The Smashwords Edition is finally cooked and ready to serve.

The book will be available via Apple Store, B&N, and several others within the next day or three. Smashwords takes about a week to fully propagate the book across all platforms. I’ll update this page the instant they become available.

Copyright   Samuel T. Crown   2011

CHAPTER ONE

Have you ever been summoned?

I don’t mean by your boss ringing you at do-you-know-what-time-it-is o’clock, or a chesty blonde thrusting a subpoena into your hands while you’re otherwise distracted. I mean a good old-fashioned, transetheric, pentagonal summoning.

It’s an inviolable command wrapped in a siren’s song. It’s a lover’s cry for help carried on an gentle wind. It perks you up from your dusty seaside dinner outside Mumbai and drops you like a sack in someone’s cluttered basement half a world away. I bang my knee and jam my shoulder in the fall. Then my stomach and dinner catch up to me.

Teleportation is like swimming. Don’t do it within a half hour of eating. My stomach lurches upward. I double over and clap a clawed hand over my mouth. Clawed? I look at my hand. Fingers slightly longer than human, fingernails as talons. We’re a bit bird-based, we homo angelus. A quick touch confirms that my horns are there, growing smooth from my temples, and angling forward, bull-like. Some power has ripped away my illusion of humanity. Panic stirs at the base of my brain.

“Oh. My. GOD!” comes a woman’s gleeful voice. “It worked!”

I look up. She’s exultant, fists upraised. She wears glasses, their fashion five years out of date. Her hair is raven black, truly black, not dyed, and pulled up into a high ponytail. Her eyes sparkle deep blue, like the ocean at dusk. Her glee brings out the twinkle. She’s wearing purple and blue summoner’s robes, embroidered with silver runes. Quality material. Silk. As she lowers her arms, I see the neckline plunges perilously over a lovely figure. “You’re him. You’re really him!” she says, smile glorious without a trace of self-consciousness. The panic in my brain gives way to puzzlement.

I take a moment and recover myself, standing to my full height of six feet. I glance around the room, crowded basement filled with thirty years of detritus including old tricycles, a black and white dinner TV, and a rickety old dresser that looks one stiff breeze away from collapsing. There’s a laptop on it, new, running a screensaver with pink bunnies and smiling anamorphic flowers.

“Can you talk?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

I’ll take it cautious. Admit nothing. “I’ll be fine in a moment. And you would be?”

“Oh! I’m Valerie. Valerie Ha—” she catches herself. “Wait, I probably shouldn’t tell you my name, should I? You could conjure by it.”

My puzzlement deepens. She’s correct, but even a neophyte should know I could conjure by her first name if I’ve met her. And yet she’s managed to summon me. A demon without a name. There’s something very wrong here. Caution is my ally. Caution and charm. My smile is disarming. My kind are all rather attractive to you mortals, at least in our true bodies. “Okay, Valerie. Well, you know if you wanted to meet me, a drink and a handshake would have done.”

She blushes, looking away, suddenly conscious of her neckline. “Well, I didn’t really bring you here for that. My boyfriend would object, I think.” She’s quite disarming herself. If it weren’t for the five black candles burning on the concrete floor around me, I might relax my guard. They denote the points of a pentagram that I’m unable to see. A trap is useless if spied by its prey. I wonder what sort of circle she set up. Sand and chalk? Or is it etched into the floor and inlaid with silver?

I sniff the air. Honey-like incense nearly covers the candles’ wet stink. Like burning hair, but much fainter. That’s real tallow there. She’s obeying the conventions, and I’m bound to abide. My smile tightens. “Well, people don’t usually summon full-blooded demons for a meet-and-greet.”

“But you’re not really a demon are you?”

I balk, just for an instant. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can see your wings. They’re black-feathered, not bare. Demon wings are batlike.”

“As a point of fact all of my kind, angels and demons alike, have batlike wings underneath. I’ve just been out of Hell long enough to molt. Which is not fun, by the way.”

“But that’s my point! Demons are confined to Hell. Therefore, you’re not really a demon.”

Despite myself, my brows are creeping upward. “Okay, who the hell are you, lady?”

She’s chipper. “I’m Valerie! All my friends call me Val.”

“Okay, Val, a few facts that you simply can’t be ignorant of if you conjured the likes of me. First, summonings like this must have a specific point. They’re time consuming, difficult, and never done ‘just to say hi.’ I mean, there’s no MMS version of a demonic conjuration. Second, I don’t have a name. Not any more. Finally, and most important, how did a perky valley girl that looks way too normal to dabble in this kind of sorcery manage to conjure the universe’s only nameless entity?”

“But you do have a name. At least, you’ve got a lot of titles.”

“Well—”

She names them on her fingers. “You’re the wanderer, and the nameless exile, and the unrepentant redeemer. There are more, too. Many more.”

Jaw drop. I reach towards her to test the circle. My hands brush the edge. Pure force. Bulletproof glass is fine china compared to this. Its potency is monolithic. I push against it, looking like a mime. I try my wings. Similarly restrained. No cracks. No flaws. No pain either, so she’s also polite.

She doesn’t step back when I move. She grins. “I did a good job, didn’t I?”

She had. In fact, I’ve only felt a stronger circle once, and that was a Merlin. I drop my hands and my pretense and simply stare. “Who the fuck are you?”

She does the exaggerated sigh, more teen-ish than the mid-twenties I’d guess her to be. “I’m Val. Look, I’ll be straight with you. I need some help, and you’re the best person to help me.”

“I’m not a person.”

“Sure you are. Everyone is. Vampires, spirits, minotaurs, bigfoots, demons, angels, wizards. . . We’re all people in our hearts.”

I stare, horrified. “There’s so much wrong with that statement I don’t know where to begin.”

She continues, unabated. “But, before I tell you what I need help with, I need to know more about you. I know that you help people with their problems, but I’m just not sure about you.”

