$24,000 for twenty-four hours of leaving the half-breed to his own foolish whims. That was the bargain Resent had struck with the Blight, who evidently had more currency at her disposal than she knew what to do with. For the first few hours, Resent had simply ignored all the boy’s inane questions, and restrained himself from laughing at his blunders. But he quickly grew bored, and with talk of the puerile soiree they intended to spend their evening at, the prince had decided to use this opportunity to test the limits of his ability to possess humans.

  At first, he had nothing in mind beyond self-improvement. His soul, an immediately noticeable crimson gaseous thing, drifting through the sky in the light of day, left him with little choice but to hunt for isolated hosts down below. Though he had learned to hide most of the physical changes a human in his thrall underwent, their eyes still changed to reflect his own. And unlike one as experienced at the art as Jezebeth, he was unable to draw on his host’s memories to impersonate them under scrutiny. Regardless of age or physicality, every person he possessed lost consciousness in the same way Rodrigo had at first, leaving Resent unimpeded. The difference was, in these purely human bodies, he felt his reduced strength far more acutely.

  It was after leaving the fifth body to collapse in an alley that Resent began to devise an essential, if reckless plan. He couldn’t bear to wait until he was back in his own body, or even until the half-breed saw reason. That Semiazas had been chosen as protector meant that at least one other high lord was supporting him, suggesting an alliance between their respective cities. Only Ose, who despised the fallen scum nearly as much as Resent did, could be ruled out. Semiazas could not be permitted to grow comfortable wearing his crown, sitting on his throne. He needed to return to Hell. And that was precisely what he had done.

  It was more challenging and less cathartic than he fantasized. Upon reaching the half-breed’s original dwelling, he made his soul soar hundreds of feet overhead until the black tower was within sight. The D.N.F had cordoned off the entire block that it occupied, erecting high walls around it and placing dozens of soldiers atop them. Fewer were at ground level and others were posted on the tower or the steps that coiled around it, surveying their surroundings through the scopes of sniper rifles. More were surely hidden from plain sight. None of this was an issue, as an untethered soul could phase through physical obstacles, and was therefore immune from most forms of harm. Ideally, it would have been as easy as plummeting from the tower’s summit to the portal beneath.

  Unfortunately, one required a body to make contact with the portal to access it. For all their progress of late, the human military hadn’t yet concocted a reliable countermeasure against possession. Even more so when it was short-term, and the sole discernible change was hidden by the dark spectacles the soldier Resent had chosen wore. He concentrated the nebulae into a dense, unobservable layer under his armor and cap, guarding his host’s vitals from what was to come. No one had suspected anything of him, until he had gone from pretending to check the perimeter to breaking into a mad dash upon laying eyes on the portal.

  Those who hesitated, barking orders or questions at him were ignored. Those perceptive enough to know what was amiss, shot at him. He returned the favor, aided by sight and reflexes pushed beyond the natural peak of human capability. Though blood bloomed from every direction he swung his firearm in, all in all he slayed less than a dozen. A pittance compared to the slaughter of his own kind he had been committing in the humans’ defense, even if he only did so in the interest of disciplining those who had refused to heed him.

  As he passed under the arch at the tower’s base, four automated guns, cleverly concealed in the shade of the metal structure’s legs, locked onto him. Resent could see why they were so effective against demons who had no knowledge of their presence. Of course, the nebulae could have shielded him from the hail of bullets that followed. But when he returned through a different portal on the other side of the world, he didn’t want to be inconvenienced by the half-breed having been captured or killed on suspicion of his involvement.

  So, he endured the pain, allowing his host’s body to be torn to shreds by the high-caliber nethntine rounds. His wounds forced him onto his hands and knees, into a shameful crawl. Once his broken, bloody fingernails scraped the symbol of the tri-horned demon, he was whisked away, just as he heard a missile swishing through the air behind him.

  Now, at long last, Resent was back in Hell. He rolled off the symbol and remained flat on his back, gasping as he covertly used the nebulae to staunch the most grievous of the body’s innumerable punctures. Otherwise, he would bleed to death before they could regenerate closed, and traversing Hell as a soul made one much more vulnerable to the sway of necromancers.

  The azure torches lining the black stone walls illuminated a ring of ten diavoliks, armored from head to toe, pointing their spear-tips down at him. After a few seconds passed, and they sensed the demon soul inside the human vessel, they drew their weapons back, remaining on high alert. The formerly empty chamber now reeked of death, as littered with bodies as the tunnel beyond it was with bones. Less than half were human, and even of those, a number of them had surely been possessed. Most appeared to be demons lacking Resent’s regenerative prowess, who had returned through the portal and succumbed to their injuries.

  Dissonantia had been right. He had granted their weak little species a reprieve, and now they had molded themselves into a threat.

  As if echoing Resent’s thoughts, in Demonic, one of the diavoliks said, “The primates grow more proficient by the day.”

