.

With a name came, along with identity, memory. The clouds vanished from her mind, and she sat up in bed, not bothering to pull the covers around her. Her breath came fast and hard as she worked her way to the edge of the bed and rose. The air was cold on her skin as she stood before the windows of their bedchamber. Her breath came fast and hard, dark eyes flicking between the ragged, burned husks of skyscrapers and the miniscule forms of people, far below, prone in pools of their own blood. They looked like crushed ants, like puppets with their strings cut.

No. Wrong. They looked like dead bodies. They looked like dead people.

Angie swallowed hard, and was not surprised to find her eyes burning as she blinked. She crossed her arms, let them fall again, shifted her weight from one leg to the other. A tear itched in the left corner of her right eye, and she brushed it away.

Jesus. They couldn't even give a good sunrise, could they? Not that there would be many of them left, but at least one more, none of this cloud cover shit, barely enough to warm her face, nowhere near enough to warm her soul. Christ. She felt like killing someone. She felt like dying. She felt like... She felt like a lot of things.

She folded her hands and let them fall, her eyes falling once more to the street. Behind her, Whisper shifted, letting out a little groan in his sleep. After a short time, she turned from the window and walked back towards him, the tips of her unbound hair scraping gently against the skin at the small of her back. Her bra and panties lay discarded on the carpet next to the bedroom door, little huddles of black silk. She pulled the panties on, and considered the bra, a mischievous smile breaking on her face. The silk dangling from one hand, she padded over to where Whisper lay sleeping on his side, bent over him, and brushed his cheek with the very tip of the silk strap.

He slapped at it, hit his own cheek, and woke up in a hurry, scrambling against his cocoon of bedclothes until he managed, slipping and stumbling, to assume a full sitting position, facing her, supported by his lean arms. A smile replaced the initial expression of fear and confusion on the narrow lips, inside the depths of the fire-blue eyes. "I'm dead, and this is heaven."

Angie grinned wryly and shook her head. "Both wrong, and I'm a pretty bad substitute for an angel. It's late, we should be moving." She pulled the shoulder straps of her bra on, brushed her raven-dark hair back over her shoulder, and returned her gaze to the bed, where Whisper had yet to move. Her left eyebrow arched upward, twin to the left corner of her mouth. "Enough sightseeing. Get dressed."

Whisper leaned back on his elbows, his face assuming a calculated expression of surprise. "There can never be enough sightseeing. It cleans the mind, refreshes the body..." He pushed himself to the edge of the bed, stood, and reached for her.

She wanted to reach for him, too, but even as she began to do so, the picture of a dead man swam through her mind, and she pulled away.

"Is there something wrong?"

She gestured mutely towards the single, large window that formed the wall of their bedroom, towards the outside world that, for one reason or another, he had pointedly avoided looking at in the few moments since he woke up. He nodded, stood fully, and turned from her without a word. The soft paddings of his feet on the lush carpet trailed him to the window as Angie slid the bra clasp closed behind her back.

For a time, there was no sound. She turned, and found him still staring out the window, eyes cast down to the street below, hands limp at his sides. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. We need to-"

What she was going to say was, "We need to get dressed and go." The reason she only got that far was because, at that moment, the front door of their apartment burst inward and a group of three Imps rushed in, fangs dripping, their high keening scraping at the air. The claws on their feet tore the carpet as they ran.

Before they had traveled two feet, Whisper had his crossbow in his hand, summoned by the power of his will, and had fired three times, the bowstring plucking a delicate, perfectly harmonized three-tone melody. The Imps continued on for a few moments before their steps lost purpose, and finally they fell, dark blood staining the carpet, a thick shaft of solid sound buried deep within each. Angie had already dove for her shoulder holster, lying discarded by the bedroom door, when another Imp stuck its head around the doorway. Whisper's shaft barely missed her head as it whizzed past, but it did not miss the Imp's. Then she was landed, pulling the leather holster assembly over her shoulder, the Desert Eagle out and clasped firmly in her left hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Whisper pick up his long, white cloak and drape it loosely around his shoulders. Despite being slightly wrinkled from having spent all night wadded up on the floor, and Whisper's current lack of anything else that constituted real clothing, it looked quite impressive nonetheless.