This is almost too much. “Listen, Val, one doesn’t generally conduct job interviews from a summoning circle. And, I’m not exactly the A-Team here, you know?”

“No, no, I think you’re perfect! I just want to make sure. So, for tonight, the purpose of this summoning is to hear how you escaped from hell, and why you haven’t been locked back up.”

I can feel the circle beneath my feet now, crawling up my legs like static just on the verge of sparking. I could refuse. Try to fight it. Yet, if the barrier is any indication, I could also die screaming, back arched to the breaking point and chipper little Val watching me over an innocent little grin.

I concede. “Well, this will take a while, so you might want some to get some snacks.”

“I’m all ears!” Her smile is perfect and beyond adorable. I’d almost have told her the tale just for the asking. Almost.

I gather my thoughts, center myself, and find a starting point.

* * *

Let’s start with some perspective on demons and where we’re from. Hell is pain, my dear. I can tell you all about pain. I’m an expert on the subject.

Imagine if you will, a rock centered in a lake of molten fire. Now place yourself spread-eagled upon it with adamantine spikes driven through your wrists and ankles. There’s one through your stomach, and there’s one through each wing. Meanwhile, sulfurous magma seethes across you in regular waves, searing into every pore, igniting every hair in an endless cycle of destruction and regeneration. Some days you’re submerged, drowning in the stuff. Others you choke and splutter, puking dry heaves into air that’s more sulfur than oxygen. Yes, we need air to live, but one can’t die in Hell, can one? No no no. Pain, remember? It’s all about pain.

I was there, in that exact predicament, for a long long time. I don’t know which was worse, the fire of the lake or the heat of the stone, itself on the verge of melting into magma. Every now and again, just for a change of pace, my kindred would raise me to the surface and rend my flesh with their jagged claws and splashing lava into the wounds. Take my word for it: flaying sucks.

The funny part is, you kind of get used to it after a while. The routine becomes fairly predictable and therein lies the most insidious torture of all. Few demons receive punishments as severe as the damned souls. I came to rank amongst that illustrious group approximately one thousand, one hundred seventy years after the birth of God’s son.

Let’s start with Mephistopheles.

No, actually, wait. The root of my issues didn’t begin with him. A bit further back, I should think. Long, long before my time chained to the rock.

I was perfectly happy as a judiciary legate. Yes, we have laws in Hell, and I was responsible for penning them for ratification. I love language, and I love words. You can twist them to mean anything, and I’ve always been very good at that. I authored some incredibly arcane legislation for all the major figures. In fact, a particularly devilish bit of code written for Lilith, the Succubus Queen, earned me a wife.

And that is where the trouble began. With a woman. Like always.

Her name was Lilliel, and never have I met a more glorious, venomous, brilliant, vicious, stunning, wicked, and exhilarating creature. I still can’t help but think of her by her pet name, Lilly, such is my affection for that vivacious harpy. She’s a woman of vast extremes, and, for a few hundred years, we lived in extreme happiness. Yes, happy. Even in Hell.

You see, surviving Hell is about keeping yourself occupied. Have you ever been with a succubus? No? Well, it’s liquefied crack infused with heroin injected straight into your brain stem. She smiles and you glow. She frowns and you’re wracked with agony. Simply, when you’re with her you forget your torment. I’m not sure I can speak any more plainly.

But, one day, Lilly was unhappy.

We lived in Dis, the only real city in Hell, and we had a nice apartment in a high-rise (long before you humans had high-rises) overlooking a bend in the Styx. The city has been called the City of Brass, and, indeed, it’s made of metal and polished to a deep, burnished glow. We couldn’t really build out of anything else. Not in a place where fire rains down from gasoline clouds. It’s beautiful, in an accursed sort of way.

She’d spend many hours out on the balcony, lazily draped in shimmery silks, reclining on an ivory and velvet divan. She’d watch the clouds writhe across the ashen sky. I’d say she was tanning, but her skin was pale and smooth. Perfect, like alabaster. Her horns were always jet black, usually worn spiraling upward from her hairline. We can shape and sculpt them with the right kind of tools and magic. She would spend hours working on hers in the mirror, and the results were always impressive.

She even took the trouble to keep her eyes human, further enhancing her exotic nature. You see, most of us have no iris or white. The whole eyeball is solid black, as mine are now without my illusion. Succubi, on the other hand, spend vast sums to maintain traditional irises, often with colors unattainable to mortals. She preferred brilliant ruby or amethyst, sometimes with a hint of luminescence. You could tell her mood from her eyes, unlike these obsidian orbs most of us have. When she was happy, I could stare at her for what seemed like years.

Sorry, digressing.

One day, I returned from the slave pit (no joke), and she was pouty, which with her lips was saying something.

“What troubles such a beautiful girl, my love?” I asked.

Her voice was resonant. Musical, with no trace of accent unless she wished it. I still sigh to think of it. “Do you ever want more from existence than this?” She gestured a bejeweled hand out across the magnificent desolation in somber red and deepening black.

“Is this a philosophical discussion?”

She smiled. She always appreciated my snark. “In a way. Let me pose a question. Are you truly happy with your rank as it is?”

I considered. A judiciary legate enjoyed a fair amount of power, and a prosperous salary (not in money, but rather as we calculate such things). I could summon souls at will to cook, clean, bathe, or otherwise entertain us. I commanded respect from the hordes, and I’d received commendations from all the archdukes at one time or another. Except Ahriman. That honorable bastard. I shrugged. “What more could we want?”

She smiled and rose, and her silks fell around her voluptuous form in the most tantalizing way. I’d seen her bare a thousand times, of course, but a subtle glimpse of cleavage here, a provocative silhouette there, and my breathing quickened and my blood left my brain for warmer territories south. The effect still amazed me after all our time in marriage. She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me to look south along the river. “I’d like to live there.”

