A Break In The Balance

By Carol Bosselman

Frank Rhoades is at the end of his rope. With no prospects, no family or friends to speak of, and nowhere to live soon, he trips through life in an alcoholic haze.

Until one morning, he has the most vivid, horrifying hallucination. A seven-foot-plus Black Elf in his apartment, complete with muscles and attitude. Through a mix of persuasion and abuse, the hallucination drags him along into a full-blown nightmare: a meeting with the Creator's agent, and a demi-god dragon in human form, and his Black Elven companion, who also happens to be a Prince of Hell.

He learns more than he ever wanted to know about worlds, and Worlds, and Good and Evil. He is told that he was chosen to represent humanity on a quest to retrieve an artifact. And he was not chosen for any skills or hidden abilities or redeeming qualities. He was chosen almost at random, and because there would be no one to miss him. Life gets better and better, right?

They embark on a trek across a World with a dying sun, and dangers enough, along with the dangers of an ancient evil looking to test them. His companions become not so much creatures of legend as real beings, with personalities: the dragon is good-hearted but slightly neurotic and paranoid, and the Prince of Hell is...surprise...an arrogant, bossy bastard, who Frank finds himself admiring.

At the end, sides are switched, trusts betrayed, and terrible costs are taken. They succeed, despite a heavy price, and Frank learns just how much he himself has grown on this journey. He finally accepts the reality, and even learns to use it to his purpose, and is a hero in his own right, for while he has no magic or unknown martial arts skills or arcane knowledge, he has risked everything to save Worlds, including his own that has tried to ruin him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Bosselman
• Release date: Mar 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310600487

Carol Bosselman

Carol Bosselman has been working on the Trials of A Demon Prince series since her teen years, loosely based on a gaming character. She has written for theater, including an adaptation of The Hobbit, and her view of how Shakespeare got his ideas in A Bard Dreaming. She is involved in puppetry, creating scripts, puppeteering, and doing voiceovers for Dobbinshire, a children's series that aired on Public Access. She also makes jewelry, miniature marionettes, and has done some illustrations for Trials. She currently lives in upstate NY with Spirit, the cat who is half Labrador, half paper shredder, and half Ninja.

Book preview

A Break In The Balance

Carol Bosselman

Copyright Carol Bosselman 2013

Smashwords Edition

Prologue

The moment she woke, she knew something had changed.

The dragon slowly rolled over onto her belly, sending a cascade of glittering coins down the mountain of wealth that served as her bed. She swung her head from side to side; her senses had detected an intruder, and she blinked sleep from her eyes as she tried to find it.

The thief was in for a rude surprise.

Her gaze landed on a silhouette, and she whirled into an aggressive stance. The ruff of fur behind her head stood on end, and twin jets of frost puffed from her nostrils as she began to prime her deadly breath weapon. Her tail, a full third of her one hundred and sixty foot length, lashed back and forth like a cat’s, sending up a spray of silver, gold, and bronze.

The shape was that of a woman, still some distance away, standing in the entrance to the cavern. She wasn’t beautiful by anyone’s standards, despite a lush mane of auburn hair streaked with white at the temples. Framed by such luxurious hair was a pinched and cruel face, with calculating green eyes above a sharply hooked nose. Her lips were thin, almost nonexistent. A dark green cloak covered most of her body.

The dragon paused, head reared back. She all but swallowed the freezing energy she’d been about to unleash.

She had been ready for a mortal intruder, a sneaking Ylithrien somehow bold enough to slay a sleeping dragon and make off with uncountable wealth. Maybe one of the arrogant Elves, in search of loose scales with which to make their magical shields.

Unfortunately, she was dealing with neither. This was someone entirely different.

She stiffened in recognition of her visitor.

I’m glad to see you still have some sense after all these years, Lady Moon. The woman beamed a vicious smile as she approached. It wouldn’t be fitting to bite the hand that released you, would it?

In the span of seconds Moon went from outrage to terror. It was a struggle to remain outwardly calm. She lowered her ruff and dropped her head to the ground in a draconian gesture of submission.

Moon was no ordinary dragon, and such a gesture was largely unknown to her. She was a deity among her kind, with a coat of shimmering silver scales rather than the mundane green, red or blue of mortal dragons. Curved black horns arced from the back of her eye crests, sharp enough to pierce bone when she could bring them to bear. Her eyes were pools of liquid onyx, unfathomable.

She was also far more intelligent than the average dragon. At least, it pleased her to think so.

But the woman standing before her was the third, possibly second, most powerful force in the Worlds. Damia, a sorceress older than time, and with the warmth and personality of a pit viper. Even a deity had no choice but to respect such a guest, unwanted as she was.