She stood slowly, keeping the Desert Eagle leveled at the door. Behind her, Whisper was disturbingly silent. "Is there something wrong?"

A short pause, in which she could hear the death groans of the demons, Whisper's quiet breath, and the pounding of her own heart. Then, at last: "There are more coming."

Her forehead burned, just on the verge of breaking out in sweat. She shifted uncomfortably, sinking to one knee next to the bedroom door. The barrel of the Desert Eagle never wavered, and her finger did not slip on the trigger. "How many?"

Whisper stepped closer, standing on the other side of the door, well within her peripheral vision. She noted that he had pulled on his boxers, at least. When he spoke, his voice was level, calm, which made her flesh blister with goosebumps. "Angie..."

"Yes?"

"Do something for me, please?"

She licked her lips and brushed a stray strand of black hair out of her eyes, which never left the door. "What?"

"Leave. Now."

"No."

Pause. "Christ."

Finally, Angie turned her head to face him, and saw in his eyes something she had not expected, and something she had hoped for a long time now to see: Fear, and love. "How many are there, Whisper?"

"Enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Enough to raze this building from the foundations up, if that's what they wanted. We're not dealing with these pikers any more, Angie." He waved towards the fallen Imps. "The others are coming, and if they didn't know that we were here before, they do now."

She stood, grabbed his thin arm, and pulled him bodily through the door, over the dead carcasses of the Imps, and into the hotel hallway, speaking all the while. "Jesus Christ, why didn't you say anything sooner? We need to get out of here now, and I'm not going to leave without you."

"Angie." She pulled harder, skidding his feet across the hallway carpet.

"Angie." Harder still.

Finally, he reached out with his other hand, grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him, blue eyes to brown, his tall form bent slightly so he could look straight into her face. "Look, Angie. I love you. I want you to promise me, no matter what, that if you need to leave me behind, you will."

She shook her head. "Damnit, I can't..."

"You have to. One of us has to survive. They might be able to track me. No one can tell from any other human until you unfold those wings." She opened her mouth, and he laid his forefinger on her lips. "Don't argue. Please?" They stared into each other's eyes for a few seconds, and in the end, Angie was the one who looked away.

It took her a moment to find her voice. "Okay." The word died on the way to her lips, emerged as little more than a breath of air.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said... I said okay." She turned her head back to face him. "I'll do it."

"Good." Behind him, the lights above the elevator were counting upwards, towards them, the number progressing in time to the chiming of a distant bell. 12... 13... 14... She heard - or was it just imagination - the elevator cable creek under the weight of its terrible burden. Whisper looked back over his shoulder, saw the approaching elevator, and turned back. "I think the company has finally decided to arrive. I hate to be rude, but I think we'd best be heading to the stairs..."

As they ran down the hall together, Whisper's long, ornate white cloak billowed behind him like a pair of wings, baring the lean body, loins girded by a pair of white boxer shorts. The shoulder holster chaffed against Angie's skin, the carpet brushing against the soles of her bare feet. For a moment, the preposterousness of their situation overwhelmed her, and almost laughed. They reached the door to the stairwell, flung it open, and started to clatter down the forty-two floors to ground level.

Behind them, just as the door swung slowly back into its frame, hydraulic pump hissing, the lights on top of the elevator glowed 42. There was a final chime, the thick lift doors rolled back, and a dark and terrible thing strolled leisurely into the hallway. It paused for a moment, scented the air, and loped unhurriedly towards the stairwell.

*

"I'm confused."

"This iszzzz not an uncommon development."

"Why can... the woman in red..."

"Quissstisssss."

"Why can't she just attack now, and kill the little green thing?"

"Sssshe just attacked."

"So?"

"She can't attack again until it'sssszzz her turn."

"That's kind of silly, if you ask me."

"You didn't writesssss the gamesssss."

Beelzebub shifted uncomfortably on the couch and glared angrily at the television screen. The controller was slickening in his hands, and this repeated pressing of the 'X' button was getting quite annoying. Giving a noise somewhere between a long, hissing sigh and a groan, he set the controller aside and leaned back, gently massaging his temples. He did not have to worry about talons, fortunately. It had taken him several aeons to perfect his human form to be just human, without any enhancements or changes, not even particularly handsome, without even broadcasting his nature to sensitives, to angels, to the aether. The work, he decided, was worth the effect it had on those who expected to sense something, and did not.

