Marvel's Midnight Suns: Infernal Rising E-Book

S. D. Perry

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 384

Beschreibung

The official prequel novel to Marvel's Midnight Suns, the hotly anticipated RPG developed by Firaxis (XCOM) starring iconic Marvel heroes.Blade, Magik, Nico Minoru, and Ghost Rider have joined forces to form the Midnight Suns. Trained by the Caretaker at the Abbey, a gothic fortress in a pocket dimension, this brand-new team of supernatural heroes is the world's first line of defense against the demonic forces of the underworld.With a looming prophecy of magical upheaval that threatens to unleash apocalyptic danger, the Suns must learn to work together, and quickly. But they aren't the only ones paying attention to the disruption of mystical forces.Taking advantage of the growing disorder, a mysterious group called the Triumvirate has discovered the existence of a hidden relic that would give them control over Mephisto, and they will stop at nothing to exact revenge on their shared enemy. The Midnight Suns will face their biggest challenge yet to prevent the Triumvirate from unearthing this devastating power and throwing the world into chaos.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Acknowledgments

About the Author

INFERNAL RISING

NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Panther’s Rage by Sheree Renée Thomas

Black Panther: Tales of Wakanda by Jesse J. Holland

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Morbius: The Living Vampire – Blood Ties

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. Decandido, and Christopher L. Bennett

Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

Wolverine: Weapon X Omnibus by Mark Cerasini, David Alan Mack, and Hugh Matthews

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden

X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox

ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy: No Guts, No Glory by M.K. England

Marvel’s Avengers: Extinction Key by Greg Keyes

Spider-Man: Miles Morales – Wings of Fury by Brittney Morris

Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy: The Art of the Game by Matt Ralphs

Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

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Marvel’s Midnight Suns: Infernal Rising

Print edition ISBN: 9781789097726

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803360560

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: November 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

Jeff Youngquist, VP Production and Special Projects

Sarah Singer, Associate Editor, Special Projects

Jeremy West, Manager Licensed Publishing

Sven Larsen, VP Licensed Publishing

David Gabriel, SVP of Sales & Marketing, Publishing

C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

Special thanks to Brian Overton

FOR MARVEL GAMES

Amanda Avila, Associate Manager, Integrated Planning

Bill Rosemann, Vice President, Creative

Haluk Mentes, Senior Vice President, Business Development & Product Strategy

Jay Ong, Executive Vice President

Peter Rosas, Senior Manager of Product Development & Project Lead

Tim Hernandez, Vice President, Product Development

Tim Tsang, Executive Director, Product Development

Cover design by William Robinson

Marvel’s Midnight Suns developed by Firaxis Games in association withMarvel Entertainment, published by 2K Games Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Steve and Dianne

PROLOGUE

SATANA Hellstrom was bored.

It wasn’t the party, the party was fine. Better than fine, obviously; she had the most interesting guests in any Hell dimension, period. Artists and musicians, addicts and gamblers, famous suicides and forgotten monsters mingled in her throne room, laughing and talking and plotting against one another at her feet. They drank the finest spirits and enjoyed fantastic fusion cuisine, flawlessly provided by one of her countless soulless servants… who also provided entertainment, as needed. Nothing to liven up a dull moment like a spontaneous evisceration. She’d recently completely redone the chamber in shades of plum and rose, perfectly entrail-themed, and arranged her best trophies into fun athletic poses on the walls.

And yet it’s the same as the last party. And the one before, and the ten thousand before that.

Satana sighed, letting the frenetic energy of a hundred vibrant conversations wash over her. The players changed regularly, but the smell was always the same—desperation, envy, ego. All of them endlessly jockeyed for favor with her advisors, whom she only kept so that nobody bothered her with their stupid requests. Did any of them understand all that she did for them, the pains she took to make everything so amazing? Did they realize how lucky they were, to have come to her realm, where there was fun and art and beauty, instead of landing in a torture prison or a lake of fire? Of course not. They fawned over her, groveled before her, stabbed each other in the back to get a step closer to her, but not a single one of them appreciated her. She was a competent and capable ruler with exquisite taste, better than any of them deserved.

She shifted against the throne’s stone back, artfully carved to provide good back support, and the conversation lulled as a score of guests turned to watch, their eyes greedy. The theme for this party was scandal and Satana had dressed for it, her tight black bodysuit cut to reveal plenty of creamy skin, her thigh-high stiletto boots a deep shade of crimson. She’d done her hair cherry black and piled it into a loose knot between her horns, a few wispy tendrils artfully teased out to give her a tousled, sex-kitten vibe.

Okay, so she didn’t hate those hungry looks, but she was a succubus; everyone wanted to touch her, it was a given. How did that validate her in any way, besides the super obvious? It wasn’t fair that everyone around her got to experience the delight of her company and her ever-changing, dynamic realm, and all she got back were variations on how hot she was. Where was the recognition of her work?

