The Hellfire Lounge

  The Hellfire Lounge y on the top three floors of a glittering, thirteen-sided, gss and steel spire. It looked out over one of the rger caverns of Pandemonium, dwarfing the other buildings around it. It had its own nding pads for airships, and as Marci approached the building, with Saoirse, Maeve, Rafferty, Finnley, and Jonda in tow, she saw several very expensive looking ones coming into nd.

  Although Marci was very nervous about attending, she had decided that ultimately the possible gains were too tempting to ignore. This was, quite possibly, the only group in the world who might know enough about Shardforts to at least put her on the right path to disentangling her soul. Although much ink had been spilled about Shardkeepers, both on the surface and in the underworld, it was clear that the tight-knit group was cagey about the details of their powers. Most books, even those written by demons, didn't realise how effortless and deep a Shardkeeper's control over their minions was, or talk with any real understanding of how Shardkeepers 'improved magic' worked.

  Marci and the others ascended to the ninety-fifth floor in a gaudily, gilded-gss elevator set into the side of the building. Jonda was buzzing with so-much excitement that her sword was bouncing against her leg. Most of the demons she had brought with her were also clearly taking things seriously: Rafferty had polished his armour to an almost mirror sheen and coated his rocky red skin in something that made it shine; Maeve, the small imp ritual caster, was chattering excitedly as she checked and rechecked what seemed to be the two dozen knives secreted around her eborate, fmboyantly pink and bck hoop-dress; and Finnley was making minute adjustments to his blur fur with a comb and his reflection in the gss.

  Saoirse, on the other hand, seemed less sanguine to be there, and pulled uncomfortably at the colr of her starched white shirt and pyed with the bck tie of her rather smart, if modestly cut suit with a long skirt that reached down below her tight-cd knees.

  Marci asked the Succubus to come along since apparently, she was whatever the demon equivalent for 'Highborn,' and thus knew how to navigate such social situations. The rest of the demons had just sort of assumed that they were going if Saoirse was, since they were part of 'her squad,' and Marci hadn't had the heart to tell them no after how excited she'd felt them get. Besides, she'd figured that showing up with some muscle would probably be considered normal, and even if she couldn't die here in Pandemonium, she did like the idea of having some backup.

  For her part, Marci had put on a glittering bck shawl over a long, blue, opened-backed dress that she'd found and then adjusted with magic from the Succubus' wardrobe, opting to stick to fairy fashion standards for a swanky party rather than try to guess what demons did and have it fall down past her ankles, giving her an unusually tall silhouette. It would be a nightmare to walk it, but Marci was a fairy, she only walked as a st resort.

  The elevator doors opened to reveal a huge, open space with a rge open ballroom in the centre, a bar running along one side, and seated lounges that took in the commanding panorama rising across three different levels of the mezzanine.

  There was a line, but apparently Marci was expected, because a rather terrifying demon with a spider's head, but with six arms and one set of fairy-like legs immediately clocked her and approached.

  "Shardkeeper Marci? This way please, the others are expecting you," said the demon, all terrifying ccking mandibles and glinting eyes.

  Marci forced herself to maintain a steely, imperious mask, despite the fact she hated spiders. She might not be able to die here, but it was more important than ever that she py into the role of Shardkeeper. She was sure that the others would sense weakness, and although no one had seemed to care so far that she was the first non-demon to command a Shardfort, if they learnt what her true intentions were, well, beyond 'survive,' and that she despised the occupation of the North that had taken Of's home, they might be a lot less friendly, and perhaps decide it would be best to take her out.

  She followed the awful spider-demon up one of the two rge, sweeping staircases on either side of the first floor, and then up a smaller one to the st, where a pair of towering pit fiends, cd in simir armour to those who guarded the pza where Shardkeeper's portals emerged, were standing on either side of the steps.

  They stepped back to admit Marci, however, revealing that the upper floor was mostly empty, with most of the seating and tables cleared away to make room for a single, very long one where twelve well-dressed demons were eating and drinking and ughing uproariously—all of them possessing the same burning, ruby red eyes as Marci.