"I wish you would stop that." Leviathan stood, as always, in the shadows which hid his odd face, just an edge short of beautiful, not quite impressive, but only not quite. The body, also, was a work of art, somewhere in the confusing region between lithe and emaciated.

"Ssssssssssstop what?"

"Pretending that you have human weaknesses. The temples, the groan, the glandular emotion. It's quite annoying." Leviathan shifted and stepped closer to the side of the sofa, skirting the edge of the shadows, his features always not quite revealed, not quite concealed.

"Ah, but brother(sssss), I am an artissssst. To perform true art, one musssst undessssstand his ssssssubject. To work without knowledge would be like painting blind."

"Yet men compose symphonies while stone-deaf."

"Beethoven wasssss cheating. Some Musessss were brought back by the Neoclasssical revival, you remember that... ssssss... Anywaysss, symphonies are largely mathematical. Music is the emotional sssside of calculus. Pythagorasss knew thisssss. What I do cannot be governed by equasionsssss."

"I think the little green thing just killed... Storm?"

"Sssssquall."

"Right." Neither of them said anything for some time, staring across the border of shadows at each other. The noise of the game interrupted the silence, so Beelzebub gestured with his right hand and the speakers switched off. Finally, Leviathan shrugged. "So, what have you brought me here for?" He looked around the ruined Circuit City Khazan, dark, burnished gold eyes holding for a moment on the reverse-crucified salespeople and cashiers hanging from the rafters, suspended by a length of barbed wire through the puncture wounds in their feet. "This is hardly the place to discuss business."

"No real reassssson. Jusssst wanted to talk. Not about businessss." Beelzebub patted the sofa cushion next to him, upholstered in one kind of leather or another. "Care to sssit?"

"Don't mind if I do." The shadows twisted, rolling across the floor, and Leviathan sat down next to him, the cushion barely giving beneath his feathery weight. A pause.

"Do you have to do that?"

"What?

"The sssshadow thingssss."

"Do you have to do that hissing thing?"

"Point. Ssssorry."

Another pause, at the end of which Leviathan shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "I sent Gh'razk'hehz to take care of our problem with the Grimspire. He is eminently capable."

"No businesssss, remember?"

"Sorry."

On the seventy-inch flatscreen, one of the little green things finished off Beelzebub's game for him. Uncaring, the Maskim switched off both television and game station with a glance, and a thought. He considered his next move for a moment, before activating the sound system. "Listen."

Leviathan did so, and within the darkness that surrounded his brother, Beelzebub thought he saw the other Maskim tapping his feet along with the music. The song ended.

"Interesting. But who is the thief? And who are the two riders? And why are they approaching?"

"It'ssszzzz a ssssong, brother. Not a novel."

"Who wrote it?"

"A fellow named Hendrixssss... Dead, now." Neither of them spoke for another short interval. Beelzebub turned to face his partner, met and held a furtive glance from burnished-gold pupils. "Have you... Have you ever consssidered the humansss, brother?"

The golden eyes blinked once. "What an odd question. Of course I've considered them. I work with them every day."

Beelzebub shook his head. "No. Have you ever consssidered them as individualssss, inssstead of projectsss?"

"Perhaps. Not greatly. My duties deal with so many, it is... difficult... to think of them as individuals. They are data to be processed, force to be properly applied. Nothing more." Leviathan shook his head. One finger traced the line of his almost perfect silver eyebrows. "That's not true, really. From time to time..." He shrugged. "Sometimes."

Beelzebub shook his head. "You ssssee, I am an artist. It isss my job to deal with individualsssszz. One cannot make true art unless one conssssidersss the mortalsss as they consssider themselvessssz."

"And?"

"As an artissst, I find the prospect of thissss war disssturbing."

"How so?"

Beelzebub sighed. With an intricate gesture, a crystal wine glass appeared in his hand. With another gesture, more forceful and much less complex, the throat of a crucified man hanging above him peeled open. The blood trickled down, red and sweet, until he had a full glass, and sealed the man's throat once more. Holding the glass up to his nose, he swirled the blood within, smelling the heady, intoxicating mixture of hormones and chemicals that made the stuff worth drinking in the first place. It clung to the sides of the glass, painting them a dull, translucent red. He took a sip, and the tasted was everything the smell promised, and more. Satisfied, he turned back to his partner. "We are going to win."

