Flush with the dulling haze of my brief stint as a at puppet, it takes a few monts to fully process everything around . When confusion parts, tired anger fills the void.
Mordacity. Standing there smugly, raven-headed staff in hand, red sneakers and pointy hat and generally disheveled appearance. A nerd playing magus. My oldest friend. My worst enemy. How did it co to this?
The Venusians lay scattered about their master’s lair, crumpled and insensate. Without the power of a would-be god to sustain them, they’ve succumbed to the strain of the past few hours. So of them twitch and shudder, sure to stir sooner than later, but others are still and nearly lifeless, if not dead and on their way to reincorporating elsewhere.
The crystal pillar dims, its magic all spent or stolen. The electronic lights around the vast chamber follow suit. All that tubing and wiring and those clusters of machinery are purposeless now, deprived of the sole end for which they were constructed. This secret heart of the Venusian cult—a heart mirrored across the world in lesser form, other organs buried beneath each center of Venusian activity—has been emptied of blood and beats no longer.
Murdered by us, and by two traitors suborned.
Ferromancer’s briefcase and body must have been retrieved before Maenad caught Venus, because they’re both resting beside her. The artificer who betrayed us to Mordacity—Venus was certain she had a wizard’s protections—and the priestess who betrayed her own god—who let the machinist in, hid her presence, and waited for the right mont to seize the last of the egregore’s spirit. Do they both seek godhood, or has Mordacity promised them sothing even more appealing? Maenad’s resentnt toward Venus was obvious, but what could have driven Ferromancer to turn against—by her own estimation—the world’s best chance at stopping the egregores?
Beside , Striga adjusts her grip on her spear and watches Mordacity carefully. She says nothing, ignoring the wizard’s taunt.
An arrow plinks off an invisible barrier in front of Mordacity and explodes in a shock of green light. Howl advances, growling, Harlequin beside her. “Who the hell are you?” the archer demands. “Why do I know you? Why were you in my dreams?”
“It’s a hobby of mine,” Mordacity answers, still smirking. “My, so hostile. Co now, Gretchen, have I really earned such ire?”
Howl stiffens. Harlequin furrows their brow and says, “Weaver, dreaming; drear, weaving. The spider sits atop her web, the raven in her roost. It was you.”
Striga, quietly, recites, “The city, the sun, the pit. She's been in our minds, scavenging for secrets. She could know everything we know.”
“And with that knowledge,” Mordacity says, a dangerous edge to her voice, “I have done nothing to harm your friends, your families, or your lives beneath the cowl. Nor do I intend to start. Oh, I have violated your privacy, certainly, but ask yourselves this: what, materially, have I done in the past two hours? I moved my pieces on the board to ensure your victory against the egregore; I positioned the artificer to sabotage the worship engine, your team to protect the artificer, and I personally intervened to keep your Archon from being gobbled up by Venus or by Echidna—and speaking of that walking affront to human decency, you do recall where she is right now, don’t you? Do you need a reminder?”
The wizard waves her hand and mist coalesces around it. The mist catches rainbow light, shivers, and forms an image.
It's the city of Forks, and it's burning. I saw a glimpse of it when Venus was making her big speech, but that was only a brief flash of marauding horrors and soaring defenders. Now, Echidna’s carnage is truly laid bare. Writhing flesh surrounds the Spire, repelled by coruscating barriers that have already fractured and given in a dozen places. The mass of Echidna pours through the gaps and smashes into office spaces and presentation halls, invading every floor.
Beyond, fleshcrafted monsters in all shapes and sizes tear through the streets tripping car alarms and shattering storefronts. The sun hasn't risen yet, so only a few people were out and about, but screams still echo from those unfortunate enough to be caught in the attack. The horde concentrates around hospitals, hotels, and high-rise apartnts.
How did they penetrate so deep into the city so quickly? There's no trail of destruction leading to city limits and the forest beyond; is this another consequence of my deal, or did the Jovians have another ace up their sleeve we still don't know anything about?
Magical girls and witches do their best to contain the outbreak. They vie for air superiority against all manner of winged beasts—including the flesh dragon that invaded the dream world—while peppering the horde below with arrows, beams, explosions, and everything else they have. Vanguard and Coterie have shown up in force, unsurprisingly, and there's a scattering of independents joining the fight. What does surprise is the presence of Syndicate witches; since when do they risk their necks against Catastrophes?
Maenad jeers at the grueso imagery and laughs. “Dumb whores are all gonna die, yeah? Because youuuuu wanted to trap the boss bitch of beasts,” she shoots at Striga, “and youuuuu let those loser leeches off their leashes,” she directs at . “Guess you’re made for each other after all.”
