What fun could he have down here with no ups to counter the many downs?
Normally, he’d instigate a war or encourage cults to partake in sacrifice, allowing himself some play with servants able to bridge the gulf between the underworld and life. But things had been socalmlately.
For the past several centuries, not even a grand plague to wipe out hundreds of thousands. What good were minor wars in the human world when nothing satisfied? He needed more.
So when Vladimir of the Void, a gifted necromancer with tales of such woe, had come to his attention, he’d listened. Something big was on the way that would promise destruction on a grand scale. So huge that he’d be able to slip out of his prison down here, where Hanbi continued to bitch about his last fight with those interfering vampires.
Hmm. An interesting pattern. The Night Bloode thought they could take on gods and survive to live another day. He really needed to do something about that.
The reaper he’d encountered, Khent of the Night Bloode, had enchanted him. So much power over death in that body with a voracious appetite kept in check by solid control.
Nergal liked him. Truth be told, he’d much rather possess a vampire than a human, despite Vladimir’s rise to power.
But until they got closer to letting Nergal free, he’d keep that tasty tidbit to himself.
He nodded to his servant, a hag whose limbs continued to rot, regrow, then rot again. “Banitu, fetch me the necromancer.”
“At once, sire.” She bowed low, her hair crumbling as it dragged over the rocky ash underfoot. Then she hurried away, disappearing in the darkness that coated everything like a sticky film of nothingness.
Time had no meaning in Irkalla. An endless wait of tomorrow and yesterday and today rolled up into much the same.
He drummed his fingers over the arm of his throne, wondering who next to possess when he slipped into the human world. Nergal grinned, amused that the great and powerful Vladimir—just ask him—had no idea the tiny female necromancer had been stalking him as long as he’d been searching for her.
Nergal couldn’t wait to see what would happen when the two finally met in person, face to face. He had to be there. He continued to stare at nothing, losing himself even as he sought horror and chaos in the depths of his home, hungry for more. He let himself shift through the many forms he used.
Manlike, beast, monster, lion, and bull. But when that grew boring, he and his throne disappeared from the main hall to a back tunnel where several thousand lost souls lingered, entombed in an undead city without hope.
There, he eviscerated a few dozen slaves while starving demons watched, waiting for him to leave so they could feast. Just to be contrary, he waited until the last moment then left them, taking himself and his throne back into his original position in the dark.
Meh. I’m bored again.
“Sire?” Banitu called out. She lifted the hair from her eyes, showing three empty spots where her eyeballs used to be. In life she’d been a prodigious witch with third sight. Yet in Irkalla, she often removed those eyes and ate them herself, cursed by her own cruelty. The eyes took forever to grow back, but Banitu preferred not seeing what her life had become.
“Here, hag.”
She bowed low then vanished into the shadows, leaving Vladimir behind.
The human, who wasn’t so human anymore, noticed his attention and bowed just as low, scraping the ground.
With a grunt, Nergal gave his grudging approval as he stopped shifting forms, settling into the obscured darkness of his true self. “The female you crave mentioned the stone.”
Vladimir rose to an impressive height, several heads taller than most human males yet still dwarfed by Nergal. Still, having been around so much death for so many centuries, consuming his own kind, Vladimir was no longer a simple mortal.
His long black robe suited him, the cowl ringing his slender neck. Large, dark eyes stared out at the world around him, yet Vladimir didn’t flinch. He seemed to settle under the mantle of death and decay, at one with that precarious state.
Nergal studied the man’s skin, night-black like that of the dark fae. Muscle and bone with very little fat carved along the giant skeletal frame of a demi-human—the term Nergal had secretly given him.
“Valentine Darkmore is the key, Lord Nergal.” Vladimir bowed once more. “I do regret that the staff we procured for you is not the one you sought. But the sorcerer we worked with not long ago had told us that was the case. The Staff of Blight you seek remains hidden.”
“I need it. And no more four-eyes, boy. I need something stronger to contain me when I visit topside again.” Already he craved another taste of life. “Demons are all well and good, but their vessels are weak.”
“Yes. I understand. I think I might have the answer.” Vladimir raised his arm and turned his hand over, as if cupping something in his large palm. He murmured ancient words Nergal had heard long ago.
“Ah. I’d forgotten that one.”
Vladimir smiled, and Nergal was amused to see that the human’s teeth had sharpened, turning that odd shade of gray that stained all life in Irkalla.
The necromancer flung his hand away, and a figure took shape. “I pulled him from the human world.”