"Well, of course, everyone says that."

"But I mean it. We have control of our people, we hold the hearts of the masses. The Sssseraphi have ssspent the lassst several hundred thousssand years scheming to maintain control of their people, not to mention fighting oursss for dominance of Earth. They are sssso unsure that they must ssssend Raphael himssself to oversee this siege of the GrimSpire, while we need only dispatch a Lord."

Leviathan shrugged. "Perhaps they know something we do not?"

"I doubt thissss. Our intelligence is very... profound."

"So what then? We win. Yay. Go us."

Beelzebub shook his head, and took another sip of the wine. When he spoke again, the hiss was all but gone from his voice. His breath came evenly, and his words sounded as if they had been uttered a great distance away. "When we rule, the world will all be a precinct of Hell. This will come to pass because it is what the mortals, and many of our side, believe will come to pass. Belief, as you well know, helps shape the world. After a few hundred thousand years, they will forget they ever had identities. After a few million, short when compared with eternity, they will forget everything save Hell. Perhaps this will even happen sooner than I think. And when this happens, my art will be truly dead. The words 'hope springs eternal' above the gates of Hell will have no meaning, because all mankind will have forgotten what there is to hope for. The individuality of the soul, that force that fuels my work, will cease to exist, and art will leave the world."

Leviathan blinked.

"Did you follow any of what I just said?"

"Most of it."

Taking another sip, Beelzebub laughed. "I'm sssssorry. I dampen what should be our day of triumph."

Leviathan reached out of the shadows and laid its pale, clawed hand upon Beelzebub's shoulder. Beelzebub, his face unreadable, his brown eyes dark pools of an uncertain future, placed his own hand on top of his friend's. They sat there for some time, in the Circuit City, with the drip-drip-dripping of blood punctuating the breaks in the Jimmi Hendrix guitar solos.

Beelzebub, Prince of Flies, Lord of the Flaming Wastes, Master of Ten Quintillion Departed Universes, Scourge of Ages, raised his glass of blood. "Do you want ssssome?"

"Sure." And they drank.

*

Angie's feet hurt. Perhaps, she considered in perfect hindsight, it would have been a more considered move to have grabbed her shoes instead of her gun. Even if most of what was out there was immune to bullets, they could still be run away from. Too late now.

Despite Whispers' longer legs, she ran a few steps ahead of him down the dank, concrete stairwell. Thankfully, it was still intact. Most of the elevators were gone by now, along with the power, and the plumbing. Stairs, though... Stairs were fine.

A door slammed shut behind them, the clang of metal on metal echoing through the stairwell. She thought she heard footsteps, distant, mirroring their own. Behind her, Whisper quickened his pace, and she followed his example. Unfortunately, whatever was following did as well. It was gaining on them. Their breath came fast and hard, hissing against the walls, their feet thudding rhythmically against the concrete and metal steps, and still the noise of their pursuer grew louder, and louder. Whisper drew up next to her, his hand brushing against her arm, sweat sliding away from sweat. Hair clung to her high cheekbones, playing at her mouth, covering her eyes. They took two steps at a time now, three, neck and neck, only ten stories away from the ground. The thing was at least another six behind them. They could make it in time. They could. She could see the red "exit" light at the bottom of the stairs...

They would have made it, had she not tripped over the already-decaying body of a garbage man, sprawled on the stairs just above the eighth floor landing. Whisper jumped at the last possible minute, but her foot caught against the dead man's cold forehead, and she screamed, faltered, fell. She twisted just in time to hit the stairway wall with her shoulder instead of her head, but it sent a wave of pain through her side, and she collapsed to the cold, blood-encrusted floor, right next to the prone, eviscerated body.

Whatever their stalker was, they had misjudged its distance behind them. Just as her head cleared enough to look up, she caught a glimpse of white cape, white boxer shorts, and terrible black eyes before it was upon her, ripping with claws and teeth at her skin, her clothes, her hair.

Three shots rang off the walls. Three brass shell cases seared her skin as they fell, bounced off, and rolled down the stairs. She heard a man's cry of pain. The attacker took a step back in shock, dark eyes staring, and he was Whisper. He had the same face, the same body, the same cape, even the same silly boxer shorts. Only the eyes were different, black instead of blue, and burning with an intensity she had seen all too well, in the eyes of soldiers who had sacrificed one thing too many to win the war. There were no holes in its bare chest, no indications at all that it had been shot, save for a vaguely amused expression of puzzlement.