  “The blame lies with our shit stain of a prince,” another of them spat, and Resent tensed before remembering they were oblivious that he was among them. In fact, since writing him off as just another half-dead demon, they seemed to have forgotten his presence entirely. “He killed King Misery, leaving a doddering pacifist in his stead, and ran off to play savior of the humans. Then when the attacks continued, he returned to kill him, too. And now the scrambling council has the lord of the pinioned poultry donning the crown.”

  Typically, Resent would have executed anyone for such slander. But though they were warriors of no repute, in his weakened state, he’d be fortunate to defeat half of them. Besides, the responsibility on their shoulders was crucial. He had heard various countries were using demon prisoners to pass through the portals, sending their soldiers into Hell to try to get the lay of the land. But if reports were to be believed, not a single one had returned. Moreover, as much as it pained him to admit, from the perspective of those who hadn’t been in his meeting with the council, his actions of late must have seemed treacherous and irrational.

  However, as he mulled over the words cataloging his questionable decisions, one in particular stood out. As Resent rose, his wounds healed, he cast aside his anonymity, asking, “The prince killed Barbatos?”

  All but the most diligent, still focused on the portal, fixed him with hostile stares. The most insolent of the bunch ignored Resent’s question and demanded, “How long have you been on the other side?”

  Good grief. The humans had them on such edge that they didn’t even trust their senses. “Since the beginning of the campaign. King Misery tasked me with possessing various government officials, and shattering diplomatic relations between a number of countries, hence the no longer so United Nations. I chose not to let his untimely demise keep me from carrying out his will.”

  With the respect shown to Misery, allegedly in far better standing with the average soldier than Resent himself was, the diavoliks relaxed. “Yes. The prince was seen entering the castle, and when he left, Barbatos and his four conquerors were decapitated corpses. That makes three rulers he has slain now. For years, he has been sabotaging us. Refusing to take the throne, while not letting anyone else have it.”

  Dammit! Resent hadn’t given much thought to the impostor that had framed him for Strife’s murder for some time, and now, left unchecked, they had done it again. What was more, he had always imagined Strife’s assassin had only succeeded through using his visage to catch his father unaware. They might have been counting on some sort of paternal bond, when fittingly, it would have been Strife’s underestimation of him that had been his undoing.

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  But Barbatos’ personal guard, the four conquerors, were selected to compensate for the disparity in strength between him and the other high lords. To kill the four simultaneously, meant their killer was formidable. Though he had little intel on Ruincrest’s newest high lord, Cresil, any of the others would have struggled at the task, particularly with Barbatos’ precognition. Even in Resent’s original body, that would have been a challenge. In the half-breed’s it would have been impossible. Not that these soldiers needed to know the truth of the matter. Better to be viewed as a lunatic than a weakling.

  Resent was on his way out of the chamber, to take the tunnel up to the surface, when he heard the malcontent continuing the seditious conversation. “At this point the cambion, Wrath, seems a better candidate.”

  Resent went rigid, waiting for the others to dismiss the idea and mock him for the absurdity of it. But when one responded, it was in earnest. “What? Are you mad? Word is he has been killing nearly as many of our own in the human world as the prince has.”

  The malcontent gave a booming laugh. “You only prove my point. Not two decades old, killing full-bloods in their primes, and nearly offing that bitch of a Blight in the arena before Resent intervened. King Misery trained him, grooming him to be the leader of the Brutes, and he has King Strife’s blood coursing through his veins. Even if in secret, he grew up among us. How long before he tires of the human world and takes his rightful place in—”

  Resent unholstered the sidearm he hadn’t used in his earlier firefight and pulled the trigger, unloading the entire magazine into the back of the malcontent’s helmet. It had been a gamble whether the armor they wore was forged of a significantly better metal than nethntine.

  But when the gun clicked empty, the diavolik’s body hit the ground with a clang. For a moment, the remaining nine stared down at their comrade’s corpse, blood oozing from the holes in his helmet. Then they spun, once again brandishing their spears.

  “Decry your rulers, present and future, all you wish, but that nonsense he was raving about was treason against Hell itself! Now, when I go up top, shall I inform the sentries that the portal’s in need of one replacement...or ten?” Resent’s spectacles had been damaged in his rush to the portal, and now he ripped them off, tossing them, and the empty pistol, aside. As they saw his purple eyes, a number of the diavoliks inhaled sharply. Though not a trait exclusive to his bloodline, the color was exceedingly rare, and he was by far the most renowned living owner.

  When it was clear they had lost their will to fight, Resent turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder, “The shit stain commends you for your service.”

  With the clandestine nature of his mission, he had perhaps erred in revealing himself. Especially since they had beheld him in a position of weakness and confusion. But the thought that any self-respecting demon would willingly follow a half-breed, even one Misery had built an appealing fable around, had driven him to fury.

  Resent had long since seen the folly in mentoring one destined to be a hindrance to him when they finally parted ways. However, he had always imagined the point of contention between them would be his son’s sick need to find validation through protecting humanity. Not as a potential contender for the throne, even if solely in the minds of the delirious. And, though, Resent wished the solution were as simple as killing him, Rodrigo was the best spare, if he ever found himself in these dire straits again.

