I think my boss sensed it coming.
When I told him I needed a week off, he gave that tight little smile—the one he has when he knows there's nothing he can do but feels betrayed.
— A week, Natsa?
— I know, boss. It's not ideal. But it's urgent. Related to my... condition.
He didn't press. He doesn't ask too many questions anymore. He trusts me completely.
He simply sighed and nodded.
— Very well. Come back in one piece.
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure I could promise that.
I had to stop this bodily weakness on my own.
That very evening, I went to the cellar.
Not the one in my building. A much deeper cellar. One even angels prefer to ignore.
I engraved the seals with my own blood. Three concentric circles, ancient runes, and a guttural whisper forbidden in thirty-seven dimensions.
And he came.
Glasya-Labolas.
A prince demon of the hells.
In the infernal hierarchy, after the Devils themselves—those called Archdevils or Kings of the Void—come the Demon Princes. Entities of such condensed power that they make biblical calamities look like nervous hiccups.
There are generally twenty of them, and Glasya is the sixteenth.
Which, in this crown of atrocities, makes him an elite lord. A specialist in death, war, and secrets. He speaks all the languages of betrayal, knows a thousand ways to break a soul without touching it.
And for my part… I consider him an old son. An ally, sometimes. A pain in the ass, often.
The ground trembled. The air grew as heavy as Krehaan's debts.
A silhouette appeared in the black flames, two wings with inverted feathers, a cloak of skulls, and a smell… of grilled venison? Seriously?
— FUCK?! What the hell, you summoned me in a... storage room?
— Hey, Glasya. You haven't changed. Still so dramatic.
He stared at me with his ember eyes, then ran a hand through his smoky hair.
— You know you're not supposed to be able to summon me from here? What's that signature? Looks like a shaky source code from a demon intern.
— I'm glad to see you too, after all this time.
I took a step toward him. His aura crackled the walls around us, but I'd seen worse. I'd been worse.
— I'm on a mission. And I need your help. My body... my human avatar... won't withstand a second shock of transcendent energy. I need reinforcement. Something... surgical.
He crossed his arms, skeptical.
— You call me for an operation? Natsa, have you tried asking a doctor instead of a prince demon of dimensional carnage?
— You're the only one I know who can weld nerves to raw essence without killing the host.
He snickered. Then frowned.
— Wait. You introduced yourself as "the devil." You mean…
— I am Lucifer. Well... a fragment of him. A drop of his presence. A thought of his will.
He paused. Then laughed.
— Come on, Natsa. It's not Mardi Gras. Did you steal his coat or what?
So I fell silent.
And I opened my palm.
An echo. A single one.
An echo from hell.
The walls oozed. The circle lit up with a black flame. Rats fled through the rock. And Glasya-Labolas, prince of the killing word, had to lean against the wall.
— …Oh fucking… No... it's not possible. I... I felt it. It was him. It was YOU.
— I'm just a fragment. But I remain himself.
— Why are you doing this to me... I had just taken a blood bath made of exorcist priests, I was relaxed...
— If you help me, Glasya, you'll be rewarded when I return to hell. You know that. I forget nothing.
He lifted his head. And smiled like a scavenger discovering a feast.
— I'm going to make you a body, Natsa. Not a mere vessel. A case. A sanctuary of violence. You'll be more beautiful than a possessed warhorse.
A few hours later.
I'm shirtless, tied to a slab made of bones.
Glasya dances around me with a dimensional saw, basilisk bone needles, and a syringe filled with living fire.
— You sure you want to stay conscious?
— I've known worse. My last relationship, for example.
— Hahaha, you're an idiot, I swear.
He plants the first needle. A dull pain rises to my eye sockets. He redirects my nerve flow. Injects a micro-dose of stabilized draconic energy. Then welds it all with an inverted prayer.
My body screams. Literally. I hear it cry out.
And yet… I resist. I hold on.
— It's taking shape. Your body will be able to endure. Not indefinitely, but… enough to give Krehaan a beating. Want me to add a little booster?
— What kind of booster?
— You smell like cigarettes and regrets. I offer you a smoked wood–celestial vengeance scent. Classic, but effective.
— Glasya…
— OK OK, I'll stop.
Hours later, he frees me.
I stagger. Then straighten up.
My body no longer trembles. It vibrates.
A core inside me. Stable. Solid. Engraved in every vein.
— You feel that? he says.
— I feel Krehaan will regret having had a tongue.
He laughs. Again.
— Natsa... This world isn't ready for you. But I can't wait to watch it burn in your wake.
I hold out my hand. He shakes it. It's warm. Too warm. But I don't care.
— Thanks, Glasya.
— Go kick his ass for me. And don't forget: I like expensive gifts.
I reopen the portal. The icy air of Marlha hits my face.
I'm ready. Or at least... as ready as a fragmentary avatar of the devil can be.