Author's Preface
Solana: So would it be a feasible theory that this devil wants Yasha taken to the Hells for her ability to kill another devil?
Grimjaw: It’s certainly possible. Demon slaying is nasty business, and my understanding is that the profession requires years of training to make its survival rate even slightly manageable. On one hand, if the young lady is a Cambion, leaving her on our plane could be smarter. At the very least, it would increase the odds of her living through adolescence tenfold. On the other, the number of individuals that could teach her to kill demons is low single digits at best on our plane.
Merkra: I know our time with you is coming to a close, but do you mind a couple more questions?
Grimjaw: Of course.
Merkra: We’ve had a lot of talk about souls and possession and demons. You’re a religious expert. Do you know anything about spirits, or spirit fragments?
Grimjaw: Sure. A spirit, surprisingly much like a demon, comes in a few different forms of varying intensity. All of them are rare, but the most common would be a soul that for some reason was unable to reach the Fields of Atonement. These are your classic ghosts. They don’t cause much trouble so it’s not something I’ve ever dealt with personally.
Merkra: What about the others?
Grimjaw: That’s where it gets a little more tricky. Sometimes, a significantly powerful enough soul could choose to forgo the Fields and stay on this plane in a spirit form. This is beyond rare to the point of legend. These are the spirits that our druidic brothers and sisters pray to.
Solana: What about a spirit fragment?
Grimjaw: A powerful spirit could, in theory, separate a piece of itself. I would not want to venture a guess as to why they would do it, but I know it is possible.
Merkra: Thank you, Professor Grimjaw. Learned a lot, seriously. You have any other questions, Babe?
Solana: So many, but I think our time is up. Thank you so much, Professor.
Grimjaw: Of course, this was fun.
Breath ragged, Penelope dropped face first into pillows freshly scented with something floral. She let out a breathless laugh as the mattress shifted behind her. A hand gave her bare backside a firm squeeze before its warm presence was gone. Rolling onto her back, Penelope looked over at the king.
His powerful frame faced the opposite direction, making him look surprisingly like a scarred but drawn warbow. Shoulders arched, line drawn taught into his narrow waist and held tight by the high, hard curves of his ass.
“Do you mind?” he asked, turning toward her with a fist sized ruby in hand.
The drawer was full of them. She’d helped him with this strange task before, but he still refused to tell her why it needed to be done. Penelope scooted to the edge of the bed and took the gemstone.
Just beneath the king’s ribcage, an almost identical ruby sat in a cool steel recess. It sparked as he dug his fingers into it with an uncomfortable squelch in the surrounding flesh. Slowly, he turned the precious stone in his chest until it released. His muscled torso rippled, and he gasped for air, but Penelope was fast.
She reached out and grasped the thin metal strings that stuck out from the steel recess. They stung her fingertips, but she stuck them to the pointed edge of the ruby. She glanced up as the vulnerable king regained his ability to breathe as suddenly as it had failed. Her small fingers pushed the ruby in and twisted a few times until it clicked into place.
“You’re going to have to tell me what this is for one day.” She grinned wide up at him, leaning in and rubbing her nose against red stone.
“Perhaps one day.” His fingers sunk into her thick curls and tilted her head back to lay a deep kiss on her. “Not today though.” He tossed the replaced ruby into a receptacle then pulled on a fresh pair of linen pants.
Penelope dressed quickly and replaced the pins in her hair that, in theory, would hold it in place. The thick red curls rarely listened to anything anyone had to say, though. She glanced over her shoulder at Hester Vilrut, who had taken a seat at a drawing desk to go over some paperwork.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, My King?” Penelope grabbed her boots and hopped barefoot over to him.
King Vilrut’s eyes focus on her over the paper he was reading before giving her a wink. “I think that’s all for tonight. You’re dismissed.”
She bowed with a flourish. “My King.” Turning on a heel, Penelope skipped from his chambers, stopping outside the door to pull on her boots. “Greeeeeegor!” She sang.
“M-Mistress.” The saurian’s red scales shimmered against the torchlight as he seemed to emerge from thin air.
Penelope trotted down the hall, the long legs of the lizardfolk easily keeping up with her. The more busy she got, the more responsibility she had dropped on poor Gregor. Yet, he never complained.
“Did you enjoy the show?” She glanced over at him.
The scales beneath his verdant swirling eyes turned a soft purple, and his head hung though he kept up with her, nonetheless.
“You’re not in trouble.” Her cheeks stretched further, if possible, amused by his embarrassment. “You work hard. Everyone deserves to blow off a little steam. Just so long as you’re not expecting me to do the blowing.”
“O-of…of course not, Mistress.” He stammered, thin tongue flicking out at the air as if taste the heretical words she’d let waft in his direction.
“I expect you checked on Yasha before enjoying your peepshow?” Penelope looked forward again, enough teasing him. Back to business.
“Yesss.” He cleared his throat. “Terran is c-concerned her r-rapid growth has inhibited her ability to form bonds w-with the children.”
“Yes, I suspect Terran has many concerns.” Penelope rolled her eyes slightly. They may have been friends once, but she was on the precipice of something truly remarkable. Her short-sighted friend would not stand in her way. No one would. “Did you find any further information about Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot?”