Maybe it’s time for a change. She’d completely remodeled her slice of Hell a dozen times in the last few decades, thrown herself into each transformation with enthusiasm and creativity. She’d raised cities and castles of gold, bone, obsidian, ice, gone through multiple palettes for environment and interior design, changed the weather, the light levels, even the design of the vermin that scurried around the crumbling edges of the infinity pits. Her guests wore knock-offs of clothes and jewelry she’d created—she’d spotted a dozen bad copies of the ouroboros necklace she’d adorned herself with just the night before—but trend-setting was old news, and no matter how engaging each re-creation was, she always ended up vaguely dissatisfied in the end.

And the end comes faster and faster. First night of a grand unveiling, and here she sat, itching for relief from all the sameness… But what was the cure? She could dump her guests and minions into one of the eternity pits south of her palace and burn every structure in her domain to ashes, then rebuild as it suited her. Again. She could take a vacation, open herself to inspiration, but she’d done that, too, lots of times. The party scene was getting tired, but nothing she could think of sounded better than what she had.

There were a dozen-plus admirers hoping to talk to her, gathered at the low stone steps of her platform and held back by the glowering Krek brothers, a matching pair of rock demons she’d lately been using as security. The Kreks were mute, ten feet tall and thicker than the walls of her best castle, plus their natural charcoal color went with everything. Satana scanned the waiting faces, mostly mortal, looking for anybody who might be worth her attention. A heavy-metal pill overdose with delusions of grandeur, a brilliant physicist with chronic halitosis and a tendency to get handsy, a handsome but dumb actor who went on and on about his instrument…

Satana’s upper lip curled. There was that starlet who drank too much and always pushed “us girls” narratives—ugh. The blonde wore a trashy red dress with spangles and, when she realized she’d been noticed, dropped Satana a broad wink.

Satana had grown up in Hell and was the ruler of her own domain; her soul had once been bonded to the arch-demon Basilisk; she’d traveled through space and time, saved or doomed worlds as suited her, and been slain and resurrected more than once. Yes, it was exactly the same as being in a movie. They were practically sisters.

On a whim, Satana pointed at the winking actress and sent her to one of the pits, with no fanfare or public announcement. Even a year ago, she would have come up with some horrifying spectacle that ended with the actress as a trophy on her walls, fun for everyone and a friendly reminder not to be too familiar. These days, Satana didn’t even bother waiting for their expressions to change when they realized they were uninvited. And the people behind the starlet just crowded into the empty spot, each of them convinced that they were special, different, worth tolerating…

Satana took a deep breath, causing another conversational dip, and then let it out slowly. Her advisor Veren, a mostly useless idiot, had said something about celestial alignments the other day. There was one of those once-in-a-millennium, darkness-rising deals coming up within the year. Satana hadn’t really paid attention. Alignments happened all the time and she kept her realm stable, but perhaps it was making her restless. In any case, there was nothing for it but to quit the party before she burned everyone alive.

If you still want to burn them tomorrow, fine, but don’t be reactive, she told herself, and rose from her throne. Maybe she was in a rut, but good for her. Recognizing her mood and checking her own behavior, that demonstrated maturity and—

Satana’s thoughts cut off as she felt something push at her dimensional wards, magic that wasn’t hers. The far wall, across from her throne platform, trembled and flickered.

The partygoers made ooh and ahh sounds, and were suddenly five times louder, shouting and calling to each other as the wall continued to shake.

“Shut up,” Satana hissed, throwing up a hand, and froze the party. Her guests were stuck in mid-shout, some still pointing at the shimmering wall. In the new silence, Satana could hear the rock particles shifting. The wall’s structure flickered again, the motion localizing to a narrow, jagged sliver by the floor, emitting an ugly green light. Whoever it was, they were weak, their magic puny. She could hear a whisper of chanting through the stone and tilted one delicate ear toward the sound.

“…nos voca nomen eius et Satanas, obsecro, audi nos…”

“Oh,” Satana said, and sat down on her throne again, crossing her legs and sitting up straight, adjusting a few of her assets. Someone was reading a very old, very powerful spell, respectfully begging an audience with her specifically. The flavor of the magic was unfamiliar, secretive. Had she gained new worshippers? The invocation was strong enough to worm into her wards, but whoever was reading it apparently wasn’t robust enough to make it work properly.

She waited. The almost-portal just kept flickering, which was irritating and embarrassing for the spell-caster, so Satana opened and stabilized it with a wave of one hand, creating an archway. The electric-green light intensified, spilling from the realm on the other side; it clashed with her décor and smelled man-made. She also smelled meat.

Human. She didn’t bother unfreezing the Kreks, or anyone else. If the spell-caster couldn’t even make a hole, she had nothing to worry about.