Her red-enamled talon pointed to the sprawling estates lining the distant bank, each one a miniature representation of the City of Brass with open-air courts, simmering lava pools, and a thousand enslaved souls to wait on every potential desire, whether subtle or gross.

I smiled. “You’d have to twist my wing, but I could live there. What brought this on, my love?”

She sighed, wistful. “I remember living in Lilith’s palace is all. So grand. The dances, the games, and the parties. Oh, and the intrigues! My lady always loved a good intrigue. I wanted to be her. So beautiful and treacherous on her crystal throne wearing her silver crown. I always thought ‘one day, that will be me, sitting atop my own throne wearing my own crown’. Gold for me though, not silver. Not with this color.” She touched her brilliant red hair, styled in artful ringlets sweeping down her back towards more alluring territory.

“If it’s a crown you want, I can—”

“No, it’s not just the crown. A crown is just a symbol. It’s. . . oh, my love, don’t think on such things. I’m happy with you. I may just be in need of a change of scenery.”

“You could always get some work up above.”

She crossed her arms beneath her chest and huffed. “And let yet more grubby little mortals paw at me? I’ve had quite enough of that to last another millennia. I was in Rome, remember?”

You might be wondering if I’d be jealous of my wife having other men or women in her bed. It’d be like marrying a porn star and getting angry with her for going to work. When you love a succubus, you have to know what you’re getting into. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And fidelity is a bit of a joke in Hell.

“Well. . .” I sifted through the possibilities. I’d never really pursued advancement, though I’d quite ruthlessly dealt with others who had designs on my position. Rank is everything in Hell. What else do we have to compete for? “I do have a presentation for my lord in a few weeks. I suppose I could make an additional proposal. It might mean me being absent for some time. Perhaps a century or more.”

A smile spread on ruby red lips, lifting my heart like the first dawn. “The details can wait. I’m prepared for some sacrifice. Making the attempt is all I ask, my love.” She rolled her shoulders and fluffed her wings, and her silks fell away. “Now, was there something I might do for you?” She held her arms out, and I carried her to the divan. I remember that divan. Expensive. Comfortable. Very very sturdy.

The next day (I should really say the next ‘less-dark time’) I started some research. I thought England had some possibilities. Europe was coming out of a dark age, and Mammon and Belial’s heavy-handed tactics just wouldn’t fly much longer. A new world order was arising, a bastion against injustice and amorality and pretty much everything to do with my kind. It would pay quite well to salt the mortar.

It was with this that I met my lord, Mephistopheles, in the Iron Keep two weeks later.

The Iron Keep sits atop the north gates of Dis. It’s a monolithic structure all in sooty black, more tower than keep, in truth. Gargoyles leer from the battlements (both sculpted and real) and anyone passing into the city must pass through the keep’s gates below. It’s a gaping maw guarded by three of the heaviest portcullises you can imagine, with beams two feet thick and overwatched by holes made for murder.

Yes, I’m aware that our principal enemies are winged angels that fly. Trust me, there’s a defense plan to nullify that advantage.

Anyway, while the keep itself is a study in symbolic intimidation, the interior is pure luxury. You have to look out a window to remember you’re in Hell. You’re surrounded by rich tapestries depicting idyllic scenes, comfortable furniture in velvets and expensive hardwoods, the finest liqueurs and delicacies brought to you on silver trays by the most attractive damned souls you can imagine. Wealth. Station. Power. I admitted to myself that Lilly had a point. It’s good to be the archduke.

My lord himself awaited me in his study. Mephistopheles is one of the most powerful entities in the universe. By order of rank, most estimations put him second in command in the armies of darkness. Yet, he’s incredibly unassuming. Handsome, though not overly so. Modest wingspan. Not too tall, not too short. He dresses very well, like lawyers and bankers. Today he wore a blue doublet and silver chain with sapphire pendant.

Only his horns bespeak his power. They’re silvery, which is quite rare, and expensive. Yet even these he wears short, protruding straight from his forehead.

He smiles as I enter. “Good to see you, legate. You have the Turkish solution, I trust?” His voice is quiet, yet fills the room.

I patted my satchel. “Indeed, my lord. And another proposal, if I might beg some time.”

He gestured to a dark leather chair before his desk. “Intriguing. What about?”

I handed him the satchel and took my seat, wings draping around the arms. “It occurs to me that we have an opportunity to curb the church’s power in England.”

He pulled the scrolls from the satchel. His eyes ran through them line by line. “Really? How so?”

“Well, after so many years of brutality, disease, and more basic predations, I believe it’s time to shift our ground. Humanity is already rising out of its dark age, and the church is responsible for it. Suppose we managed a fairly secular king on the throne of England. One who could, through law and custom, lead the country away from its devotions.”

He set the scrolls down and sat back. He steepled his fingers at his lips and regarded me. “I like it,” he said finally. “Whom did you have in mind to lead this secular England?”

“I believe Henry the First’s grandson could start the revolution, as it were.”

“Ah, so you’re considering a short timeframe? Or was the final evolution to come from one of Henry’s heirs?”

“I’d like to continue with the heirs, of course, but I’m thinking twenty to forty years.”

His eyebrows went up. “A very short timeframe, then. Legate, it would be a lie to deny my skepticism.”

This was the hard part. It’s true that I was proposing a master level plan. This is not unlike a surgical intern performing open-heart surgery, or a first-time author guaranteeing a bestseller. I took a deep breath and centered myself. “My lord, if I might presume, my writings and legislation have drawn nothing but the highest praise from both yourself and your esteemed colleagues. I have been cited and rewarded on more than one occasion. My proposal plays very much to my strengths, and very much to your style. This is a slow, deliberate separation of the church from the people through rule of government.”

He held up a hand. “Hold. You’re not proposing a freedom of religion are you? I won’t hear of that sort of nonsense until—”

“No, my lord, forgive me, no. The people will still believe themselves good and faithful servants, but will, through the church’s own technicalities and the government’s own laws, actually be beyond the church’s influence. In short, simply by living in England, they damn themselves to Hell.”

