Chapter I

Movement First
The Rising Star of Fallmire

—The Black Harbor Times, Morning Issue of 25th March, A.C. 1121

I

I actually know the date for this bit! May the twenty-third. I imagine you’ll figure out the year? I’d never been great at research; not unless I absolutely had to be.

I remember because it was Baron Faldetti’s birthday, and he was the one who summoned me and all. A nice man, if a little boring. He was hosting me at a summer villa, just ten miles east of Corimo in Eldam. We were in the dining room, which was just exquisite. I don’t know the right architecture words for it, though. Should I? Is that important?

His villa also burned quite furiously. I remember that part vividly. Let’s start there, in the middle of things.

I coughed, shouldered my way beneath the fallen timbers of the dining room, and cursed my rotten luck.

“Fucking Dralkian mercenaries,” I said, and then, “What kind of sick mind fills a pie with fucking gunpowder?”

Blood soaked the carpet, but I tried not to pay that too much mind, nor to the broken bodies strewn across the room. The Baron was among them, a wisp of a man whose upper half now lay beneath another burning timber. He wasn’t moving, and I could sense none of the burning lust within him that had filled his living days.

He was dead. Quite obviously.

“The kind of mind trained to kill demons.”

I remember it was Faldetti’s body which filled my vision, so the fact that someone answered my question took me a little off guard. The voice slithered through the recently shattered dining room window. I looked all around, but I couldn’t see its owner; not right then.

The voice had me there. Despite my predicament, I was impressed by the raw audacity of the plan... even if that feeling dueled against a certain burning frustration. Another demonic contract ended before it could be fulfilled. What, was this the third time in a row? Again, I’d had just rotten luck.

I rushed towards the shattered window and grabbed a small poker from the ground, thrown there from the blast and still glowing a faint red. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do at the moment. Then, I reached out empathically towards the owner of the voice.

Immediately I felt the hot red anger thrumming within the voice’s owner. It vibrated like a struck drum. Anger, huh? The attacker’s voice masked it well.

I stoked his fear in response, desperate to drown the fire of his emotion with frozen, chattering cowardice. He was no mere mercenary, no. He was an inquisitor. I doubted my demonic powers would be effective. But I would try.

The weight of the poker was satisfying in my hand. I’ve held my share of weapons through the centuries, though it never came easily to me. I was never martially trained. I stumbled as another timber collapsed beside me trailing red hot sparks.

With that, my attacker finally came into view outside the tall, mostly shattered bay window. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you what he looked like exactly. He was tall, and had a severe expression. He wore the greys of the Inquisition, and trained a musket upon me as I struggled to make it to the window.

“You can’t kill me, idiot!” I called out. At least I had enough run-up to jump dramatically through the window, glass shards sleeting outwards as I landed on the green. The cool air of the night was a welcome relief, even if the glass had torn through my sundress.

I charged the inquisitor. He raised his musket to fire, but I ducked under the bayonet and swatted his face with the hot poker. There was a satisfying thwack as it branded his face. It’s a good day when I can hit an inquisitor like that.

The man cursed and stumbled back. I advanced. I wouldn’t have much time left in this world—not with my contract having failed so spectacularly—but please. I wanted to vent my frustration. Wouldn’t you?

The inquisitor regained his footing. “Demon bitch,” he managed. Honestly, the fact that he was resorting to name-calling made me feel immensely better. And his open mouth was an easy target for my fist...

I felt it before I heard it: a syllable of power dripped from his tongue to bind me. My legs locked up, and I fell onto the grass as my true name emerged from his lips. That’s when I felt the first spike of true fear. It’s an emotion I rarely experienced in those days.

Pain lanced through my form as the inquisitor continued to utter my true name, building the incantation up to a fullblown curse. How can I describe it? The sensation wasn’t burning, nor cutting. I’ve never felt pain like it before; it didn’t come from a physical injury. It felt... red. Yes, like the color. How else can I explain it?

And, speaking of, I wondered. How in the world had that inquisitor discovered my true name—discovered what I had only revealed to...?

By the dead god. Oh, I’d been a fool. The milliner’s face rose before my mind’s eye, and if I could spit right then, I would have. Idiot, foolish girl, that milliner. My body seized up as the inquisitor continued his work.