  Beyond a small army of waiters, all dressed in white suits like the spider-demon, there were a handful of servants, each of whom hovered in the general area of one of the Shardkeepers, although none of them seemed to have brought guards like Marci did. Was that considered gauche?

  "And there she is!" shouted a small imp man dressed in a smart tuxedo whose voice she recognised as 'Callum,' jumping down from his seat and rushing over to her, taking her hand and shaking it vigorously. "Welcome, welcome. We're so gd you've come! Please, let me introduce you to the others!"

  I was led around the room. In addition to Callum of the 'Dark Bulwark,' there was Angus, an incubus wearing a very tight leotard with a plunging neckline, who ruled the 'Darkstar;' Aoife, who seemed to be Angus' twin sister, and was wearing what looked like leather fetish-wear encrusted with diamonds and held dominion over the 'Spear of Night;' Brigid, a taciturn pit-fiend woman who wore heavy armour and commanded 'Blood Mountain;' Enya, a female wrath demon with neatly clipped purple fur and a long white mane who ruled 'Inferno Peak' and greeted Rafferty like an old friend; Calvin was a creepy, if weirdly affable, eight-armed 'Arachnoid' like the waiter, and ruled the 'Twin Crag;' Fiona, another imp, who was the only one who regarded Marci with open dislike, and ruled 'Iceheart' fortress; Seamus, a 'spiny demon' who ughed at basically everything, and seemed more than a little drunk—he commanded the 'Spiritbreaker;' Isolde, who looked almost elvish, but turned out to be 'half-human, half-succubus—she commanded the 'Crowntaker;' Conor, who looked-like a giant ferocious owl-man, and who was Shardkeeper of the 'Baleful Summit;' and Deirdre, who was some kind of slime demon Marci hadn't seen before, and looked more or less like a transparent purple woman of slightly rger than human proportions, and who ruled the 'Abyssal Bde.'

  With the exception of Fiona, the imp, all of them were friendly and affable, complimenting Marci on her dress, or her wings, and plying her with food and drink. It would have been easy to get swept away in all the good cheer and humour, but as the demon's smiles fshed and they made good-natured jokes at their own or one another's expense, all Marci could think was 'these are the people who ensved Of's whole people, the entire north.'

  If Marci's smile looked as fake as it felt, however, no one commented, and she dredged up the lessons she'd learnt as a teenager in her mother's court, before she'd run off to become a wizard. In a strange kind of way, it didn't really feel any different to how it had then; her fttery just as hollow, those she spoke with just as arrogant and powerful and ruthless—well, maybe not quite as ruthless—and behind every smile, there for those who knew how to look, was a dagger honed to a razor's edge.

  Perhaps the Shardkeepers did enjoy their twice-monthly soirees, but it was clear as crystal to Marci that this was above all else a political event. The Shardkeepers, apart from the grumpy Fiona, who the slimy Deirdre conspiratorially leant in inform her that it had been the imp who had tried, and failed to conquer Edraine, the Queendom of Fairies, and had been repulsed by the powerful Royal Army before she'd made it more than a handful of leagues over the border.

  "Never got over it," chuckled Deirdre, her voice thick and gurgling. "Only one of us who's ever come close to losing our Fort. But what did she expect? Going after the only surfacers who can fly, bah—idiot!"

  The getinous purple woman leaned in.

  "I hear that you've had more success in attacking the Southnds already?" she said, her slightly amorphous mouth twisting into a grin. "A daring nighttime raid?"

  Marci, who had, up until that point, thought she'd been doing rather well in pying the 'cold, calm, aloof warlock,' flinched.

  "How- how do you know?" stammered Marci, looking around in arm.

  "I had an agent in Saxmoor," grinned Deirdre. "An elf—such good night vision those ones. Didn't quite catch you descending from the heavens, but it was an excellent show you put on, pulverising the keep. I was always so jealous of the Dreadfort's cannons, they pack so much more punch than mine." She pced a hand on Marci's arm. "And do rex, my dear, I know we fight amongst ourselves, but everyone wants you to succeed here."