A man stepped into her throne room and held up his hands. He wore a kind of bulky bracelet that threw off the same green backlighting him, a soft glow like decay, like graveyard gas on a moonlit night. He was tall and pale, with slicked-back red hair and a full beard with mustache, neatly groomed. He wore tiny rectangular glasses and was dressed in an impeccably tailored brick-colored suit that fit him like a glove. The color was fabulous.

“Glory unto you, Satana Hellstrom, that you deign to acknowledge this worthless form,” the man called. His voice had a nice rasp to it and sounded European, one of those brisk, practical countries.

Satana beckoned, shoving a few of her frozen guests out of the way, and the mortal appeared in front of her platform, blinking at the sudden transition. Up close, she could see that he was almost handsome in an angular, wolfish kind of way, closing in on middle age. He had light-blue eyes with the twitchy, too-wide stare that always accompanied zealotry of one kind or another.

“I’m listening,” Satana said, and arched a brow, leaning toward him. The mortal blushed deeply, sweat popping across his wide forehead. He was uncomfortable! How sweet.

“My name is Fenn, and I seek vengeance upon Mephisto, who destroyed my family,” the man began.

Satana snorted. “So, you’ve got a death wish. Hey, how’d you get in here, anyway?”

“One of many formidable spells I’ve collected, and this,” Fenn said. He held up his left arm, showing off his glowing bracelet. It was all cheap black Velcro and tiny buttons, except for the green light, which pulsed with some kind of inherent energy. Radiation, maybe.

“I’m an inventor, of sorts, an engineer. I design machines. And I don’t have a death wish. I’ve found a way to control Mephisto.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.”

“An amulet, called the Varkath Star,” Fenn said. “An azure stone the size of a sparrow’s egg, created from the direct energies of the lost dimension Abalosom and set into silver forged from the bones of Abalosom’s angels. The Star’s creation required all of the dimension’s reality. It’s been hidden away for centuries. The wearer can command any demon.”

Satana laughed. “Yeah, right.” This was entertaining.

“Varkath was a powerful sorcerer from Earth, long ago,” Fenn said. “The eldest of the Thaumaturge Trivium. His magical prowess was legendary, before he was possessed by the evil entity known as—”

“Sure, sure,” Satana broke in. Backstory was a drag. “But how do you know it works? It’s been out of circulation for a while, right?”

Fenn smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t dare bother Your Highness without certainty, or pursue my vengeance against Mephisto based on wishful thinking. I’ve done my research.”

Huh. He had a point there; if he was lying or mistaken, he’d be more than sorry. Mephisto held grudges. And, she’d been known to incinerate stalkers. She’d never heard of the Varkath Star, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a thing. “So, why are you talking to me, and not out there getting your vengeance on?”

“The amulet is part of a small collection, hidden and sealed away by powerful wards,” Fenn said. “I believe I know where it’s secreted, but will need help pinpointing the location and breaking the protections.”

There it is. Nobody ever dropped in with a free gift, did they? “And you thought I would help you, because…”

Fenn blinked. “With the power to cast Mephisto from his throne—really, to unseat any demon ruler, in any dimension—Ithought… That is, why wouldn’t you be interested in expanding your magnificent realm? Planets and dimensions are coming into an alignment that will destabilize magic everywhere, an ideal time to redefine power dynamics, and Mephisto must pay for what he’s done. I was only five years old when he took my mother’s soul and…”

Fenn kept talking, but Satana tuned him out. Expansion. If the amulet was real, if Mephisto was unseated… There’d be a major power vacuum, and who was more qualified than her to step up?

You’ve outgrown this place, that’s why you’re never satisfied anymore. You need room to create a thousand perfect domains, to be recognized as the wise and powerful ruler you’ve becomeand—

“… and that’s why I’m putting together a team,” Fenn said.

Satana scowled inwardly, but batted her lashes and made a pouty mouth, leaning in closer. “You, me, and who else, Fenn?”

“Zarathos,” he said, pointedly staring at his feet and sweating more. “He’s Mephisto’s prisoner, and I believe he can break the seals on the collection.”

Elder Gods, he’s going to make me ask again. Satana just managed to keep her tone even. “If Zarathos can get you the amulet, why are you here?”

“Even with my technical assists, the spells I have access to won’t get me to him,” Fenn said. “But you can. Free Zarathos, and the three of us will become the Triumvirate, dedicated to ending Mephisto’s tyrannical rule. I only ask for the boon of immortality when the deed is done, so that I can torture Mephisto until the end of time, for what he did to Mo—to my mother.”

Zarathos? Really? Zarathos had once rivaled Mephisto in terms of raw power, but he wasn’t half as smart, and he absolutely wasn’t going to share anything once he got involved; the demon was a complete narcissist, believed himself born to rule. Zarathos had blown his shot at taking down Mephisto once already. A loser.