Never trust a mortal. Truly, she should have never told a soul, mortal or profane. No matter how beautiful that soul was. Me, a succubus, undone by little more than a pretty face! Once my true name was known, it would have been simple for the inquisitor to learn it from that girl.

And then, all at once, the pain ceased. The red faded. I blinked and saw a long splinter of smoldering wood impaling the man right through his gut. Blood bubbled at his lips as he slumped to the ground.

I stood, picked up the bayonet and leaned on it, then finished the job by sticking it through his throat.

“Asshole,” I grumbled.

I looked around at this royal mess. The castle was truly an inferno, now.

I felt I would almost miss this place.

A whirl of motion, a flash of pain blooming across my forehead—stars, redness—and then...

Darkness. One all too familiar.

All sensation drained from me as my demonic spirit was wrested from the body that had been conjured for it. The Abyssal Dream yawned all around me.

Silence reigned. All was still. All save for my whirling mind, which eventually settled upon one singular emotion:

Fuck.

If I had a body right then, I would have let out a long, frustrated sigh through my nose. I don’t deal with frustration well. As it was, my soul floated in nothingness. In the Abyssal Dream: a warm soup of non-being, the demon’s waystop between life and death.

Don’t misunderstand. I had actually been killed... or, well, my mortal body had. That inquisitor, damned by the dead god, had... well, he’d won.

He’d won, and what made it worse, he’d done so right when my demonic contract was about to be completed. Which meant no payout for me, no rush of power enlarging my spirit, nothing. All that work, and I was no more powerful than before.

That was... oh, I don’t remember. The third failed contract in a row? The fourth?

Point is, I was getting bad at this. Demons can only gain in power by successfully completing contracts. I’d never heard of a demon losing their power... but, well. The way my luck had been going, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Well, what could I do? I simmered in anger for an age, for... I couldn’t say how long precisely. Time doesn’t really have any meaning there in the Dream. Minutes might stretch unending, decades might pass in an instant. But even I couldn’t hold onto my anger forever, no matter how hard I wished. It did what every emotion did in that place, eventually. It drained out of me, dissipated into the void leaving little behind.

It wasn’t fair, but there you go. The life of a demon was far from fair. I’d do better next time.

Time did what it’s best at. It passed.

Time passed...

And then it didn’t.

I felt a summoning, a small tug upon my soul.

Finally. Someone new was summoning me. They did not bind me by my true name—thank the dead god—so that did leave me a choice. Not that I was going to refuse without good reason, but... well, my mind quested down the line of the summoning, sensing the person who was calling out for me.

Every summoner was different, and this one... ooh. Girl.

This summoner smelled deadly. No, no, it wasn’t a literal smell, but how else might I describe it? This summoner felt sharp, a blade of focused emotion. And tempering that blade was the dead god’s fury itself.

Whatever contract they offered would be brimming with power. Yes, oh yes. Enough power to make up for three or four failed contracts, certainly.

The decision made itself, really; though I remember I made a promise to myself. By the fucking dead god, this will not be like the last time. Or the time before that, or the time before that...

I’d throw myself into whatever contract awaited me.

I sped along the connection, ready to re-enter the human world, the terrible, wonderful realm which mortals named Melodia. That’s where all the fun was to be had, after all.

The raw matter of my body phased into existence, and I began to shape it to my liking. I wondered about the particulars of this summoner’s ritual: it seemed oddly detached from the process of incarnation, almost deliberately unconcerned with my physical form. That was unusual—especially for a succubus like me. I sculpted my body quickly, and struggled once again with how to fit all the little organs in, the stomach, intestines, kidneys, and... that other thing, the small organ tucked beneath the liver, whatever it’s called. Anyways, I squeezed them all together, formed the drying hip bones as a basket around my sloppy work. Oh, yes, this bit I’m not good at, no ma’am. But it would have to do, since even—

Appendix. Right! That little pesky organ below the liver. It’s called an appendix.

Why even bother with it? If I could do it again, I’d just leave it out. It would certainly make fitting everything else in down there more convenient.

Finally, with a snap, my lovely immortal spirit lashed itself fully to my nascent body. It felt like... like a cool glass of water, but it runs down your entire form, not just your throat. I stepped into the world again, clothed in curves that would make the most hardened inquisitor blush.