What could she possibly want with me?

Damia took another step and said nothing. She wanted to give Moon plenty of time to dwell on the situation. Let the lizard work up a sweat. From beneath her cloak, she drew a red velvet bundle and placed it on a nearby pile of dented armor. She handled the bundle carefully, as if it were a child.

Moon’s interest was roused.

A gift, perhaps?

Damia cleared her throat finally, an indication that she desired Moon’s full attention. The dragon focused on her, although her eyes kept straying to the item now added to her treasure.

I broke the spell because I have need of your services, Damia said. An item of mine requires guarding. You’ve proven your ability to do so. A small favor considering what I’ve done for you.

*Indeed, I stand grateful.* Moon could only reply telepathically; her draconian mouth was ill-suited for speech. Careful to keep her mental tone even, she added, *There is more.*

Observant, Damia murmured. Only some restrictions. It is not yours to open or even touch. You will not ask questions. Eventually I shall return to reclaim it, and you’d best be at your post when I do. She lowered her voice. Certain parties will come looking for it.

Moon puffed up with indignation. *They shall never get near,* she assured the sorceress.

Damia clapped her hands together in approval. Your confidence inspires. There will be rewards later for your loyalty, fear not. Perhaps you’d like to double…or triple your hoard?

Moon’s eyes gleamed with avarice. She might be superior to most dragonkind in rank and intellect, but at heart she was as greedy as the lowest wyrm when it came to shiny treasures. Twice, even three times as many pretty things for her hoard! The thought was exciting, and her tail curled in pleasure.

The offer had wordlessly been accepted.

Damia watched the dragon with barely hidden amusement.

Stupid lizard, she thought. Stupid, but useful. Wait until she sees exactly who will come looking for my prize. Still, the sorceress had no doubt her instructions would be obeyed.

Her commands and warnings issued, Damia disappeared in a flash of putrid green light. Stinking smoke whirled in the wake of her passage.

Moon remained motionless for a time, studying the bundle left in her care.

Suddenly the thing made her uncomfortable. For the first time, she wondered what exactly she’d gotten herself into. Her passion for wealth, combined with a certain intimidation of Damia, had blinded her to some plain facts.

Should she fail in her duty, she would suffer a horrible punishment. Possibly one that would last her for eternity. Nothing as kind or final as mere death would satisfy the witch.

That was really a stronger incentive than treasure.

Besides, had she refused Damia, she would likely have ended up in the same situation. Damia would never have made the offer to see it turned down, and then allow Moon to live with that knowledge.

With a shiver, Moon used her tail to sweep a pile of coins over the bundle. She wanted it out of her sight.

What choice did she have but to obey? And to obey, she had to keep herself healthy and alert. After all, she wasn’t quite sure of how long she’d been asleep, but she was starving now. Surely Damia knew she had to leave to hunt?

Starvation would be a kinder death than any punishment Damia could hand out.

Moon chose to ignore that thought. She twisted her serpentine bulk about to crawl to the ledge outside her cavern.

She had to have sustenance. She was hungry, and it was time to hunt.

Miles away on the same World, in a labyrinth of caverns deep beneath a lake, a second dragon stirred.

He, too, was a deity among his kind, although he held sway over the more beneficent dragons. Those his sister ruled coddled their baser instincts.

His name, of course, was Sun. He was smaller than his female counterpart, only a hundred and forty feet from snout to tail. His scales were a burnished red-gold, and his ruff and underbelly fur were a brilliant scarlet. His dark orange horns were shorter and curled at the tips, more like the dragons of the East, though no less deadly than hers, and his eyes were bright rings of crimson and gold.

Whereas Moon liked to believe she was of a superior intellect, Sun truly was. He refused to succumb to lowly draconian nature. He had no hoard, for he valued treasure not at all, nor did he hunt. The only meat in his diet was provided by an occasional sacrifice, or a lamed animal straggling behind the herd.

Generally, he held himself above that sort of thing.

For all his intelligence, though, he was feeling muddled right now. He recalled the sleep-spell, placed on both himself and Moon. He remembered Random’s suppressed anger as he dictated the conditional magic: no other god would dare wake them, but should one be freed from the magic, the other would wake as well.

All for the Balance.

Sun strained his senses.

There were no signs of life nearby, other than the tiny blind cave fish that darted through his lair. Either the spell had been broken from a distance, or Moon had been freed first.

His gut told him that the second guess was right, and that he had reason to be concerned. Random certainly had no reason to wake Moon.

How long had he been sleeping? What things were coming to pass in the World above?