He watched me for some time, his black eyes unreadable. Finally he smiled. “Ambitious, daring, and stylish. Even if we do nothing with it, you have my compliments for the concept. And what might you be asking in return?”

I didn’t mention my wife’s name, but I told him of Lilly’s dream estate and the funds and souls it would require. As I spoke, a wry smile spread across his face. By the end he was nodding. “It sounds fair, though I’ll require some results before full compensation is paid. In the short term a promotion should suffice. Let’s put you at viscount to start with and move you to duke if your plan comes to fruition.”

“My lord, I— I am at a loss for words.” If I hadn’t been sitting, I’d have fallen over. A duke? Me? I’d be one of my lord’s lieutenants! A right-hand man, as it were. I could only imagine what Lilly would say. And do. Hmm. Some thoughts are best kept private.

He laughed and stood. “Well, let’s hope that affliction is short-lived. Bring me your proposal next Monday including long and short-term projections, resource requirements, and a personnel requisition. Barring complications, you can get started immediately.”

I took his hand and was all grins. He held it for a moment and said, “You know, this change in ambition is rather sudden. Not unwelcome at all, but sudden. How’s your lovely wife?”

“Er, perfect, my lord.”

“They always are. Well, I shan’t keep you.”

Lilly staggered happily from the news. It was one of the few times I’d ever seen her unbalanced. She had to sit. “A duchess,” she said, her eyes lost in the distance. “On my lord’s arm, and the envy of all the handmaidens still in my queen’s palace! Oh, my dear husband, how you please me!”

And please her I did. Several times. Again, that’s probably best kept private.

I still wonder when the seeds of betrayal were sown. I’d like to think this was her plan all along. Or perhaps Mephistopheles had a hand in it. In truth, I still only have part of the story. The ironic part of my mind rather likes the notion that my rise and fall began in the same moment.

CHAPTER TWO

Val holds up her hand, as if in school. I play teacher. “The pretty girl in the back.”

She smiles despite herself. “So that’s how you got out of Hell?”

“Oh, no no no, madam. Demons can’t physically leave. It’s a prison, after all.”

“But people summon demons all the time,” she says as if describing pumping gas or using the take-a-penny plate.

“No, they’re summoning demonic spirits. You have to understand, an angelic spirit can take any form and can be as substantial as flesh. There’s some science behind it, but that would take a rather long time to explain. No, I was getting sent to Earth in spirit form.”

“Spirits can only appear short-term.”

“Sure, I needed an anchor. A body to possess. That’s quite easily done, and my lord had a young count in his thrall who was a very willing sacrifice.”

“You—you sacrificed someone?”

My brows come together. “Val, forgive me, but for someone who accomplished such a powerful summoning, you seem very ignorant of the basics.” I rap my knuckles on the barrier. “This didn’t just happen by accident, did it?”

She blushes. “Well, no, but the computer did most of the work.”

Another jaw drop. I’m difficult to floor, but this girl has done it twice in twenty minutes. “Computer?”

She touches her laptop and the screensaver vanishes. Rivers of code stream through multiple windows. A bar graph indicates power level spiking off the screen. “I wrote a program to help me. It worked pretty well, didn’t it?”

Flabbergasted. That’s the word. “I—That’s—Val, I don’t know of anyone who has ever done this! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

She shrugs. “It’s just a computer.”

Facepalm. “Val. A magical act is an act of will. Your soul is exploiting loopholes in reality. A computer has no anima. It’s not even on the same level as microbes. It can’t do this.”

“But, here you are.”

I deflate. “Point. Though, I’m still going to try to figure this out, if you don’t mind.”

She smiles. “By all means, but don’t let it interrupt your story. The battery won’t last forever.”

I decide not to remind her of the Laws of Thermodynamics. A computer battery wouldn’t have the capacity to hold me for even a minute, let alone transport me across half a world. I put my brain to work on that and get back to it. “Okay, sure, where was I?”

“Mephistopheles had just approved your plan, and your wife was really happy. But you were about to be betrayed.”

I nod. “Well, the actual betrayal and imprisonment wasn’t for some years yet.”

* * *

There’s no need to get into all the details of King Henry II’s rise. I accomplished several tasks in my role as the Count. I met Henry at about age eleven. I befriended his custodians, served as his tutor and confidant for his formative years. Really, that was the key. Get to him young.

In truth, I think he might have managed most of what we accomplished without my help. Few humans have the ambition to conquer a nation at such an early age. Okay, that may be inaccurate, but few have the actual ability. Remember Caesar? Magnificat.

So, keeping it short, I possessed a body (that of a middle-aged, notable count whose name shall remain unsaid), installed myself as Henry’s custodian, and taught him that bending knee in church is a necessary political function of being a king, but means ultimately nothing.

Yes, it really was pretty easy. The possession was on the tricky side, but the Count and I were of a mind to begin with. All we demons really need is a crack to worm our way in.

Next step was to get Henry on the English throne. Unfortunately King Stephen, Henry I’s nephew and current Pretender, was still in the way, and he had an heir named Eustace. Yes, that was really his name. You think I could just make up something that horrible?

And horrible he was. I went to England to have a look at the king and heir. This was during a time they call ‘The Anarchy’ which was when the grandchildren of William the Conqueror were bickering over who should rule England. There were two primary contenders. Henry I’s daughter, Matilda, and Stephen.

Matilda had the more legitimate claim, but you know how women were viewed back then. Stephen subverted her claim within minutes of Henry I’s death, and she, being a descendent of the Conqueror, fought back. England was quite a mess, and Stephen was getting backing from On High.

Yes, that’s right, don’t let the angels fool you. They poke and prod and interfere constantly. They’d have you think that we demons are the real villains here, but we’re not the ones forcing people into molds. We’re not the ones slavishly devoted to ‘the plan.’ We’re not—! Sorry. I should stop myself there before I get into a rant. I can go on for days.