And this time, a thick black dress materialized around those curves. Another surprise from this ritual. Clothes happened... oh, maybe half the time. If I’m being generous.

I lighted on the stone floor and looked around. This? This was a proper dungeon. Torches guttered along the walls, and I could feel the place’s moist dampness settle against my skin beneath the thick dress. Honestly, horniness aside, I was grateful for the garment; it warded off the underground cold. A dripping noise echoed throughout, completing the pitch-perfect ambiance.

Outside, the sound of rain fell like a blanket, the din of a busy city street nestled cozily beneath it.

Not a lot of people managed even half this. Dungeon, guttering candles, even the admirable restraint to clothe me. I was suitably impressed. The only thing missing would have been the squeak of rats, though I couldn’t say I minded.

“Truly excellent,” I said, the words slipping out before I realized I had a voice again.

My new summoner snorted. The intriguing smell of fury I had sensed originated in a tall, broad-shouldered woman, eyes flat and steel gray. My eyes wandered over her form, taking her in. Her dark hair was cut short in a military style, and indeed, her outfit was probably some kind of understated military uniform. Brass buttons marched down her chest in two regiments on black cloth, halting above pants of the same material. She wore brown, sensible boots, and held a truly ancient grimoire open in her left hand. Her right hand rested on a short cane that came to her hip.

The woman’s eyes moved over my own form, calculating, assessing—no widening of the pupils, no sharp intake of breath from her. I was a little miffed at that.

I side-eyed the grimoire; the binding ritual felt as old as I was, and indeed, the grimoire’s pages were ragged and stained. Some things never change.

Finally, the woman spoke. “Have you a name, demon?” Her voice was soft, low, unyielding.

“Have you?” My voice tasted the air once more and found it sweet.

“Yes,” the woman said, and she walked around the inscribed summoning circle, her eyes never leaving mine.

I waited for her to elaborate, but then quickly got bored of the staring contest. “What year is it? I’m sorry, you never can tell how long it’s been between summonings. In a thousand years you’d think the Abyssal Dream might get a proper calendar,” I raised my hands in exasperation, “but no.”

Intrigue and bemusement danced behind the woman’s eyes for a moment. I wished I could play on her emotions directly, but the summoning ritual barred my empathic influence from affecting my summoner. Alas. I could look, but I couldn’t touch.

After a moment, the woman spoke. “It’s eleven thirty-seven, in the year of the Calamity, if that means anything to you.”

I shrugged. Almost a century had passed, it seemed. That was fine. Longer than usual, but I’ve suffered through greater dry spells.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said, gesturing to the torches, the stonework. “Really makes a succubus feel properly appreciated, you know?”

The woman’s brow furrowed, her step took pause. “Thank you,” she said. “Or rather, thank this suite’s previous owner. This was all him.”

“He has good taste. Or had? Either way. Tell me, what is your darkest desire, mortal?” I wagged my eyebrows, though tastefully. Yes, I can waggle them tastefully. Like this.

Anyway, this yielded another pause, another furrowing of the woman’s brow. “Really?”

“I’m a strong believer in tradition.”

“I see.”

This woman seemed fun to tease. Excellent. “If you are not pleased with this form—”

“It will be acceptable, thank you.”

“Acceptable.” I stretched my newly-formed arms—what a sensation, I tell you!—and presented my cleavage suggestively as I yawned. I’d seen enough of this mortal’s soul. I knew what would set her heart racing. “Just... acceptable?”

The woman shrugged. Shrugged! And then had the temerity to add, “Yes, quite acceptable. Are you ready to strike an accord, and should I simply call you demon?”

I groaned, then sat myself down on the floor of stone. “Lucia, to you,” I said, giving her one of the many names I’ve worn through the centuries. It was my favorite.

“Excellent. And you may refer to me as Duke Talia, Privateer Captain of the Glorious Navy of the Commonwealth. Though . . .” she trailed off. “Perhaps simply Talia will do.” The woman—Talia—was beginning to smile, and it produced the most uncomfortable feeling I had experienced in some time. “Do you want a chair?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, and I heard myself say, “That would be good,” as if offering the demon you just summoned to your unholy service a bleeding chair were the most normal thing in the world. But there it was. Talia dragged a reasonably upholstered seat across the summoning circle, and placed its twin opposite.