“I-I’ve exhausted the r-resources at hand.” He hissed at her. “A handful of thieves in the city keep an eye on him, but he h-has a w-way of disappearing on them. He’s also got u-unfettered access to Uppercrest through his c-connections with Leonie Mulbrook.”
“What about history? Anything from the Ashorians?”
“T-they’ve been unsurprisingly quiet.”
Penelope nodded. “Keep an eye on him. He gives me a strange feeling.” She slowed to a stop as they got to the grounds. “Also, be ready to move on Atania at my word. Its almost time.”
“Mistress.” He bowed deep, torso almost folding completely onto his thighs. “Any other tasks for me?”
“That’s all for tonight. You’re dismissed.” She leaned forward and patted the top of his head before turning and heading for the north tower.
It had been months since Atania had returned with her orb, and the diviners had made no progress with it. The king had made a decree that she couldn’t play with the new artifacts until a proper investigation took place. One room destroyed and a measly dozen guards killed, and she suddenly needed guardrails. Luckily, earlier in the evening she’d received word that they’d contacted whatever phantom gave them wisdom or whatever, and had a full report for her.
“You have something for me, Kerrain?” Penelope skipped the final steps of the Divination Tower and smiled at the elder elf standing behind an altar. She was lit up with candles, beautiful fuchsia eyes boxed by shimmering gray hair.
Kerrain nodded, lines around her lips creasing as she pursed them. “A very dangerous artifact, I’m afraid.” She gestured to the orange orb she’d situated on a blue satin pillow between the candles. “Spirits say a man named Heral Gerent created it from one of the first dragon hearts.”
“Powerful then?” Penelope hopped from the ground onto a chair and then onto the altar. The candles wobbled precariously as she reached down and scooped up the orb. It was cool to the touch, and when she held it, it ejected itself from the onyx base and shrank down to fit perfectly in her palm.
“Curious. I’ll have to note it adjusts size according to the wielder.” Kerrain turned away from her to jot some notes in her book.
“So what does it do?” Penelope stared down into the swirling orange and white. She’d waited for months to get her hands on the orb, and she’d almost missed her chance. At least Atania had been good for something.
“It’s a soul siphon.” Kerrain said, still writing in her notebook. “I suggest we lock it up. Were the wrong person to get their hands on it, things could get very bad.”
“Soul siphon?” Penelope’s eyebrows rose slightly, pinching the ball between her fingers. “It steals souls? And does what with them?”
“Holds them. Spirits say its original purpose was to keep a soul from going to the Hells. It could technically hold any soul.” The older woman waved her quill in circles over her head.
“Is there a soul in it now?” Penelope brought it up to her eye to look inside, tapping it lightly.
“There is. Dragon soul.” She finally set the quill down and turned to grab a large bowl from the altar. “I suggest we release the soul to the Fields of Atonement and then lock the orb away.”
“I’ll do it.” Penelope’s grin grew wider. It was true. If the siphon could hold a dragon soul, she’d bet it could hold a Devil’s soul too.
“If you insist..” The elder elf’s voice wavered. “The soul taking doesn’t require a price, but the releasing requires blood.”
“How much?” Penelope hopped down from the altar. The hand not grasping her new toy sunk into her hair as she twirled.
“Quite a bit, I’m afraid. You’ll likely be quite lightheaded before we’re through.” Kerrain set the bowl down on the floor between them.
Penelope pulled a thin pin from within her thick hair and glanced up at the woman who was barely paying her any mind. It was almost sad, but power had a prerequisite of sacrifice. Especially if this sacrifice was of the opinion, she didn’t deserve the power.
Before the elf could stand from her bent position, Penelope drove the pin into the side of her neck. A thin line of blood shot to her left. A candle on the table hissed as it extinguished. Penelope grabbed a handful of gray and tilted the woman’s head so the fountain of life emptied into the bowl.
“Quite a bit, indeed.” Penelope muttered, looking into the orb again. “How much blood do you need?”
She dropped the orb into the bowl and waited, watching the pool ripple as fresh blood lapped against the sides. The older woman wasn’t near strong enough to fight Penelope in the best of situations, but it didn’t stop her from trying. Each time her insipid body spasmed, her fingers tightened in the hair and forced the woman down. The bowl filled and then overfilled, blood spilling onto the floor.
“Oh…right.” Penelope dipped her free hand into the bowl and grabbed the orb again, connecting to it like she would any other artifact. It sent a jolt through her. Her body went rigid, eyes flew open. She could feel it. The soul. The power of a dragon in the palm of her hand.
She exhaled slowly.
The power ebbed as her lungs evacuated, leaving a hollow ache in her chest as her muscles spasm. She gasped for air, but was met with a throat sealed shut. Just as panic started to set in a thin silver line rose from the blood, swirling like smoke and then unraveling into nothingness. Her throat opened again, and air rushed painfully into her chest.
“Maybe too much blood.” Penelope shrugged as she lifted the orb from its sanguine bath. She wiped it against Kerrain’s robe and gazed into it. It was still orange, but there was no movement left in it. Like hardened to a lifeless chunk of amber. She let the elf’s head fall. Her body collapsed onto the floor and splashed blood carelessly in all directions.
“We’ll feed you soon.” She whispered to the orb before tucking it into her pocket.