Where was I? Right. Eustace and Stephen. Now, it rapidly became clear that Matilda would never take the throne for herself. I’m bypassing years here, so I hope you’ll forgive the short version. Matilda was Henry’s mother, so she threw all of her backing behind young Henry. Smart move, and it really alarmed King Stephen. The man wanted nothing more than a continued legacy. He had a very real sense of his own mortality. That’s a blessing and a curse, in many ways.

So, in my guise as the Count, I traveled to England and tracked down young Eustace the Horrible (not his real title, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em). It wasn’t too difficult. I just followed the trail of burned out hamlets, slaughtered peasants and violated/murdered women. Horrible, right?

What was he up to? Nominally, punishing his royal father’s disloyal subjects who wished a return of the Conqueror’s line. In reality, he just liked raping and killing, and he had plenty of cronies to help.

You see, knights weren’t exactly the most pleasant fellows. They were soldiers before professional soldiering was a concept. Actually that’s half true as Rome beat everyone to the punch (and got an empire out of it), and the Far East discovered the wonders of professional armies before even Rome. But, we’re talking about the end of a Dark Age here, where violence and power were means unto themselves and entitlement meant power without responsibility. So anyone with armor, a horse, and a sword (and just minimal training) could become a knight, or at least a sword for hire. It may not seem like much nowadays when anyone with eyes and a working hand can use a gun to deadly effect, but back then they were the equivalent of teenagers in a preschool playground. Bullying. Threatening. Murder. All in a day’s work, and you get your pick of the wives and daughters for entertainment.

Young Eustace was plundering territories near St. Edmonds Bury, as it was called back then. Henry’s meager forces were off west somewhere, and the Bury was just a ripe little plum for picking, especially in late April when most of the rain has blown off and temperatures get into the upper sixties (upper teens if you’re a Centigrade).

I always enjoyed the smell of England. Flowering fields on a warm breeze. Trees spreading their bountiful green arms to the sky, all trying out their new leaves and freshening the air with oxygen. Clean. Pristine. With a hint of charnel. Ah, yes, that was the scent I wanted. Eustace was nearby.

Over one more rise a fresh field sowed glowing embers to the sky. That’s not easy to do, either, not with growing plants. They had to use firewood and other tinder to keep the blazes going. Honestly, it was just salt in the wounds. If the peasants are dead, who’s going to tend the fields? Waste of time.

My small party (myself, a chamberlain, a butler, two maids, and two possessed guards) were spotted quite quickly. A half dozen armored men charged up on huge, sweaty warhorses whose livery were stained with mud and blood. We didn’t run, which I think surprised them.

The leader pointed his blade at my nose and roared, “State your business!” It would have been more effective if his voice weren’t so muffled by his full helm. I was sure this wasn’t Eustace. His cloth was rather shoddy and his horse didn’t wear him well. Stolen, no doubt.

I gave him my full name and title, then continued, “We seek passage to St. Edmonds, to shelter for the night. And might I know your name, my lord?” That last was a courtesy. Even if he were a landed knight, I outranked him considerably.

“You would be advised to shelter elsewhere, my lord,” he said. They all sheathed their weapons. “The Bury is as-yet undeclared, being a church holding. Those loyal to my Lord Eustace of Boulogne and the rightful King Stephen would do well to keep clear of such suspicious lodgings.”

I feigned ignorance. “I had heard Rome had declared against Eustace, in truth, but surely the Bury is an English holding.”

“Aye, my lord, the reeves bend knee to the king, but the church runs that town, mark me. If not for the king’s edict, we’d have burned it long since. It’s no secret his lordship desires the town under his banner. He speaks of it nightly, in all truth.”

I nodded. “Indeed, I can understand. The church itself, if declared against the rightful king and heir, has vilified itself most perniciously. And it’s not right, is it? Not right at all that the priests and monks in the Bury surround themselves with the king’s riches, enjoy his protections, and yet bend knee to Rome against their honorable liege-lord.”

That bought me a resounding ‘Aye!’ grumbled from the assembled knights. “You speak well, my lord. I introduce myself as Sir Yancey of Toulouse. May I have the privilege of introducing you to my liege?”

“By all means, good knight, assuming he’s not otherwise occupied.”

A rough chuckle. “Oh, he’ll be done ‘afore long, my lord.”

We approached the tiny farmhouse, not yet burning, and I could hear Eustace ‘at labor’. Or at least I could hear the poor woman begging him to leave her be. He did not, and I see no need for further detail. We spent a rather uncomfortable five minutes trying not to listen until a final scream ended the episode quite sharply.

Eustace, Count of Boulogne, Heir Apparent, and Crown Prince of England emerged, wiping a bloody dagger with a rag and fumbling at his breeches. “Yancey, I see we have visitors.” His voice was every bit as wheedling as I expected. He had a weak chin, cheeks spotted with sweaty pimples, and a voice an octave too high for a male past puberty. He was a bit taller than the Count, though nowhere near my true body’s height. People tended to be shorter back then, remember.

Yancey introduced me, ignored my staff (most of whom did an admirable job of not being green, especially my pretty maids), and withdrew so that his betters might have a word.

Eustace and I walked together beside the burning field. I clasped my hands behind my back and stayed casual. He kept his hand on his hilt, and got straight to the point. “My lord, I would ask your allegiance in this unjust war.”

I glanced at his soldiers, further stoking the flames and now setting the tiny cottage ablaze, and gave him a wry expression. “I would not presume to speak out against your royal highness with such a convenient force nearby.” That bought me a humorless, creaking grimace on his mottled face. I continued. “But, I believe my lord is deserving of the complete truth. My allegiance is to Henry, and the estranged nobility in France find themselves in a bit of a quandary.”