Fenn stared up at her hopefully, his zealot’s gaze twitching and crackling. Satana strongly considering melting his face. The audacity. Fenn actually wanted Zarathos, and was inviting her along just to get to him. Satana was used to being underestimated by anyone with a libido, but Fenn had come into her throne room and invited her to be a useful, pretty key without even considering that she might not want to prop up some entitled—

A deeper thought drowned out her wounded dignity. Yes, he sees you as a key. To get to an amulet that controls demons. Any demon.

Zarathos wasn’t half as smart as her, either. She could run rings around him on her worst day. And Fenn was a human male who would faint if she flashed real skin at him.

Satana smiled, really putting her heart into it, turning up the pheromones, and Fenn raised his hands again and backed up a step, swallowing. In the quiet of her frozen gathering, she could hear his throat click.

“Triumvirate,” she said, slowly, and licked her lips. “You know, I love a good threesome. Let’s go for it, Fenn. Let’s do it.”

Fenn made a strangled sound but bowed deeply. Satana chuckled and dialed the sex back so that he could start filling in some of the blanks. She also took a second to acknowledge that she was really, truly excited for the first time in ages, space and light blossoming in her chest, a flutter of bubbles in her stomach. She hadn’t been born to rule, but she was more than ready for the challenge. And it seemed her own keys to get there had just fallen into her perfect lap.

BLADE crouched atop the roof of a dilapidated warehouse, a warm end-of-summer wind rustling discarded city trash past the alley three stories below. The setting moon was a sliver in the hazy night sky, hanging over New Jersey like a tarnished sickle; its soft light glimmered across the sluggish crawl of the Hudson, a block west. The warehouse was old, nothing inside but boxes of rusting boat equipment and his target’s squatter setup tucked into a corner—a tattered sleeping bag, some clothes, food debris, a jug of water. A couple of freshly used needles nearby. Blade had checked it all out when he’d arrived. The oily, bitter flavor of dark magic hung around the guy’s stuff, a low note of sulfur, the tingle of void lending a sharp note to the stale, stinking air of the forlorn structure, but whatever he was holding, he’d taken it with him.

And his stuff’s still here, so he’s coming back. But there’s no way our friend Pendragon got his hands on a Darkhold page. With a name like Malachi Pendragon? Anybody trying that hard who was also a heroin addict was unlikely to have stumbled across one of the cursed immortal pages. Not that it was impossible—the pages had been scattered and lost a long time ago and could be anywhere—butMalachi Pendragon?

A corner of his mouth lifted at the thought but settled quickly. It wasn’t actually funny. Caretaker put up a cool front, but with the Midnight Sun coming, she was jumping at shadows. Lately, when she wasn’t training the kids, she’d been glued to the mirror table, obsessively searching for trouble. This was the fourth time in a week he’d been sent out on recon, and only the vampire nest in Texas was even worth knowing about. This Pendragon was a low-rent Satanist artifact dealer who specialized in supernatural trinkets; he claimed to have one of the cursed Darkhold pages for sale, but what were the chances? Caretaker had heard about him through one of her obscure channels, and just the rumor was enough for her to send him to check it out.

It’s the alignment. She’s worried. Between that and losingAgatha…

He took a deliberate breath and counted it out, letting the thought fade. Whatever Caretaker was going through personally, she’d find her way. He needed to be present and lose his assumptions about this guy. A real Darkhold page was a powerful thing, and Pendragon had hold of something, Blade had sensed it.

He heard solitary footsteps incoming from the east a block away, hurried, athletic shoes scuffing pavement. Blade inhaled deeply through his nose. Yes, magic, with a hint of brimstone, but not one of the immortal pages. A page from the legendary Darkhold, penned by the Elder God Chthon himself, would stain the air around it black. Pendragon was carrying something much, much lighter.

He’s scared, too. The guy’s heart was pounding, his sweat reeked, his breathing was fast.

The target stepped around the corner one building over and hunched a heavy pack up on his shoulder, shooting a look back before heading for the alley. Malachi Pendragon was thin, white, late twenties, with greasy long hair and a greasy long beard. They’d both been dyed black about six months before and hadn’t been trimmed; his inches of mouse-colored growth gave him a diseased look. He had a pinched, narrow face and worried eyes.

Blade watched him enter the building—the side entrance to the warehouse had a busted lock—his own perch trembling as the door slammed closed with a screech. There was a broken skylight to Blade’s left, but he didn’t need to look to know what was happening inside; he kept his eyes on the street, waiting to see if the man’s paranoia was justified, his other senses occupied with the junkie magician.

Pendragon put his pack down and immediately set to shoving a heavy equipment box in front of the door. At least a dozen rats were disturbed by the noise and movement, chirping and scattering as Pendragon panted and dust squealed beneath weighted wood, the sounds echoing in the mostly empty room. Pigeons rustled in the rafters, the soft dander of their wings slightly muting the sharper stink of fresh rat urine wafting out through the skylight.