It leapt for her again, but this time the twang of a perfect C and a bolt of solid musical force interrupted its flight. It slammed into the wall, and was still for as long as it took Angie to clamor to her feet and face Whisper, smiling a smile of pure relief. It died on her lips as she saw him standing there, sweat beading on his skin, one trembling hand clutched around the railing, the other holding his crossbow, leveled at the creature slumped in the corner of the landing. His ice-blue eyes were narrow, his long dark hair slicked to his forehead, and blood dripped down from his chest, from his red-stained boxer shorts, onto his bare, unsteady legs. Three large-caliber bullet holes, clustered so close they may as well have formed a single wound, sucked and burbled blood in his stomach. Another wound, small and profusely bleeding, as if one had been shot with a crossbow, pierced his left breast, right through the lung.

The not-quite-Whisper stood slowly, its mouth open in a jagged grin, its eyes burning dark fire, its body not bearing a single mark or wound. The creature faced Whisper and waited.

"Angie. Go." Whisper winced at the effort of forming the words, and blood trickled from his mouth like a waterfall as he spoke them. Ringo, his great crossbow, wavered slightly in its aim, and she thought she could see tears in those eyes, mixing with the sweat.

For a moment, she thought about staying with him, but only for a moment. Within his eyes, ice blue, she saw pain, she saw fear. She saw love.

Angie Blackfire turned and ran down the steps as fast as her feet could carry her.

Whisper blinked, once. It was funny... After so long... The creature smiled, and moved forward, but it moved as if in a dream. Or was that just Whisper's eyes? However it was, he saw his hand, through a long, dark tunnel, raise Ringo, fingers trembling white-knuckled on the grip, and point it in a direction the creature had never expected. He heard himself - or was it really himself? - say, in a dim voice whose tones he could not quite place, "A mirror reflects both ways." He heard the creature's scream of pain and fear as he pulled the trigger. And then - music.

Angie heard both the scream and the soft, pronounced staccato of a minor C chord, played with hormonal overtones and a traditional Irish grace note. She flinched, and by the time she forced her way out through the janitor's door and onto the street, burying two Desert Eagle slugs deep in demonic brains on the way, tears had come to her eyes. She cried as she ran.

Deep inside her, a union was complete, and something new began to grow.

*

"Perhaps we should first set out some kind of agenda for this meeting."

WHY?

Lester sighed, unclasped his hands, and leaned back in his enveloping leather executive's chair. He looked about two inches from putting his feet up on the table, kicking off his shoes, and ordering a maid to get him a tall glass of 21.5 degree centigrade water. "Because we have the entire hosts of Hell and Heaven outside Grimspire's gate right now waiting for some kind of opening. Because we're in the middle of a sentient weapons factory that is willing to stand up to both sides because he thinks it'll be fun. Because I seem to have a perfectly good solution to the problem, which nobody even listens to whenever I bring it up. Because we have no plan, and," ticking off the final finger of his left hand, "because I'm mad as hell at this whole situation, and I'm not going to take it any more." With a shark's smile, he spread his arms wide. "Take your pick."

Seryph shook his head. "None of the above. We need a meeting to clear some of the air between us. Playing businessman isn't going to help." The ex-Avatar looked greatly changed from the previous night, dark sacks encircling his eyes, newly spiderwebbing networks of worry lines crisscrossing his hard face. Only his eyes remained relatively unchanged, but their blue was more cold now, dark and cutting.

"And what exactly do you suggest we play instead? Samurai?"

The sound of Bryn's chair scraping against the floor echoed in the suddenly silent conference hall. The boy-man Avatar took his time standing and turning to face Lester, his gaze unassuming, his face calm. No aura of menace exuded from him, no glow surrounded him, no fire burned in his eyes. He was simply there.

Lester blinked, and looked away.

Bryn turned to the rest of them and sighed. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We need some kind of plan. I can't see anything in the timestream from this point on. I've looked as hard as I can, but.." He shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. If we don't stop this soon, as far as I can tell, there won't be a timestream to see."