“You know, my lord, I could take you hostage.” His hand gripped the hilt now. Ah, the unsubtle threat. It can be a scalpel or a cudgel. This poor child knew only the cudgel.

I kept flicking my eyes to his blade and licked my lips once or twice. It’s sometimes useful to lull a would-be predator into false security. “I shall be frank, your highness. This stalemate benefits no one. So long as the English throne remains in question, our enemies in Europe have an advantage. Forces from the east will not be off-balance for long, and your nobles’ holdings in France are as important to them as my lord’s holdings in England. Some form of compromise is clearly called for.”

He smirks, all smugness and hauteur. He’s practically a caricature of himself. “If your lord offers his surrender, I shall be pleased to accept it.”

I hold up my hands. “No, no, your highness, I must apologize if I’ve given the impression of a surrender. I mean allowing access to the revenues generated by our various holdings.”

“So, your little lord finds his coffers growing bare and sends you begging?”

He’s in my trap. “Your highness, it is certainly no secret that the French trade is lucrative. If my lord were of a mind, he could seize the various holdings that your own lords currently enjoy. I believe this year’s total revenues topped nearly twenty million francs.”

His eyes bulged, and I do believe he actually started salivating. He did his best to recover, but his expression grew sly. I’d have loved to play cards with this one. He shrugged. “An adequate sum.”

Enough to buy half of England, and totally fictitious. But he didn’t need to know that. “My lord thought much the same, your highness. And, as brokers of this agreement, your nobility would be obliged to offer some small gratuity to the both of us for working out this little squabble, no? Say to the tune of five percent?”

He smiled broadly, showing surprisingly white teeth. “Camp with us this eve, my lord. You would be my honored guest, and I am pleased to offer you the bounty of our table, and the pick of our captives.”

Oh, ho? Pick of the captives? What was this? If it was what I thought it sounded like, then little Eustace was misbehaving. Misbehaving very badly indeed. I smiled and accepted.

I had a couple of options at this point. My original thinking had been poison, assuming I could guarantee a certain amount of safety for myself and my people.

Surprised that I’d care about my people? Henchmen are a precious resource, which is something that a lot of your modern corporations have forgotten. (Yes, we had a hand in that.) You only throw them under the bus when your actual survival is at stake. Otherwise, guard them. Jealously.

I took some time to think between the afternoon’s burnings and dinner. While my staff pitched a tent and prepped my wardrobe for the evening, I ran over the conversation as I lazed about in a thick-padded tent chair at the edge of the woods and watched the clouds wander aimlessly about the bright blue sky.

I was plotting an assassination, you see, and I had a pretty clear picture of the situation now. Eustace was about as vulnerable as he could get, out in the field with less than thirty foot in his warband, and only six horse.

Oh, perish the thought of direct force. I almost never work that way even now, unless completely out of options. I had my two guards, and, demon-possessed though they were, they were still just two men. I suppose I could’ve had one simply knife Eustace, but remember that I don’t like throwing away my henchmen.

I considered poison again, and dismissed it. No. Inexplicable deaths raise suspicion towards the newcomers. So, a nice bout of smallpox was out as well. Not that I had any smallpox handy, but with disease on one hand and newcomers on the other, we’re back to that suspicion thing. I really didn’t want the bother of a new body, so getting this one stabbed was to be avoided. Besides, where else would I find such a highly placed sympathizer as the Count?

* * *

Val interrupts. “So, this count’s soul was gone?”

“No, but he’d given himself over to me. He was still there, but he was spectating. Sort of. He may not even have been terribly aware of the real world. I don’t know. I hardly spoke to him in all the decades I used his body.”

“That’s horrible.”

I can’t help but smile. “It’s a possession. As in ‘I take possession.’ We don’t call it a borrowing or a synthesis or anything. It’s not like the slug people on Star Trek or what the halos sometimes do. Ideally, for a truly deep cover, you want a stillborn child to inhabit. You have to deal with growing up, and that’s not easy, even when you’ve done it half a hundred times. Ugh. Puberty.”

She thinks for a long moment. “Now that your body is out of Hell, can you still possess people?”

Astute. “I can, but it leaves me vulnerable. You see, my body was safe in Hell.” I pause and chuckle. “There’s a phrase you don’t hear very often. Anyway, is there someone you’re needing me to possess? Is that what this ‘help’ of yours entails?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. It shouldn’t.” A disjointed reply. She’s off-balance.

I press the point. “Listen, Val, if you’re straight with me, I can just tell you if I’m capable of doing what you want.”

“No, it’s okay. I want to hear about this betrayal.”

“We’re a little while from that, and things get bloodier from here.”

She smiles. “I don’t mind.”

Strange girl.

* * *

I remembered something Sir Yancey had said about St. Edmonds Bury (which is actually called Bury St. Edmonds today). He’d said the king had passed an edict keeping it safe from his armies. That struck me as unusual. The church had declared against Eustace, after all. Back then the Catholic Church had a lot to do with the affairs of other nations. They were in no way separate like today. Which is a real shame, because nothing causes chaos and confusion like applying biblical canon to your lawmaking. Plenty of room for abuse there from both sides of the pantheon.

I summoned my demon-possessed guards to the tent. I pointed to the taller one with the hook nose who might have been a coatrack in another life. “You, pop downstairs and find out if this edict against sacking church territory is of divine or mortal origin.”

“Yes, my lord. What of my host?”

I passed him a vial of a clear, smelly substance. Chloroform, in truth. “Put some on a cloth and take a good sniff of that. Don’t spill it. You can sit right over there. You’ll have about an hour.”

He nodded and sat. He was unconscious a few seconds later,

I turned to the other, who was just as tall, but might’ve had a promising career in pro football a thousand years later, being every inch the linebacker. “Escort the chamberlain and one of the maids to town. We need some supplies anyway, so it’s a good cover. Get a look at the church. I’ll expect you back before sundown.”