Door blocked, Pendragon picked up his bag and stumbled straight to his scruffy camp, plopping down heavily on his sleeping bag. He lit a cheap candle, unzipped his pack and rifled through it: paper, leather, tarnished pewter. A small, enameled ceramic something ting-ed off the old metal. The leather definitely smelled like Hell, but the dark magic of it was small; Blade sensed wispy, misty tendrils of its strength, about as menacing as an old, fat housecat. The ceramic was a protective charm, and gave off the gentle blue feel of the mildest of breezes, but it wasn’t strong enough to hold off much more than that same cat. The other items, whatever they were, had no magic at all. Mr. Pendragon had been telling fibs.

Outside, the river slopped sullenly at the rocks, and a coyote caught a rat under one of the rotten piers a few hundred yards south. More random trash scuttled around on a wind that was just starting to lose its summer richness, which in this part of the city was a truly violent amalgam of odors. Rotting, burning garbage was the most prominent scent, wafting across the river from the landfills in New Jersey, but the body odor of millions and the toxic sewage riding the Hudson added to the humid, gaseous mix. There were people around—in the city there were always people around—but nobody close was moving.

Pendragon was paranoid, and Blade wanted to get back to the Abbey. He’d been running extra classes in the wee hours; they were just getting into close knife work, and the kids would pout if he didn’t show soon.

You could just leave. There’s no threat here. Left to his own devices he would bail, but he could already see Caretaker’s eyes narrowing when he explained that a guy like Pendragon wouldn’t have known anything useful. The fine lines around her mouth would tighten, and she’d throw off something casually brutal, like, I suppose we’ll never know, as you didn’t bother asking.

Sighing, Blade stood and wrapped his long coat around his body, not wanting to snag the leather on the broken skylight, then jumped through the hole.

He landed on the patched concrete and turned to the southeast corner. Pendragon was still sitting on his sleeping bag thirty feet away, staring wide-eyed into the dark abyss of the warehouse, panicked by the sound of Blade’s trench coat tapping the ground. He couldn’t see past the glow of his candle. He’d gone from pale to ashen.

“Who’s there?” Pendragon tried to sound commanding, but his voice shook. “Show yourself!”

“Don’t panic, I just want to talk,” Blade said. “I—”

“I have weapons, knives!” Pendragon shrieked, clutching his bag of stuff to his chest. Overhead, the pigeons fussed at the echo, a few feathers raining down. “I’m a powerful sorcerer. Get out or I’ll shoot!”

Wow. Blade tried again. “I’m not going to—”

“Who are you? How’d you get in? Leave, get out, begone!”

On the second interruption, Blade decided to give up on the gentle approach. He put himself in front of the shouting Pendragon on begone, hoping the sudden appearance might shock him into silence.

Pendragon let out a scream and immediately thrust his left hand toward Blade, grubby fingers spread. A crooked pentagram with blown lines was tattooed on his palm.

“Relinquam in nomine domini vestry, daemonium!”

Blade had to smile. Leave in the name of your master, demon. That was the intent, anyway. “You use an online translator? You’re not saying what you think you’re saying, and I’m not a demon. Now shut up so I can talk to you.”

Pendragon slowly lowered his hand. “You dare not kill me, creature. I worship your master, Satan. Your punishment will be merciless and—”

“What did I just. Say?”

The guy shut up. Finally. He stared up at Blade, lips trembling.

“I’ve heard you have a Darkhold page for sale,” Blade said, calmly. “May I see it?”

A ray of hope flashed into Pendragon’s terror-mad gaze. “Yeah, of course! Absolutely!”

He started flinging stuff out of his pack. “It’s the real deal, you know, I can sense its power. I’ve got a protection amulet, too, and Aleister Crowley’s snuff box, charms for money and sex. I’ve got all kinds of stuff. I was asking for at least—You know what? You can have it, okay? It’s a gift for your master. For you!”

Pendragon held out the Hell-scented scroll and Blade took it. Not even real parchment, just plain cowskin. The dark energy tingled against his fingertips as he unrolled the ancient leather and scanned the words. Latin, medieval German. It was a curse for somebody’s livestock to die, signed in blood. A minor demon had apparently granted the request, lending the scroll its potency, but it would only be dangerous to a man named Gunther who owned eight pigs and three goats.

“Where did you get this?” Blade asked.

“From the deepest Egyptian catacomb, sealed beneath a priest’s tomb—”

“No, really,” Blade said, leaning in a little, letting his teeth show.

“Estate sale in Hillsdale. But it is from the Darkhold.”

Blade held out the scroll. “No, it’s not. No offense, but you should stick to charms. It’s dangerous, running around telling people you’ve got big magic.”

“It’s not even real?” Pendragon stared at the worthless scroll, his expression baffled. “So why is everyone following me?”

“Who’s following you?”