Seryph looked up, a grin sliding onto his face, then off again. "And how do we stop it? I've seen what these things can do. We've seen what these things can do, and there just aren't enough of us to fight them directly. Is there any way we can take out their leaders before they kill us?"

NO. I KNOW THESE PEOPLE. THEY HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR TOO LONG, PREPARING THEMSELVES FOR THIS MOMENT, TO BE CAUGHT BY SURPRISE NOW. WE MIGHT HAVE A CHANCE OF AT LEAST INFLICTING some DAMAGE IF THEY CONVENE A GRAND COUNCIL, BUT WE WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO GET TO THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE.

"So." Stella nodded, running her fingers over the smooth tabletop. "We can't take them out at the Council. Sam, you know the strategy here as well as anyone. What do they do next?"

AFTER THE CENTRAL DIMENSIONS ARE... DESTABILIZED... He shrugged. THEY WILL CONVENE A COUNCIL TO DECIDE WHETHER THEY SHOULD WAIT TO INCORPORATE THE OUTLYING REALITIES FIRST, OR MOVE AHEAD WITH THE PLAN AND LET THE CHAOTIC ZONES TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES. IF THEY SHOULD GO AHEAD, THEY ONLY HAVE TO REMOVE THE LYNCHPIN OF THE MULTIDIMENSIONAL SYSTEM. TAKE THAT AWAY, AND THE REST FALLS OUT, LEAVING US WITH A SINGLE BATTLEGROUND.

"And that lynchpin is?"

"The Nexus." Three pairs of eyes and one set of glowing blue dots turned to face Seryph. "It makes sense, really. But destroying that would destroy them, along with everything else."

NOT IF DONE PROPERLY. THE NEXUS WAS DESIGNED TO RECONFIGURE THE DIMENSIONS IF REMOVED IN A PROPER MANNER. THE SYSTEM OF REALITY WILL ALIGN ITSELF WITH EITHER HEAVEN OR HELL. ONE WORLD, FOREVER.

Bryn shook his head. "What do you mean, 'properly'?"

THE MASKIM AND SERAPHI MUST GIVE BLESSING TO UNLOCK THE NEXUS. THEN, THE HORSEMEN REMOVE IT. TO SIMPLY BLOW IT UP WOULD VIOLATE THE CONDITIONS OF THE AGREEMENT, AND THE HEAVEN/HELL CONTRACT WOULD BECOME VOID. ALONG WITH EVERYTHING ELSE.

Lester blinked. "Agreement? With who?"

YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW.

"God?"

I DO NOT LIKE TO REPEAT MYSELF.

"And what if I do want to know?"

PERMIT ME TO REPHRASE. YOUR MIND WOULD BE INCAPABLE OF HANDLING MY RESPONSE TO THAT QUESTION.

Lester blinked, and leaned forward as if to rise before Stella leaned across the table, caught his arm, and lowered the magnate back to his seat. The corners of his mouth turned up, but no smile touched his eyes. "Well, Ms. Aurorae? Where do you fit in to all of this?"

"Nowhere. I just want to see that we all survive this."

"How touching."

She shook her head, straightened in her chair, and looked at the rest of them for a long time, her red-gold hair falling freely upon her shoulders. Finally, she licked her lips and spoke. "They won't make the final move until they know for certain whether or not they can get Lester. As long as he's here, they know where he is. When Grimspire falls-"

If.

"-If Grimspire falls, we need to get out of here as soon as possible."

For the first time through the entire meeting, Seryph smiled. "Well, that's our last-ditch plan, at least."

I'M SORRY?

"If we don't figure anything better, we beat them to the Nexus. They can't come at us all at once, which means we might be able to hold them off long enough."

Stell shook her head. "It won't work. They're too powerful to keep out." Deep within Sam's sockets the lights of his eyes dimmed for a moment before returning to full brightness. His head swivelled to face Stella, who sat next to him, staring in her turn at Seryph.

The swordsman raised one hand above the table and motioned as if tossing something away. "So we buy the rest of the multiverse another few seconds. Sounds like a good price to me." His grin widened, but his eyes remained cold and fixed. "Just one final cause to die for, that's all. A way to go out with a bang before the end."