Talia sat down, pulled out a sheaf of folded parchment from her jacket, and started reading from it.

“I, Duke Talia, do solemnly put under oath you, Lucia, inhabitant of the Abyssal Dream, to serve me in my sacred aims wholly and completely, and with no harm to come to my body nor spirit in the course of—”

“Oh wow,” I said. “Pre-written contract and everything.” I’ve usually found my summoners knocked right on their arse once they realized they’d managed to nab a bona-fide demon. This woman came prepared.

“Your demonic wiles are no match for me,” Talia said—in a tone like she was discussing the relative prices of tea at market. “Though if you would prefer to read through your contractual obligations yourself...?”

At that smidgen of permission, I snatched the parchment from Talia’s hand, skimming through it. “Ugh,” I said. “I’m no good with this language.”

“I thought demons knew every mortal tongue?”

“That doesn’t cover… ugh, legal speak.” I scanned further. The words were barely better than gibberish, though they had been set down in a remarkably steady hand. “Or, you know, all that posh stuff. Upper class register I always have trouble with, particularly this Pallian. It’s not even a proper Paradisan tongue!”

“Hm.”

I did my best reading through the contract. It did put me in mind of the bad old days—back when summoners remembered that this servitude was meant to be a punishment for demons like me. Can’t say I missed that. One way or another, I worked my way through. Boring, boring, neat turn of phrase there, boring, boring, wait, go back—

I narrowed my eyes at the offending sentence. What…?

“Wife? You want me to be your wife?”

“Outwardly, yes. I would have you pose as a mortal woman and pass as my Duchess.”

“Well, I’m certainl—um, I mean,” and I shook my head slightly to clear it. This did not work. “Let’s, uh, circle back to that,” and I took refuge in the contract’s remainder. I flipped through four more pages. Four! This cursed sheaf seemed to cover every eventuality (“...and in no way, form, or manner should you knowingly render financial assistance to my enemies...”).

A headache was brewing behind my newly-formed eyes. I glanced back up at my summoner. “All right. This all appears, um, acceptable. But... wife?”

“It is essential that you are not perceived as a demon. A cambion, perhaps,” oh right, that’s a mortal descendant of a demon-human coupling, “but this is an unlicensed summoning, for one thing.”

Talia leaned back in her chair, adjusting her gloves, her eyes steady on me.

“It’s hotter when it’s illegal,” I quipped, though that still gave me pause. Unlicensed did move the needle a bit. Inquisitors were not known to be merciful when it came to illegal traffic with the demonic—most were nervous around perfectly legal demonic contacts, and I didn’t expect that to have changed all that much over the last century or so.

“Understood,” I said. “How long will I need to keep this charade up?”

Talia frowned and looked away for a moment, a placid thoughtfulness descending upon her grey eyes. “A few weeks at least; perhaps a month. Certainly long enough to avoid suspicion over your untimely death, which should otherwise be easy to engineer. Your body suffers mortal wounds the same as any human, I take it?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. The manner in which my last contract had ended flashed through my mind, but I pushed the image—the pain—away. A few months wasn’t a bad deal. But something still made me hesitate.

What I wasn’t seeing was the source of the fury that simmered deep within Talia’s frame even now. That emotion was powerful—strong enough that I’d sensed it even before I accepted this summons. I wanted to get at that. And just posing as this woman’s wife didn’t seem to involve that emotion, that raw fire. A fire which could sear the foundation of a much more lucrative contract.

Oddities aside, this contract was small beans. Barely worth the effort. But, well, I’d take what I could get.

For now.

“Deal,” I said, and Talia nodded sharply. She handed over a fountain pen and indicated where I should sign. I did so with a flourish.

Talia took back the contract, added her own signature beside my own, and as simple as that, the pact was sealed. A heavy, comfortable weight settled around my body, binding it to this world for the duration of the contract. Without it, my soul would be inexorably drawn back to the Abyssal Dream no matter how much I might long to stay.

“Excellent,” Talia said. “Now, if you would follow me, you are to fulfill your first marital duties.”

“Ha!” I said. “So you do think I’m hot!”