Ms. Wickman laughed. “Your power is gone and you are mine now, you pathetic whore.”
And Giselle had choked back the tears long enough to say, “Damn you.”
Ms. Wickman’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, that’s right. The former mute can speak now. Bonus.” Her smile vanished then. She seized a handful of Giselle’s long black hair, twisting it and eliciting a yelp. “Righteous hypocrite. What do you deserve? How many people did you torture and kill while in the Master’s employ, hmm? Including your own brother, as I recall.”
Giselle didn’t reply because the answer to Ms. Wickman’s question was obvious. And because the pain was coming back, overwhelming the temporary numbness of shock. Instead she’d said, “Just kill me. Be done with it.”
Ms. Wickman threw her head back and laughed again, long and heartily, until she was almost crying. “Oh, you of all people should know better than that, Giselle. We’re taking you to a special place, dear. You’ll be there for a very, very long time and your suffering will go on forever.”
And so she was brought to this place, many hundreds of miles from Boston.
Despair overwhelmed her as it became clear Ms. Wickman had truly mastered the most advanced forms of dark magic, working to appease the death gods, drawing immense power from them through daily blood sacrifices. The scent of blood—fresh and flowing—was strong in the air.
Giselle knew she would ultimately be offered as a sacrifice to the death gods. Her sadist’s soul would be particularly prized by them. She would die.
Unless…
Yes. There was one avenue yet left to her. It was a slim hope at best. And any possibility of success would hinge on a price perhaps too heavy to bear, even given the grim reality she was facing already. She hesitated, contemplating what manner of unspeakable atrocity might be asked of her in exchange for the help she needed. Time moved forward. She felt the minutes un-spooling like the ticking of the Doomsday Clock. Death was coming for her soon. She could almost hear the Reaper’s footsteps on the stone floor. She saw him in her mind, raising a gnarled hand to point an icy finger at her.
Then the vision of the Deathbringer dissolved and was replaced by an image of Ms. Wickman’s mad grin as the cleaver separated Giselle’s hands from her body. A low sound like the warning growl of a wounded animal rumbled out of her throat.
She brought her right forearm to her mouth. The taste of her own flesh on her tongue made her pause for a moment, anticipation of pain momentarily freezing her resolve. Then she sank her teeth into her arm, driving them deep, shredding flesh and filling her mouth with salty blood. She drank the blood, drawing it down into her stomach as she continued to slurp more of it from the wound. Then she pitched forward and pressed her face against the cold metal bars of the cage floor. She opened her mouth and expelled blood, allowing it to coat the metal. The pain was bad, but she ignored it and initiated the blood ritual by repeating the phrases she’d memorized years earlier. Rhythmic phrases from an alien tongue. A chant. A summoning spell.
Ms. Wickman had removed her ability to wield magic as a weapon, but she had not deprived Giselle of her knowledge. She had one ally among the death gods. A rogue who had aided her efforts to overthrow the Master. He would help her again. If only she could reach him…
She placed the tip of her tongue against the cold metal and tasted her own blood again. Then she focused what psychic engergy she could and sent a message into the wall of darkness and the ether beyond.
Azaroth, I beseech you.
Another taste of blood, metallic and tart.
I offer you my blood. My pain. Please come to my aid.
I will do anything.
Nothing.
Despair again began to encroach on her thoughts, threatening the necessary focus and spiritual purity of the ritual. She tasted her blood yet again, used the feeble power it contained to focus her wavering will one last time.
And the message went out again: Azaroth, I implore you…
Then she felt it, the death god’s presence manifesting at first as a warmth that allowed her temporary respite from the freezing atmosphere of the torture chamber. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax. And as she relaxed, a bright, warm light displaced the darkness of her prison, enveloping her in an ethereal radiance that felt like a loving embrace.
Something dark swirled in the midst of all that brightness, a cloud of energy that became luminescent and began to mold itself into a humanoid shape. The entity was forging a human appearance, one that exactly replicated the form Giselle remembered from her prior experience with this being.
When the process was complete, Azaroth smiled at her with his human mask.
Ah, Giselle. I see you have need of my assistance again.
Tears misted Giselle’s vision. The spark of hope became a flame.
I do. My enemies have taken me. They have maimed me. And I fear what they’ve done to me is only the beginning. They will not rest until they have done the same to all those who rose up against the Master.
Azaroth’s expression changed subtly. His eyes continued to glow with that lovely radiance, but the set of his features shifted to something approximating a frown. You speak of the woman who served the Master and her new set of followers.
Giselle gathered her courage. Here was where things might get tricky. Yes. She chopped my hands off to blunt my magic and imprisoned me in a dark place. I’ll do anything you ask of me if you can help me.
Azaroth’s features shifted again, displaying a fluid grace that made the god look like something from an animated motion picture. He was smiling again, but there was a hint of something very dark behind the expression.
What you ask will require a sacrifice.
Giselle nodded. Of course. Anything.
Azaroth was silent a moment, his not-quite-real-looking brows knitting in apparent concentration. Then his expression became solemn. I can restore you, Giselle. Make your body whole again so that you may combat your enemy on equal footing. But to justify this I will need you to do something that will wound your soul very deeply.
Giselle suspected what was coming. She held her breath and nodded tensely.
There is a man who is special to you.
Giselle thought, Oh, Eddie…
Azaroth paused for a beat, hearing her thought. Yes, the very one. I will grant you temporary restoration and temporal transport to his current location. You will be there just long enough to kill him.
And though her heart was pierced to the core by the thought of murdering the one person left in the world for whom she felt genuine affection, Giselle knew there was no other choice. She alone possessed even a slim chance of defeating Ms. Wickman. A part of her hated Azaroth for forcing her to make this difficult choice, but the feeling was muted by the knowledge that this was merely the nature of the death gods, this exchange of blood and breath for aid.
And once this has been done…I will be whole again?
The death god’s expression darkened slightly. As I have said. You know I keep my bargains. Do what is asked of you and you will be more than whole again. The cast of his features shifted again, projecting a shimmering glow as he smiled. You will be stronger than before. More powerful. You will be a fearsome adversary for the one who took you, her equal in every way.