A momentary silence enveloped the table. Stell's mouth opened, but for the first time in quite a while, no words came out of it. Even Sam shifted in his chair, although that could just as well have been becausee he itched under the black fabric of his robe. Lester coughed, Bryn nodded, and only Seryph himself remained still, sitting like a stone buddha in a plush leather office chair.

Finally, Stella broke the silence. "Noble idea, Seryph, but we're not going on any suicide missions just yet. We're still in the middle of two opposing armies. Heaven and Hell are about to attack at the same time." Light and sound innundated the room for a brief moment, and one of the last remaining skyscrapers across from the Spire collapsed in a torrent of fire and liquified metal. The Grimspire itself didn't shake, but Stell thought for a heart-rendingly brief moment that she saw the windows flex inwards with the force of the other building's explosion. She winced and looked away, as did the rest. Only Sam remained in place, eyesockets fixed on the crumbling torch that had once been a building.

THEY'LL SPEND AS MUCH TIME FIGHTING EACH OTHER AS THEY WILL THE SPIRE, OR US. THEY WANT WAR.

Lester, who had almost levitated to his feet at the sound of the explosion, turned to face the table, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Then why won't you let me give them a war? All it would take is the flip of a switch, a thought, and my forces would descend on this place from all the corners of the cosmos. We could wage one last war. We could even win. Yet you stop me, prevent me, try and tell the LaCroix of LaCroix what I cannot do. I don't need you. I will bring the war." His hands clasped white-knuckled around the back of his chair, he leaned forward, eyes jerking from Seryph, to Bryn, to Stella...

NO. YOU WILL NOT. Sam stood next to him. The ex-Horseman's chair was still in the same position it had been five seconds before, when he stared into the flames. He had not crossed the intervening distance. Five fingers of bone closed around Lester's shoulder. The LaCroix blanched as a lance of cold spread outwards from Sam's touch, rippling down his chest, his arm, tingling at the tips of his fingers.

Lester gasped in shock, but recovered in the bare second it took for him to swing and face Sam. His eyes were dark fire as he met Sam's gaze, and held it without flinching. "Remove your hand. If they want war, I will give it to them."

AND BE DAMNED THE CONSEQUENCES? A shadow shifted beneath the hood of Sam's cloak, in a manner that looked quite like an eyebrow being raised.

"Yes. They have brought us to an Apocalypse. I will show them a war to linger in their minds for eternity." Sweat ran down his face, and a vein stood out on his forehead, but still he met Sam stare for stare.

For a long moment, there was the sound of four people holding their breath. The world waited with them, and darkness alone dwelled in the shadows behind Sam's eyesockets. Then tbe eyesparks flared, the bone-vise grip tightened enough to make Lester wince in pain, and Sam... grinned.

LITTLE MAN. YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT WAR IS.

Sam's free hand held a Scythe, and it whistled through the air, blade glimmering blue-white. The single, vast window that formed the far wall of the conference chamber disappeared, and a cold high altitude wind, bearing smoke and the smell of dead things, smashed through in its place. Stell's grip tightened on the armrests of her chair and her eyes fluttered, trying to keep the chil away. Her hair flared behind her like a sail. Seryph and Bryn shielded their eyes.

With as little effort as if he were lifting a child's toy ball, Sam raised Lester one handed, walked quickly to where the window once had been, and thrust him, still squirming, out over the abyss. He twisted there for a moment, kicking at empty space, struggling against Sam's grip. The Horseman's voice filled his ears, blocking out the rushing wind.

LACROIX. LOOK DOWN.

Lester looked down, and down, past the air beneath his feet. The ruins of Khazan lay beneath him. The few buildings that still stood, all the way out to the horizon, burned. Most remained only as jagged, broken stalks, their upper floors collapsed in ragged hulks of twisted metal that intertwined and fused in seas of cracked concrete. Demons crawled in the ruins, their maws red and ravenous as they feasted upon the corpses of the dead. Vehicles lay upon their backs, on their sides, metal twisted, blackened and bent. Plastic ran like blood in the streets. Closer to the Grimspire, buildings had been demolished, steel turned to liqiud, to form a field large enough for the Hosts to assemble. Demons of all shapes and sizes clogged the field for acres in every direction, occupying their minds with torment and bloodshed. Some struggled with each other, but many had found other amusements. A small circle had opened in the ranks at one point, where a man ran , twitching and screaming as four demons lashed him with whips of barbed flame. One end of his entrails had been cut out of his body and fastened to the center of the circle. As he ran, more and more spilled out, and he screamed. The demons laughed. Lester could not tell whether the scream he heard next was that of the tormented man, or his own.