  Considering the caution Resent had exerted with his mates since his youth, the existence of another, less willful, bastard child coming to light was unlikely. Miriam had been an exception, because while she had meant nothing to him, Strife had practically been courting her. Taking one his father desired and not merely deflowering her, but having her betray her feelings for him, had put him in a euphoric state, deaf to the repercussions.

  After ascending the spiral staircase and exiting through the raised portcullis, Resent found the area much changed from the barren land it had been on his previous visit. An encampment, complete with round huts and watchtowers that stretched high into the deep red sky, had been stationed around the building. Those coming out were forced to pass through it, and the hundreds of sleepless demons lingering there.

  It was fortuitous that the portal was so far underground that they couldn’t have heard the gunshots, or he might have been mobbed and eviscerated. If trespassing humans somehow penetrated this far, it was where they’d meet their ends.

  Resent glanced to either side of the gate, assessing the chief sentries. On the right was a hulking giant, taller than the tallest of ogres, and with skin of stone, clearly not assigned the job for his cunning. On the left, a female romalkin, one of the upright spotted felines of Ose’s breed. It was to her Resent voiced his concerns. “A fresh soldier is needed below.”

  Before the romalkin could open her mouth, the giant spoke with unexpected lucidity, “What? Why? Was there another breach, or have they been infighting again?”

  Resent shrugged, doing his best to mimic the half-breed’s unwitting attitude. “No idea. He was already dead when I came through.”

  As Resent was walking away, he heard the giant telling his companion, “Investigate, and if they are quarreling among themselves, exterminate the lot of them. We have plenty of warriors up here more interested in gutting the humans than each other.”

  Just outside the encampment, he found a number of carriages where Dreadhounds were awaiting passengers. Resent hadn’t used carriages much beyond childhood, having developed faster methods of travel with the nebulae. But as one used to the speed of four hounds drawing his personal carriage, he stopped in front of one with three, having no patience for the lumbering pace two would set. The lounging hounds glared at him through their masks, crafted from the bones of their first kills, unimpressed by the hue of his eyes and what they might signify.

  One of the hounds was noticeably younger and smaller than the others. Not quite a whelp, but close. It was a sight that might have scared off less savvy customers, yet even if they were of the same pack, if the adults thought the runt would slow their travel speed, they wouldn’t be working with it. And then there were its eyes. Resent had seen hounds with mismatched eyes before, usually a result of crossbreeding, though, both were always luminescent. This one’s left eye was the common glowing silver, but the right was a diavolik red, as if irreparable damage had been done to its own, and it received a transplant.

  Resent had no trigites, the coin of Hell, to fill the pouches around their necks, but he had something he knew they’d prefer, if he could only convince them. “Take me to Vicearia, and you can have this body to do with what you will.”

  Hounds didn’t kill their prey with as few blows as possible out of clemency, but because they enjoyed the taste of fresh meat, unblemished by ugly wounds. A delicacy in these parts. Pity he didn’t have a pizza to offer them, as it would probably secure their undying loyalty.

  The hounds exchanged glances, seeming to be deliberating over whether Resent could be trusted, or if they’d have to chase him down, defeating the purpose.

  The young hound in the middle rose to sit on its haunches, its head resting lower than that of the body Resent was occupying. With the claws on its forepaw, the hound gouged into the ground, leaving Demonic scrawl in its wake that read, “One leg now. Rest later.”

  Resent scoffed at the temerity of the beasts. They wanted to ensure he couldn’t flee, but must have imagined him a buffoon if they thought he’d agree to cripple himself while in their midst. “So I can make it easy for you to have your feast without earning it? No. Save your haggling for a bazaar. Either take me at my word, or I find some hungrier, more agreeable chauffeurs.”

  The lead hound held Resent’s gaze for a time, then nodded, strapping itself into the harness attached to the carriage. The other two seemed to defer to it, because they followed suit. He climbed the rickety carriage steps, went inside, and closed the door. After drawing the black curtains closed, he stretched out on the spacious padded bench, sized to fit some of the largest of demons, save ogres, which even the strongest hounds would struggle to haul.

  Even before his fifteen-year slumber in the urn, it had been decades since he had cause to visit the stronghold of the fallen angels. Unlike the other five great cities, Vicearia was essentially its own domain, with even its demon denizens obeying the word of their high lord over their ruler. There, Semiazas was king in all but name, making his daughter, Devika, akin to a princess. And after her humiliating defeat at Resent’s hands in Dreadmus’ arena, he had gone from being an unwelcome presence in their city to an object of scorn.

  That he was looking to parley with her, smacked of desperation, but he and she had always been a bit too similar. It was part of what made her captivate his interest more than any of his other mates, while also being why the two were incapable of staying civil for long.

  And now, as the hounds began their gallop, he was counting on that overabundant ambition of Devika’s that had stressed their dalliance to its breaking point.