“Aye, my lord,” he rumbled.

I went back outside to laze and ponder. That’s my habit when I’m scheming. It might look like I’m doing nothing, but my eyes are turned inward, charting conversations, building event trees, and running data through spreadsheets.

It’s also my curse. When you go searching for all ends, you’ll find them, good or ill. Would keeping Eustace alive be more useful? Henry was more of a free agent than I liked, but Eustace wore his vices like badges of honor. Could I put an extra decade on the plan and put Eustace on the throne? But what of the edict against touching church lands? That smacked of halos. Was Eustace under their protection? Was there an angel in the wings guarding Eustace right now? And what of the town? Was there a flight nearby, waiting to swoop down on me and mine?

You can see what I mean. To my credit, I don’t let this show outwardly. Inside, I’m a quaking little bundle of girlish terror. Without, I’m lazing in the sun, sipping wine, and watching clouds as my butler and maid lay out the fire and start a pot for their dinner.

Coatrack woke up and staggered out of the tent rubbing his eyes and blinking in the late afternoon sun. I bade him kneel down and he whispered the news to me. His breath stank. “My lord, the edict is against the church lands surrounding the Bury, but nowhere else. It’s quite specific.”

“Anything else? Any sightings?”

“Nay, my lord. Though none of our lord’s sources have interests in the area.”

“Very well. Have some supper and go about your business.”

Intriguing, in an exciting sort of way. Like peeping at a pretty girl or catching a poker player in a tell. There was something special going on at this town. I won’t plague you with my convoluted thought process.

Linebacker and his charges returned leading a donkey laden with packages as the sky was tingeing a ruddy orange. “My lord, there are three halos circling the church.”

I clutched his arm, excitement in my voice. “What were their colors?”

“Yellow and gold, my lord.”

Jophiel’s boys. He’s the Guardian of Eden, Archangel of Knowledge (one of them anyway), and he does not fuck around. If there were three (three!) angels circling the church, then they were guarding someone or something very important. Perfect. “Were you spotted?”

“Nay, my lord, or I doubt I’d be here.”

“True enough. Well done. Have some supper.”

“Thank you, my lord. I wonder if you’ll be needing us the rest of the night?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so. Why?”

He actually blushed. “It was just that. . . if the staff were going to have a night off. . .” He trailed off and glanced at the maid he’d escorted to town, a pretty thing with long brown hair and a bodice that struggled to contain an ample endowment. She caught his glance, blushed, and turned away, poorly hiding a smile.

Nice. “No, I shouldn’t need anyone tonight. The rest of the task lies with me.” It’s always nice when my minions find their own rewards. Being on Earth is reward enough usually, but there’s a reason the phrase ‘earthly pleasures’ came about.

The logic was straightforward at this point. The halos had an interest in keeping Stephen on the throne, and in keeping his line intact. As such, they got Stephen to issue an edict keeping Eustace out of Jophiel’s way. If you’re wondering why they didn’t just keep Jophiel out of Eustace’s way, you’ve got the wrong idea about angels. They’re arrogant to the point of disdain. They coined the term ‘pretentious’ to describe our grab for the big chair, but they achieve entirely new dimensions of hauteur.

Not that we demons are humble paragons of modesty and self-deprecation, no no. But there was a reason why we thought we could take on God. We got beaten down and punished, yet the angels learned very little from our failure. To many of them, you’re all still just monkeys only barely graduated from wandering the African savannahs and flinging poo at predators. You’re afforded their grace and protection by edict from Himself alone. And, again, this doesn’t apply to all of them, but that smug superiority dominates their very essence.

So, no, Jophiel would not stay out of Eustace’s way. If I could get Eustace to threaten Jophiel’s interests, I could check another item off my to-do list. And, better, getting Heaven to do Hell’s work is worth extra points. Maybe a gold star. Lilly would love the attention our budding house would garner from that coup. I felt an ache in my heart, and suddenly missed her very much. To think of it now, I was such a love-addled fool.

All I really had to do was talk Eustace into sacking the church. I know what you’re saying. It’s like ordering the sun to be bright or kittens to be cute. But the edict forbidding that action came straight from his father, so I needed to know just how close to daddy’s knee our little monster sat.

His soldiers had been working on the pavilion all afternoon, an elaborate affair at least forty feet in diameter, dyed a dark blue (fading and streaked in some places) with a white-bordered decorative fringe.

When I stepped inside, the stark odor of a couple dozen sweaty knights and footmen almost pushed me back out. Don’t let the movies fool you; the centuries before air conditioning and running water were pungent ones. But these guys seemed to revel in their stench.

The drinking was already underway. Eustace sat atop a mockup throne. It wasn’t gilded or anything, but had rich, dark wood with a purple cushion. Quite tasteful, actually. I was sure he’d stolen it. He wore a simple coronet that was just short of a crown. That was, in fact, gilded, but had no other ornamentation. The seat beside him was empty.

“My lord count!” He called and stretched out a hand. “Come. Sit. Be my guest at this table of victory.”

I held my thoughts on the nature of his victory and graciously took my seat. He reeked of expensive wine and stale sex. “Your royal highness is too kind.”

He took a long drink, yelled for the feast to begin, and turned to me. “I tell you in good faith, my lord, that my mind has wandered towards your twenty million offering more than once this eve. Tell me of your proposal.”

I admit to having been surprised by the bluntness. In the polite customs of the time, conversations of such a nature are taken as an aside during some form of entertainment and never ever before food is served. Still, I blame myself for expecting manners from this child. “Well, highness, this is simply a pact of non-aggression where trade interests are concerned. My lord believes it in all our interests—”

He interrupted me with a sharp bark that might have been a laugh and said, “Henry’s just a coward. What’s to assure us that this isn’t a trick to relax our guard so your pretender can invade? He cowers across the Channel, wringing his hands and drooling for a throne that is not his by right or by custom.”