  Agents in Saxmoor? That was… well, now that she understood that there was effectively no upper limit on a connection between a Shardkeeper and a minion, it made sense that they would have agents all over the pce. And, Marci suddenly realised with no small amount of dread, there would be virtually no way to detect them. They weren't writing reports and leaving them to be picked up, as Jonda had been for whoever her master had been — clearly not a Shardkeeper.

  They could be utterly normal, utterly unremarkable people living entirely normal lives. Or they could be in the guard, in the magistrate, they could be anyone, and there would be no way of knowing.

  "We were most… unhappy when Aisling just disappeared," continued Deirdre. "Twelve of us was still too rge a bite for the Infernal Council to chew. But eleven? Ten? Well, then they might start thinking that perhaps they can bring us back under their thumb; especially since no one figured out where she went or what happened. But now that we're back to Thirteen, we might finally be able to push south."

  Marci, who had still been internally freaking out over the realisation that Shardkeepers could have inserted undetectable agents anywhere and everywhere almost missed the st bit of the getinous demon's words. Almost.

  Pushing south!?

  "What- what do you mean?" said Marci, nearly spitting wine everywhere.

  "Oh, interested are you?" chuckled the gooey monster. "Oh yes, me and a few of my friends, we've been making pns." She leaned in closer. "And if you're interested… well, why don't you join Callum, Angus, Aoife, and me for a nightcap on the balcony?"

  Marci knew exactly what was going on. It had been clear to her that this cocktail party was all politics, but she hadn't been able to identify the various factions after so little time. But this was clearly one of them: Deirdre the slime-woman, Callum the imp, and the succubus/incubus twins—seemingly, the 'pro-invasion' faction.

  And she was being invited to join them.

  *** Marci was not freaking out. She was calm, and thoughtful, and centred—trying to rationally figure out how best use the awful information that apparently there was an invasion of the south imminent.

  "What are we going to do!?" said Marci, pulling at her hair as she sat at her desk. "What are we going to do!?"

  She'd returned from the Shardkeeper's party twenty minutes earlier, and had immediately headed to her study, where she fortunately found Of. Which had been her pn all along. She hadn't been thinking about disintegrating her desk to get at the bottle of alcohol locked in one of the drawers that was the only way she'd ever been able to calm episodes of rising panic.

  Not that she was having a panic attack. She was calm. She was in control.

  "I don't know," said Of. "But this is… this is bad."

  "Bad!?" shouted Marci. "This isn't- this isn't just bad, it's catastrophic! They've got intelligence on every single city in the south; defences, strategies, strengths, weaknesses… they've got it all."

  "You're sure they weren't just bragging?" he said, his long pink tail flicking from side to side. "Trying to impress the 'new girl?'"

  "I'm not- I'm not the 'new girl!'" protested Marci. "Of, you know I'm not- that I'm not one of them, right? Right!?"

  "A Shardkeeper? Yes, you are, Marci," he said.

  "But I didn't mean to become one!" she said, a desperate note in her voice. "And- and I haven't done anything bad!"

  "You assaulted Saxmoor fortress," snapped Of. "Potentially crippled their defences months out from an apparent invasion!"

  Marci scrunched up her eyes. "Fuck!"

  She had fucked up. She'd fucked up so, so bad. And now the South was going to fall because she'd found and accidentally bonded herself to the Shardfort, which meant that now Deirdre and the others felt strong and confident enough to go forward with their invasion pns.

  It was all her fault. Everything. Every single fey-damned thing! Millions of people were going to die, millions more were going to be ensved. Civilisation as they knew it would end, and the whole world would fall under the tyrannical boot of the Shardkeepers. And at the root of it all was her stupid, gormless self.

  "Alright, here's what we're going to do," said Of. "We're going to leak this, strategically. Make sure all the leaders of the South know."

  "How!?" said Marci. "Who is going to believe us? You're all wanted criminals; I'm a Shardkeeper!"