“I found it last weekend and tried to sell it to a couple of places, okay? But nobody wanted it, not even for, like, a hundred bucks.” Pendragon sniffled. “And then yesterday, I saw these guys… Different places, you know? Different guys, but everywhere I went. At least three of ’em, maybe more. They were watching me, following me. I thought they were after that.”

Pendragon nodded at the scroll, still not reaching for it. “You can keep it, okay? I don’t want nothing else to do with it.”

Hmm. Paranoid, drug-fueled fantasy, or was someone else tracking Darkhold pages? Blade was leaning toward fantasy. Nobody seeking a piece of the Darkhold would be fooled for a second by Malachi Pendragon’s barnyard curse. Blade dropped the scroll, tired of holding it, and was about to split when the junkie sniffled again, his dirty brow furrowed with self-pity.

Not your business, he’s a grown man, he thought, but found himself opening his mouth anyway. “You know, you don’t have to live like this. You could get clean, take up palm reading or something. There’s a free clinic in Harlem, on Second Avenue.”

“Kill me or leave, demon,” Pendragon snarled.

Whatever, Blade was done here. He was going to have to have a talk with Caretaker about priorities. He flashed to the side door and kicked the box out of the way—

—and heard a car coming in, fast, from the north.

“Somebody’s coming,” he called. “You expecting company?”

Pendragon shot to his feet. “No! I told you, it’s those guys!”

“Sit down where you are and don’t move,” Blade said, and slipped out the door just as the speeding vehicle squealed to a stop on the waterfront, a block away.

Blade quickly climbed back to the roof, dancing between Pendragon’s hideout and the fire escape of the condemned tenement next to it. He landed in a crouch and looked west, where a battered black SUV idled, roughly parallel to the warehouse, its back end blocked from view by a stack of shipping crates. The driver was turned toward the back seat. Blade could only see a tan neck and a short blond hair.

“Come on, come on,” the driver breathed, hand clenched on the wheel, and Blade’s eyes narrowed.

He’s soulless. The part of the man that made him human was gone.

A deeper voice in the back grunted, then a back door opened. Blade side-stepped across the roof to see, just as he heard a heavy clang of metal, the deeper voice talking fast. “In three—two—”

A second soulless man was leaning out of the back door on the passenger side, young, dark hair combed to a rockabilly pompadour. He was pointing an RPG at the warehouse, the heavy launcher steadied on the vehicle’s roof rack. He fired on one. Smoke and light exploded from the launcher.

Damn! Blade dove through the skylight and flew for the southeast corner—shieldhisbody—seeing that Pendragon wasn’t there, even as the grenade blew through the sheet-metal siding and exploded.

Blade whipped himself into a tight ball and hit the empty corner as the blast hit, the explosion slamming him into the metal wall, hard, his ears popping painfully. The concussive force blasted a dozen crates into the walls and took a hefty chunk out of one of the main support pillars, the warehouse moaning and screeching like it was in pain. Hot shrapnel and splintered wood and rusted heavy metal rained down on the concrete. Panicked birds fluttered through the bitter smoke. Outside, the SUV peeled out and sped away.

Blade leapt to his feet, ears ringing, ready to follow—but Pendragon groaned, and the chance was gone. He lay in a tumbled, broken heap against the north wall, splashed with blood. It looked like the guy had been on his way to the exit and had ended up crushed against it.

Blade was at the dealer’s side in a flash, but there was nothing to be done; he could hear Pendragon’s stuttering, failing heart amid the slosh of his ruptured guts. He wasn’t conscious, at least, and didn’t wake up for his last choking exhale.

What a waste. And for what?

That was a good question. Less than a mile away, a fire engine went lights and sirens. Blade stood up in the creaking, broken room and took out his cell. Time to get back to the Abbey and find out if Caretaker knew the answer.

*   *   *

NICO and Robbie met in the training yard at 0230 dressed in sweats and tees as they’d been doing for a full month now, twice a week, but Blade didn’t show. They ambled around, stretching, enjoying the sound of the waves and the night air, always brisk at the Abbey, the ocean winds scented by ancient stone and Caretaker’s roses. The Abbey was in its own pocket dimension, but it could have been any giant, weird Gothic castle on a towering sea cliff in witch-haunted Massachusetts. It was like living on a Vincent Price set—crazy high ceilings, stained glass, gargoyles, and shadows everywhere you looked. Nico loved the aesthetic, which extended to the training yard—arches of slate-gray rock framed the sunken grassy yard, weight benches and heavy bags were tucked under groined wooden ceilings, swords and daggers decorated the walls.

Swords and daggers that I would like to use, and also learn to defend myself against, please and thank you. They all did martial arts. Blade taught a couple of different styles every day, plus boxing, but that was hand-to-hand stuff. Magik didn’t need extra weapons classes—no one could beat her with a sword—and Robbie could go Ghost Rider if someone ran up on him. Nico had magical power, sure, but it wasn’t like the Staff of One always gave her exactly what she wanted, and magic was already getting glitchy as the Midnight Sun approached; she needed more extensive combat training. Of all the Suns, she was the most physically vulnerable.