He jerked away, seeking the sky, but there was no sky to be found. A gray, broiling mist hung over everything, intercut with flashes of lighting that arced from clouds to ground, then back again. Everywhere around them, there were angels. The beating of their wings filled the air, brushes of silence against the ceaseless noise, in perfect time with his heart. Their skins glowed, male and female and things other, all across the sky, and flame fell from their eyes upon the earth. Many held flaming swords, but none turned to speak with each other. They waited, and the expression on their faces said that they expected the waiting to be paid for in blood. Somewhere in the middle of that vast host, something screamed.

SEE.

And he saw. The image filled his mind, his head, his soul. Two angels held a woman suspended between them, one on each arm. Her hair was long and dark, her face pale, her body something about of a boy's dream. Clothes hung in tatters from her limbs, and tears had run down her cheeks with the mascara. A third hovered before her, and it touched her, gently, with its forefinger, dragging it slowly across the bare skin before moving on to another place. Each time he touched, she flinched back and screamed a scream to tear the world. Finally, the angel touched her on the forehead. She scremaed one final time, a scream that lasted long past when her heart stopped, her body went rigid, and she fell crashing all the thirty stories to the sea of demons below. He reached out to clasp her, but she fell all the same, and tears welled up in his eyes for her.

SHE WAS AN ADULTRESS.

"No more..."

SEE.

"Please!" He caught at Sam's hand, hoping to dislodge the Horseman's grip, hoping to fall, hoping to die, but Sam took no notice, except perhaps to hold on more tightly.

SEE.

Elsewhere. Men and women streamed down a street, carrying shotguns, pulse rifles, whatever weapons they could have scrabbled together at a moment's notice. Two people ran together, a slender man and a larger, shorter woman with long brown hair. Blood and burned powder stained both faces, and their legs trembled as they ran. Imps tore through the crowd with ravenous claws and teeth. One ran for the couple, only to stagger and fall at a blast from the woman's pulse rifle. Another man arced into the picture, his body broken and bleeding, a discarded husk. He struck the woman and she fell, just in time to avoid the sweep of a flaming sword from a descending angel. The man was not so lucky. The sword came around and cleaved through his skull at eye level, Blood and brains splattered on the pavement as he fell. The angel reversed its grip on the sword and drove it through the woman's neck as she struggled to rise. This time, the splash of blood landed on Lester's hands. He screamed, and this time he kept screaming. Sam's voice brought him back to the abyss below Grimspire's conference room.

FOOLISH MAN. DID YOU THINK WAR WAS SOME KIND OF GAME? WE HAVE MORE PEOPLE, WE WIN? DID YOU THINK THERE WAS GLORY TO BE HAD IN WAR? THAT IT WAS ANYTHING MORE WONDERFUL THAN PEOPLE KILLING ONE ANOTHER? DID YOU THINK THERE WAS ANY MORE TO A FALLEN WARRIOR THAN BLOOD? THIS IS NOT A GAME. THIS IS NOT SOMETHING YOU CAN WIN, BECAUSE NOBODY WINS A WAR. WHY DID YOU THINK MY SISTER HIDES HER FACE BEHIND A MASK? WHY DID YOU THINK SHE HAS BEEN IN MOURNING FOR THESE LAST FORTY BILLION YEARS? SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. LOOK WHAT YOUR KIND HAVE MADE HER! LOOK! Sam's skull filled his vision, Sam's eyesparks bored into his mind. Sam's fingers sent blasts of pain and cold through his side.

YOU SICKEN ME. Sam threw Lester's limp body back into the room as casually as one might throw a discarded rag doll. It thumped against the floor and skidded before coming to a rest ungently at the foot of the table, where the CEO lay still, sobbing quietly into the crook of his arm. Sam turned away from the world and stood there, robe flapping darkly in the wind..

For a long time, he looked at no one, and no one looked at him.

Are you quite finished?

YES.

The wind cut off abruptly as a new window appeared, sealing the conference room again.

That's good. That's very good, you see, because I think they just started the attack.