  "By contacting Queen Adele," said Of.

  Marci froze, her somewhat frenzied mind grinding to a halt at the mention of her mother. Panic being repced by anger and hurt and not an insignificant amount of raw spite.

  "What!?" she said. "You can't be serious!"

  "She is one of the leaders of the South," continued Of. "One of the most powerful, really—at least, in any war against Shardkeepers. I know you're estranged-"

  "She has tried to kidnap me seventeen times!" said Marci. "She wants to lock me up in a pace for the next three centuries! Turn me into a 'proper heir.'"

  "I'm not saying you have to go and see her," said Of. "But you must be able to write a letter? Put stuff in it that makes her know it has to be from you? The important thing is we let the south know what's coming, that we give them time to prepare."

  Marci shifted uneasily. She supposed that wasn't, if one didn't know her mother, an unreasonable request. But her mother, Queen Adele of Edraine was a ruthless monster—a twisted, vile, power-hungry, backstabbing, mean-spirited, horrible, awful excuse for a mother who had made the first seventeen years of Marci's life a living hell. In some ways, she was worse than the Shardkeepers. At least it wasn't personal for the Shardkeepers; they didn't do evil to their own flesh and blood.

  Marci mustered up all of her cogent rhetorical skill, her dazzling mind, and the silver tongue that had gotten her out of many a terrible situation.

  "I don't wanna."

  Part of her knew she was being petunt and childish. But that part could shut up, because Marci hated her mother and had sworn that she'd never willingly have anything to do with her ever again.

  "Marci," growled Of.

  "She's the worst! And- and she'll find a way to reply, and it- it will be awful," said Marci. "She'll tell me off, and trying to guilt trip me, and- and-"

  "And you really think that is worth letting the south fall?" said Of.

  Marci muttered darkly.

  "Marci."

  "No…" she admitted, truculently.

  There was a rustle of paper as Of found a sheaf and pced it in front of her.

  "I know this is hard for you, Marci," said Of. "Everything you've told me… I understand why you don't want anything to do with her. But please, please try to be responsible. I know you know how."

  Marci stared at the paper mutinously for several long moments, before snatching up a wickedly sharp red pen and beginning to write.

  'To my most vile and vicious mother, whom I hate with every fibre of my being,' she began, drawing the pen through the rge, loops and deft flicks that characterised her first tongue's script. 'I hope that the many years since st we spoke have been unkind to you, you harpy-'

  Of grabbed the page and tore it up.

  "Hey! What was that for!?" said Marci. "You told me to write-"

  "And I know that is now how one addresses the reigning monarch of Edraine," he said. "Even if you're the Crown Princess."

  "How?" shot back Marci. "You don't speak or read Edrainese."

  "Because you were doing that evil smile of yours when you wrote it," he said. "Properly Marci. This is important."

  Marci grumbled darkly, but started again.

  'Dear Mother,

  We both know that I didn't want to write this letter, but I have gotten myself into rather a bit of hot water and, through no fault of my own, not that you'll believe me, and have come into possession of some rather dire news about a threat to the entire south…'

  She wrote a brief summarisation of how she'd accidentally become bonded to a Shardfort, how she was working to disentangle herself, and that, most importantly, the other Shardkeepers she'd met in Pandemonium were pnning an invasion. She neglected to mention her attack of Saxmoor, even though she was sure her mother would already know about it. It felt good to be at least a little petty, even if Of was right, and this document was important.

  She included several passages filled with subtle hints and references to her childhood and then, when she was done, pulled out a single strand of her blue hair, which she had inherited from her mother, and produced a flutter of fair-dust, sealing both inside an envelope with the message, and then bespelled the entire thing to make it seem both entirely unremarkable to most everyone else, but also would be clear to her mother, a sorceress in her own right, that it had been Marci who had cast it.

  "And it doesn't say anything rude?" said Of as Marci held up the letter.

  "Nothing much," said Marci. "Although it doesn't matter what it says, if she figures out a way to send a reply, I'm going to get such an earful…"