Robbie glanced at his phone with his pretty, mismatched eyes and stood up from the stone step he’d been lounging on. He ran a hand through his short, dark mop of hair with its shining silver blaze at the crown. “Twenty minutes no prof, class dismissed! I’m gonna go raid the kitchen, you in? There’s pie.”

“Just a few more minutes,” Nico said. “Where’d he go this time, anyway?”

“Magik sent him to New York about four hours ago. And she said he wasn’t happy about it.”

Another one of Caretaker’s mysterious look-sees; she’d sent Blade out a bunch of times in the last few weeks. With Agatha gone, Caretaker had become more tight-lipped than ever.

Nico exhaled heavily but didn’t burst into tears, which was a nice change. She’d seriously considered leaving the Abbey, after the accident. Agatha and Wanda had been working on some private, high-level training, invoking powerful magic, and Agatha had been killed. Which was horrible enough, but then Caretaker had freaked out and blamed Wanda, said she wasn’t safe to be around, and banished her from the Abbey. Caretaker had sealed Agatha’s wonderful library for an indefinite mourning period, and still refused to talk about any of it.

Nico sincerely respected and admired Caretaker, but she was so different from Agatha Harkness. The pair of women had run the Abbey, had reassembled the legendary Midnight Suns to prepare for the big alignment. Agatha had been wise and thoughtful: she’d taught spells and baked cookies. Caretaker, of the long-lived Blood, devoted her time and energy to keeping everyone on task—training, school, tactics, more training. That or she worked in one of the Abbey’s many gardens, hacking at weeds. In her softest moments, Caretaker told brutal war stories about battles of the past, when the great and glorious Hunter, a real hero, single-handedly beat back the tide of evil.

Blade had pulled Nico and Robbie and Magik together after Agatha’s memorial, and spoke about staying focused on the mission while everyone took time to “process,” which was fine, but half of what Nico was processing was that accidents weren’t allowed in the Midnight Suns, you would be blamed and sent away, and that their team was way weaker because of Caretaker’s temper. And now she was sending Blade out on mystery missions and keeping the rest of them in the dark.

“I mean, why would she get us together and then not use us?” Nico asked.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Robbie said. “Where you skip parts?”

“Caretaker,” Nico said. “The big alignment is barely six months out, and that’s literally why we’re here, right? How come Blade is being sent out by himself?”

Robbie chuckled. “You think Blade needs backup?”

“No, duh, but she could still tell us what’s going on. We’re not children.”

“Says Minoru the teenaged witch,” Robbie teased, and Nico hopped up a step to punch him. He knew she was twenty.

“Jeez, elder abuse,” Robbie said, rubbing his arm. “She’s… She’s Caretaker, you know? She’ll tell us when there’s something to tell. Come on, there’s pie.”

“Ugh, you’re such a guy,” Nico said. “I’m going out to the dais.”

Robbie was already heading for the main door connecting the courtyard to the Abbey. “Pie is the answer to all your questions, little one, seek and ye shall find,” he called, and disappeared inside.

Nico grinned. Robbie cracked her up, and he was so laid back it was almost pathological. She’d nursed a crush for a whole week before they’d naturally fallen into an older-sister–younger-brother dynamic, even though technically he had three years on her, and his own kid brother. Robbie had been a car mechanic and street racer before he’d been possessed by a murderous ghost, then adopted by the Spirits of Vengeance. When he was Ghost Rider, he was terrifying, all grinning techno-skull and chains and Hellfire. As Robbie, he liked messing with his Charger, videogame tourneys, and pie.

Nico set off south, where the Abbey’s small chapel faced the crashing sea. The portal dais was set on the edge of the cliff that dropped to the water a hundred feet below, and Magik might be out there waiting for Blade. Dry, windswept grass crunched beneath Nico’s high-tops, and she rubbed her arms against a chill. Summer was fading fast.

Past the training yard on the Abbey’s west side was the grotto, a shady pool spanned by a low stone bridge and overshadowed by the high, slate cliffs and wind-bent old-growth forest that mostly surrounded the Abbey grounds, north and west. Nico skirted the stairs that led down to the semi-cave, catching a scent of the cool mossy rocks that banked the water. When the Abbey had been relocated from Transia a few hundred years back, its topography and outbuildings had come along with it.

Nico passed the Abbey’s west entrance, then its barracks, which made up a good third of the Abbey’s length. She brushed her left hand along the pale stones as she walked, liking the cool smooth feel of them. There was enough space to house a couple dozen fighters inside, give or take, even with the showers and kitchen stuck in; at the moment, the space housed four, if you didn’t count pets. Caretaker’s room was on the other side of the foyer, separate from the rest of them.