Tact is a weapon of diplomacy. Some mistake it as flattery. Some mistake it as weakness. In truth, it’s a fortification. By not offering offense out of the gate, one can gauge an opponent’s attitude without giving away your own. “My lord is cautious, some might say overly so. Yet hostilities between your royal father and my lord are viewed by the rest of the world as weakness. We strongly suspect a Spanish influence in both courts, wearing away our resolve. Have you received any of our envoys bearing messages on this topic to-date?”

He thought for a moment. “No.”

I feigned grumpiness. “Bah! It’s as I suspected. Spain doesn’t want us talking, and some traitor has been intercepting our missives. Typical. Cowardly. What can one expect from those greasy dons?”

The cretin was nodding. “Yes, well, I trust that any such pact would also include passages about maintaining the sovereignty of our barons’ holdings in France? That sort of womanish behavior will end if we sign this pact. Mark my words.”

Astute. For a panicked moment I wondered if he hadn’t been baiting me. My proposal was pure fiction, of course, but the threats against the French holdings was quite real. I had no more authority to change that than make the moon come up in the west. I launched a probe with a wry smile. “So, your barons have been counseling his majesty in ways you might not agree with, eh? Suing for peace out of fear of their own pockets? It’s amazing just how much pressure these petty subordinates can place upon their betters, is it not, your highness?”

He came up short, confirming my suspicions. Eustace was all bluster. The pressure I’d mentioned was entirely factual, and, from his wide-eyed, slack-jawed reaction, a good deal greater than even I’d suspected. “I— that is I wouldn’t know, but any accord will need some assurances of that nature.”

I was nodding. “I believe we might have room for negotiation, your highness. Ah, is this our repast?”

The pavilion’s double flaps had drawn wide enough to permit three men abreast and the parade of food began. Soups in mismatched gold-and-silver bowls (recently looted, no doubt), beaten silver trays heavy with fruit (mostly smallish apples and pears, it still being spring), and the main course, your traditional apple-mouthed pig, basted to a golden brown and sweating grease and juices.

The pig touched down on the table in front of the prince, and he lopped off a haunch and dug in without thanking the staff or seeing to his guests. I took a bowl of carrot soup with fresh cream (actually quite tasty despite the stunted carrots, as I recall) and waited on the pig. I’ll let you decide which one.

He looked up, grease dripping into his raggedy beard, to see me holding up mismatched silverware with an expression of mild distaste. “Something wrong, count?” A hint of hostility.

“Oh, your highness, forgive me. I just find it appalling that you and yours must take the field so deprived of something so basic as silver. Especially when, not five miles distant, a church full of disloyal, treasonous priests sits rolling in coin and eating from gilded plates.”

That put a scowl on his face. “Well, what can I do? We’re not to go near the town or church.”

I didn’t point out that five miles was almost spitting distance. “Yes, I recall Sir Yancey mentioning the edict. Perhaps his highness has some insight as to his royal father’s mind on that score?”

Confusion. Contempt. Annoyance. His face was like a page, the words inked in neon. “It’s not my place to ask.”

“Oh, come now. The crown prince surely has some say.”

Frustration, his brow drawn down, eyes getting darker. “I am not in the habit of discussing my mind with subordinates.”

I spread my hands. “Oh, forgive me, your royal highness, I beg. I am not as skilled with words as perhaps I should be. And I must admit some prejudice against priests that line their pockets with gold while preaching prudence, penitence, and austerity.”

He was nodding. “Well, you have my full agreement there, my lord, but I’ll hear no more of this subject tonight.”

I bowed assent. These things take time, after all. Dessert arrived in the form of apple and peach pies (quite tasty, in truth, and I sent my compliments to the chef in the form of a small purse of silver), plum pudding, and a truly exceptional brandy, which Eustace guzzled like beer. Have you had brandy? Then you know just how hard it can hit you.

So it was a very drunken prince that staggered to his feet as the shattered remains of dessert were carted away and called loudly for ‘the entertainment.’ His roar was greeted with cheers from his knights and favored men, themselves nearly as drunk, and the tent flaps parted again.

* * *

I pause.“What’s wrong?” she asks.A deep breath. “Well, I’ve already vilified Eustace enough, I think, so this next bit may seem a bit excessive. Yet, it was here that I met someone rather important to me. A minor player who factored heavily into later events. I was trying to think of a way around it.”“There’s no need. I want to hear everything.”

She’s perched on the edge of her stool next to the laptop, hands clasped at her knee. Eyes keen. So earnest. I still had trouble judging her innocence. There was more to Val than I could fathom. Perhaps shocking her a bit might draw out more of the truth.

I order my thoughts and continue.
END SAMPLE

I, Demon is available for purchase in the following formats:

Amazon Kindle  |  Smashwords (covers EPUB, MOBI, PDF, RTF, TXT, LRF, Palm)  |  Coming soon on B&N, Apple, Kobo, Diesel, and more!

In the first part, we learn more about me and my writing education.

In the second part, I expound on the dangers and hard work inherent in any self-publishing enterprise.

Fun stuff, and many thanks to the lovely and talented Catherine Schaff-Stump for her hard work in her long-running series.

The first book in the I, Demon series.

What could be worse than burning in Hell for eternity? For the Nameless Demon, it was his release.

Captured by a perky brunette’s summoning circle in modern times, the Demon is forced to recount his downfall within the infernal hierarchy, his unauthorized release from Hell, and the ensuing struggle to discover the truth behind the intrigue woven about him. Pursued by both his ex-wives (one angel, one succubus, both seductively deadly), the Demon is plunged into the teeth of the Second Crusade, a war between Templars and wizards, kings and clergy.

It’s a race to expose a conspiracy while evading both a Hell that wants him back and a Heaven that wants him destroyed.

Read the first two chapters here!

The first book of the series, I, Demon, is due for publication this summer on all major electronic devices and electronic formats.