Is it my fault? Are thousands going to die because I thought I was being clever? I’m paralyzed by the very idea. I look to my beloved Sophie. Does she think it’s my fault? Is she going to hate for this? Her face tightens, her gaze locked on Mordacity.
Howl stares at the carnage in horror. “Fuck. Dammit, Striga, you should have warned people! Damn your plans! Look at the cost!”
Harlequin leans forward, expression more subdued. “No… look at the pattern. The Mother of Monsters didn’t pass through the outer limits where my people and hers have all their far-seeing sensors and secret defenses; even if we’d given warning, they would have been in the wrong place.” They tilt their head and look at discerningly. “What did she an? What did you do, Archon?”
It’s the most normal I’ve ever heard them speak, and it unnerves . I swallow. “I—”
“Oh, it wasn’t just her,” Mordacity notes, saying it like an idle observation but pinning with keen, vicious eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about it right now. Clock’s ticking. Lives are burning.” She dismisses the live feed with another wave of her hand.
“Howl, Harlequin,” Striga says, “join the fight. You’ll be of more use up there, and she’s right that timing matters.” The heroine projects calm and control, but I can see the seams in her mask. Rage. Horror. A hunger to know.
“Are you kidding ? You’re staying?” Howl whirls on Striga in disbelief—no, indignation. “For what? To keep more secrets? To plot more sches that’ll get people killed?”
“I’ll join you as soon as I can and I’ll tell you what I know. You have my word. But right now, I need answers. This is but a battle; the war looms before us.” There’s iron in her voice.
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Howl grits her teeth. “Do you really think she’s going to give you answers?”
Harlequin puts a hand on Howl’s shoulder, head still tilted, now looking at Mordacity. “She will. Snakes slither; bees buzz; masterminds monologue. It’s a given that she’ll gloat, as sure as it were wrote.”
Mordacity cackles. Maenad rolls her eyes. Striga says nothing.
Howl grimaces. “Fine! Fine, damn you. Stay here and play your wretched gas.”
And she leaves, Harlequin in tow, the two flying away through one of the many passages leading up and out of the dead heart chamber. Leaving us alone with Mordacity and her minion.
Striga opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to the punch. “Why?” I ask. “Why, M?” The words spill from my lips. Too soft. Too tired. Too pleading. I hate the way I sound. Isn’t this just a rehash of last ti? But I can’t help myself. This was my closest friend. “Please, why are you doing this? What did Hastur do to you, to make you like this? What is this all about?”
Mordacity keeps up her mask of mirthful, mocking contempt. I want to wipe that smirk off her face. “It's funny how you always try to look for the best in the people you care about. What if there's nothing to find, A? What if I'm just an asshole grasping for power? Isn't that human? There doesn't need to be so tragic backstory driving my actions. I don't need any other reason to despise Hastur than the fact that I want what she's got.”
Striga squeezes , once, in a small act of comfort. Then she speaks up. “You have your prize. What has it cost us? What price will we pay for your victory?”
Mordacity shrugs. “Not much, really, though I dare say I've weakened your imitation seal in denying it this last and truest dreg. I’d apologize for making your work more difficult, but we both know that could never be sincere. I chose this path knowing it would set against the both of you.”
Striga nods. “I'm curious about sothing else. You kept Maenad out of the fighting specifically so she could steal the last essence of Venus, knowing it would be drawn to her as soone linked to her divine frequency. That frequency must be valuable to you, or sothing about the core of her divinity, paired to the worship-attuned energies you siphoned from the battery. It's not just raw power you need to accomplish your goals, then, but sothing about an egregore’s signature. I imagine, then, that you have a plan to attain the sa from Mars, Minerva, and Jupiter.” She tilts her head. “Which leads to the obvious question: are you planning to take those by brute force, or do you have more traitors waiting in the wings?”
The wizard tapped her fingers along her staff. The stillness of her expression betrayed thought, but little more. What was Striga seeing in those tiny movents? After a mont, Mordacity says, “Mm, the truth might be more interesting here than misdirection. Yes, no fencing with the freak that’s already fished out half my ga. I do, in fact, have more agents you’ve yet to et. Have fun ripping apart your allies in search of them.”
I should care about this, but I don’t. I can’t. All this minutiae, it doesn’t matter. “What do you want?” I ask. My voice is still pathetic. “I can’t… I can’t believe this is all just for power. For the sake of calling yourself a god, really? What would you even do with that level of magic that you can’t already get? What are you missing? What do you want, M?”
A coldness steals over Mordacity. The mirth bleeds out. She looks away from to glance at Maenad, perching amused, then the body of Ferromancer, then silent Striga. And then back to , and again I see the hate that I witnessed on New Year’s Eve when she took to Japan to talk magic.
