Sweet Ruin(8)

Outside the glass, against a slate of black nothingness, images of worlds flashed by, as if from a film projector.

He took one of the twelve empty seats at the table, propping his boots up on the gold surface as he awaited his allies. Or at least, he awaited five of them. Two seats remained vacant, and four Møriør would slumber on; considering their natures, waiting to unleash them on Gaia was for the best.

Abyssian Infernas, prince of Pandemonia, was the first to join Rune. Sian, as his compatriots called him, was over seven feet tall and muscled, with long black hair. He wore leather bands over his broad chest and dark trews.

Rune could admit the prince of hells was as wickedly handsome as the devil who’d sired him.

Sian turned his green eyes toward the glass wall. “Good, we’re still a few days out. Gives us time to prepare.” He took his seat at the table. “I haven’t been to Earth in ages.”

“Much has changed. As you’ll soon see.” Rune had been the others’ eyes and ears over the last five centuries, documenting every realm he’d visited. Once his allies had convened, they would delve into his memories, updating their speech and learning about these new times in which they would war.

They were in for some graphic scenes; Rune had spent most of his years plowing slick nymph flesh.

Out of habit, he slid an arrow from the quiver strapped to his calf. He tapped his forefinger on the arrowhead, collecting some of his black blood to draw symbols on the shaft. With those demonic runes, he could focus his fey magicks, amplifying a regular arrow into one of power.

Allixta, the Overlady of Witches and the newest Møriør, entered, sauntering toward the table. How she walked in such a skintight dress baffled Rune. A question for the ages. “Are we finally here?” Curses, her familiar, trailed her. The creature was an Elserealm breed of panther, so large its whiskers brushed her shoulders.

“Close enough to wake,” Rune answered.

Adjusting the brim of her oversize witch’s hat, she sank into her chair. Curses hopped atop the table, reclined its gigantic frame, then hissed at Rune.

Rune hissed back, baring his demon fangs.

“This is what I wake to, baneblood?” Allixta glared at his arrow. “Why spill your disgusting poison in the presence of others? Do you intend to cause offense?”

Rune paused his drawing. As a dark fey, he had poisonous black blood, fatal even to immortals. “My dearest Allixta, if I’ve caused offense, it was unwittingly done—but a welcome development.”

Blace, the oldest vampire, suddenly appeared in his seat at the table, goblet of blood mead in hand. His dark-brown hair was tied back into a neat queue, and he wore an impeccable suit, though the shirt, cravat, doublet, and breeches were centuries outdated.

“Good awakening, friend,” Rune said. He liked the vampire. Blace provided welcome counsel. He was sparing with it, and usually dead-on.

Blace swigged his libation. “I wonder what sights your mind will show us this time.”

Darach Lyka, the first werewolf, entered the chamber, still transforming from his wolven form. The primordial wolf wore only trews and carried a wadded-up tunic in one fist. Rune had little in common with the quietly intense Darach—other than a mutual loathing of Allixta—but Rune respected him.

The best tracker in the worlds, Darach had proven invaluable in locating magickal objects. And on the few occasions when he’d mastered his beast and was able to communicate more easily, he’d shared keen insights, demonstrating a surprising cynicism for a man who’d risen from the dead.

Now Darach struggled to reclaim his human body, compacting his nine-foot-tall werewolf frame. Fangs grinding, he clenched his fists tighter, his bones cracking into place.

Each transition grew more difficult. One day Darach would transform into a beast and never return. Unless he found a way to keep his human form. Perhaps in the Gaia realm?

In addition to the Møriør’s overarching aims, each of them coveted something from Earth and its connected planes, had traveled across the universe to collect.

Most thought Rune wanted the throne of his home world. No, his desires ran much darker than that. As dark as his unnatural black blood. . . .

Their liege, Orion—the Undoing—was the last to convene. He was a being of unknown descent, but Rune believed he was at least a demigod. Perhaps a full deity, or even an overdeity.

Orion’s appearance and scent had changed; he altered them regularly. Today he was a tall blond demon. At their last meeting, he’d been a black-haired giant.

He moved to the glass wall without saying a word. He could remain silent for a decade. Before him, that line of ever-changing planets floated by as the stronghold passed one after another.