As Nico stepped out of the trees, she faced the beautiful, lonely altar that Caretaker had dedicated to Agatha, overlooking the ocean and backed by the Whispering Woods. The torches flanking the memorial’s steps burned brightly, the magic that kept them alight giving off a soft incense-y smell. The familiar scent was comforting in a bittersweet way, reminding Nico of the day Agatha had taught the spells for smokeless fire to her and Wanda. The three of them had wandered the Abbey’s halls one morning, extinguishing and relighting the chandeliers. Nico could still hear the old witch’s soft, brisk tone, encouraging, see Wanda’s delighted grin.

Across the open south lawn at the edge of the ocean-front cliff was the dais, and Magik stood there alone, silhouetted against the velvet night sky and the weak glow of a crescent moon.

Magik could make portals anywhere, usually, but the encroaching alignment had started to mess with magical energies. Caretaker had set up a circular, railed platform overlooking the crashing ocean and stabilized it as a focal point for dimensional travel. Until the Midnight Sun was past, it was the only secure way in or out of their tiny dimension.

Magik had manifested her Soulsword and held it high, which meant Blade was probably incoming. Her silhouette was almost demonic, the armor that the mutant grew when she used the sword all sharp edges and horn-like spikes. Her straight, pale-blond hair rippled in the wind as she slashed at the air with the shining blade and the diffuse, fiery light of Limbo fell across the grass in a ragged, disc-shaped patch.

Magik stepped into the round, shimmering portal and then back out again, with Blade at her side. Time passed differently in Magik’s Limbo. The opening winked out behind them, and they started for the Abbey. Magik’s sword was reabsorbed, disappearing as she slid it over her shoulder, her armor going with it. Blade was brushing at his coat.

Nico cut across the lawn to greet them, noting that Blade was walking like he was in a bad mood, leaning forward a little, limbs stiff. His sunset-red eyes announced the same—intent with just a hint of frown. If she didn’t know him, he’d look dangerous.

“What happened in New York?” Nico asked, joining the pair as they walked up the wide stone steps. Blade smelled like smoke. “Why were you there, anyway? More vampires?”

The front door opened before he could answer. Caretaker stood in the foyer, all in black, her head high, her cool blue gaze glittering. Her short, silver-white hair looked rough, like she’d been running her hands through it. For Caretaker, that was practically a panic attack.

“I saw what happened,” she said, addressing Blade, her creaking voice perfectly crisp and level. “We can speak in my study.”

Caretaker turned to lead Blade to her rooms, but Nico couldn’t stop herself. “Can we all talk about it? We’re a team, right?”

The old woman didn’t answer, just kept walking. Blade shot Nico a not-now look and followed her, their steps in the foyer echoing through the dimly lit halls that branched in either direction. They took a right at the main hall and then Caretaker’s door opened and closed.

Nico lingered on the steps, looked at Magik. “What’s going on? Why wouldn’t she tell us?”

Magik shrugged, a gesture she’d clearly been practicing. Illyana Rasputina was the Mistress of Limbo, a heavy hitter with responsibilities outside the Abbey and a dark, complicated past. She was generally polite—her dark side was literally a demonic entity that she kept under tight control—but she didn’t talk much and often struggled to relate to regular human stuff, like movies or nuance.

Magik’s precise Russian accent went well with her terse response. “I believe Caretaker looks for trouble and sends Blade to see if we’re needed.”

“I mean, probably, but she could make an announcement or something. Are the rest of us going to just train the whole time?”

“We are always training, every day,” Magik said. “With or without the Midnight Sun.”

Nico sighed. “I want something to do.”

Magik frowned. “Earth’s realm is protected by the Avengers. If this dark season passes and we are not called, be grateful.”

Figures, Magik would be all pragmatic about it. She wasn’t wrong, but Nico wasn’t afraid of what might happen: she just wanted to be a part of it. Or at least know what “it” was. Being on the understudy team was fine, but how were the Suns supposed to step in to take care of business without knowing anything?

“I’m going to walk Charlie, if you’d like to come with us,” Magik said.

The mutant was trying to help, in her way. Nico loved the hellhound, but she didn’t want to be soothed, she felt self-righteously thirsty for info… and hanging in the hall outside Caretaker’s office could be just the thing, if she hurried. Magik and Robbie might be chill about the state of affairs, but Nico was betting that Blade had something to say.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna go lurk for a bit,” she said. “Have fun, though.”

Magik nodded and smiled, a shy curve of her Cupid’s-bow mouth. Wanda had talked Magik into short bangs when she’d complained about always having to tie her hair back, and they made her look extremely non-threatening, and younger than Nico. “I will, thank you.”

They stepped inside together and parted ways, Magik turning toward the barracks—Charlie hung out in the kitchen, mostly—Nico