“What I want,” she says, slowly at first and then picking up speed and spittle and derangent, “is that which I am cursed to want by blood and by birthright and the nature of my being. I want that which is etched in my maker’s mark: the want that is intrinsic to my soul, set there when it was sculpted. I want the only thing I could possibly want—the only thing that is sane to want in a world such as this, a fate, a cage—and the na of that singular desire is freedom, my dear Alexandria. I am a prisoner, as are we all, and the nature of the lucid prisoner is to rage against the bars that confine them. What misery, what foolishness, what dread placidity to see how one is restricted and not yearn with all one's heart to see such restriction lifted! I am not a captive elephant to fall slave to a lead of string, though our chains are so much stronger and our freedom so much further. I understand better than anyone how small we are. Specks! Less than insects! re monocellular morsels to the odious overlords that have trapped us upon their ga board and treated us like pieces. But even a grain of sand can ruin a vast and towering factory by slipping through the right set of gears. Do you understand? I will break the machine. I will break the precious order that keeps us all their puppets. The world is a cage, and I will break it. I will shatter this clockwork universe and replace it with another where we are all free! That, old friend, is the only thing I want. I want to be free.”
She sags with the end of her speech, breathing heavy, eyes wide and wild. The frenzy’s departure leaves her hollow as she stares at us.
“How pitiful,” Striga murmurs.
I flinch. I don't know how to react, but I wouldn't have said that, even if a part of feels the sa. She sounds so… broken. I wish I could know what drove her to this. I wish—
An idea sparks. A terrible, silly, wonderful idea.
Mordacity straightens up and restores her previous expression of malice. “I've said my piece. Wasted breath, I'm sure, but now you can't ever claim that I didn't try. So be it. I'll see you for the next round, Sophie.”
“Wait!” I call out, hand outstretched.
Mordacity pauses, fingers poised to snap. “I wasn't kidding about Echidna, you know. What else is worth delaying?”
I close my eyes for a mont and reach for the fla inside . It's brighter than before, burning hotter. A single strand still leads out of it, connecting to the one pact I've made that hasn't broken: Phoebe. I can feel that strand twining around Mordacity and stretching just beyond her, a single point pulsing. She must be incredibly close if I’m getting her location with this level of precision.
“The deimovore,” I say aloud as I open my eyes. “What have you done with her? Where is she?”
Sothing like disappointnt passes over her face. Mordacity raises an eyebrow. “What about it? I never bothered to chase it down.”
“Lie,” Striga says calmly. If she knows why I want this, she doesn't let it slip, but she's backing up regardless.
Mordacity curls her lip in irritation. “Why do you even care? It should an less than nothing to you.”
“I dragged her into this ss,” I insist. “She's my responsibility. I'm willing to negotiate for her. You could bring her in an instant, right? I want to see her.”
Mordacity frowns, clearly suspicious. Maenad leans over her shoulder and glares at . “Why are we still here?” the ex-priestess asks.
Mordacity holds up a hand to halt her subordinate. “No… I'm curious where she's going with this.”
With a flick of her wrist, she's suddenly holding Phoebe by the roots of her hair, the deimovore in its not-quite-Rachel guise. The deimovore looks haggard; at first it looks like there are bags under her eyes, but then I realize that the skin on her face is lting, ever so slightly, and sticking close to the bone. It's like she's struggling to hold her form together.
I can feel the ember; it's really her. “Phoebe,” I call over. “Are you—fuck, you look like shit. What happened to you?”
The deimovore doesn't answer. Her eyes shift to stare at , and her mouth twitches, but no sound cos out.
Mordacity’s smirk returns. “Fascinating creatures, deimovores. Horrible little ghouls. I've been making much better use of this one than the aimless murder it was getting up to before my intrusion. But, for that reason, I can't exactly let it share what it's seen. I hope you weren't expecting this to be that easy.”
No, I wasn't.
I expected that Mordacity would have so way to control the deimovore, but my connection to Phoebe is still strong. I can feel the mote of fla inside it, grown in my absence. It doesn’t burn as brightly as the one in Agatha, but it still burns. There’s a link between us. That fla liberated Phoebe from her nature as a deimovore, giving her a body. What else can it do?
In my mind’s eye, I grab hold of the strand connecting us and feed it more. I pour a torrent of fla into the spark inside the deimovore. Phoebe made a deal to be free of her bonds. What is this if not an extension of that pact?
It happens in an instant. Phoebe flares with green-gold light that shines through her skin, nearly blinding everyone, and then she wrenches herself out of Mordacity’s grasp, lunges, and sinks her teeth into the wizard’s neck.
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