Time might be a leisure he didn’t have, he decided. He could contemplate the possibilities while he traveled.

The air sacs beneath his ruff held an oxygen reserve, enough for him to reach the surface. He launched himself forward, out of the cavern. The fish scattered before his bulk, and Sun made the surface in no time. Still he soared upward, exploding from the center of the lake to catch air currents, his air sacs now working in conjunction with his magic to keep him aloft.

He had to speak with Random. He had to find out what was happening.

Immediately.

One final player had yet to be pulled into the drama.

He was seated upon a massive throne of ebony and mother-of-pearl; his mind was occupied with the placement of foot troops. His territory had been invaded…again…by a group of over-zealous knights. They would be easy to dispatch, of course, but how to do it with a minimal loss to the forces of Hell was tricky.

And trickier still, how to find all those damnable portals and gates that allowed mortals to find their way in?

His head snapped up as he felt the familiar tug of a summoning spell.

He growled. Someone had very poor timing.

The pull came again.

This was not one of his devoted minions requesting help. It was another…

A mortal wizard, most likely. For some reason, wizards thought it a mark of their talent to summon and control demons.

He was one of those demons, and found the wizards’ attempts to be the height of stupidity. They drew their pretty circles on the floor, surrounded themselves with candles and incense, and spouted words from an archaic language, and honestly believed it was enough to protect them. They genuinely thought they could win; they could bid whatever they conjured up to serve them.

Maybe with lesser demons, such as implings, circles and incense worked.

Not with him.

He had no choice but to answer the summoning. The magic involved the use of his true name, which was the one thing that did hold power over any demon.

But once he got there, he was a free agent.

Suddenly the distraction didn’t anger him as much. This other venture promised to be almost enjoyable.

He dispelled his physical body and reverted to a writhing cloud of blood-red energy, and he went to answer the call.

1

Frank Rhoades had one thought running over and over in his head that early August morning.

Gloom, despair, and agony on me. Oh, the damned agony.

He’d seen Hee Haw once or twice as a child, and that song seemed too appropriate for him this morning. He had a hangover to beat the band. His fault, of course, and he was willing to accept the blame. After twelve years of hung-over afternoons, another one should have come as no surprise.

He woke to find himself half on the couch, half on the floor. Beer cans and an empty Jack Daniels bottle surrounded his feet.

Lucky I held that down, he thought miserably. At least so far. Beer before liquor, never get sicker. Think that’s how the saying goes. Man, the humidity…must be ninety-five outside. Makes me feel that much worse. Wish my head would explode and be done with it.

He struggled to get up, kicking aside cans, newspapers, crumpled chip bags, and clothes. Somehow he’d gotten his pants off before he passed out, but his shirt was still on, glued to him by perspiration. The stench of sour beer and cigarette smoke rose from every pore, aggravating his nausea.

The latest bout of depression had set in over a month ago. Frank was beginning to wonder if he could be classified as psychotic. Not that he could afford to go to anyone to find out for sure.

His creativity had dried up without warning. He couldn’t come up with material for a short story, let alone a novel. Hell, he couldn’t manage an editorial letter these days. His bartending job was nowhere near enough to pay the exorbitant rent, and his hours had been cut back last week. Some royalties were still trickling in, but bills came in faster.

The future was utterly bleak. He loved Manhattan, but he knew he couldn’t stay much longer. The money he’d desperately stashed for so long was nearly gone.

Frig that. I’ll live in a paper bag on the sidewalk before I move back upstate. And that’s starting to look like a real option.

So, he drank. More than ever before, and he’d had quite a history of drinking. Frank was no slouch in the booze department. When he was sober, he dwelled on miseries past and present, and no amount of thinking offered a solution.

Killing off brain cells didn’t involve thinking. That was what he considered a good solution.

Well, maybe there’s a book somewhere in that. Not my usual genre, but what the hell, I can branch out. Chapter One: Financial Ruin. Make a decent magazine article, anyway.

His life had been hand-to-mouth for years, of course. He’d never been a blockbuster author. He had found an agent through a referral, and been fortunate enough to produce a few short fantasy novels that went mass-market. Damn fortunate, he knew, for someone who hadn’t finished high school. That income, combined with a string of temporary jobs, kept him mucking along.

Not exactly the high life, but other than a few down periods, it was a life that satisfied.

The final straw, the ballbuster, had come two weeks ago. Elaine had dropped the bomb by telling him she wanted out, and out she walked. He remembered it as if it were yesterday, although his sense of time was terribly distorted. She had stormed through the apartment, grabbing clothes, discs, everything she felt she had claim to, harping at him that he’d never grow up, he’d never learn to commit, he couldn’t even commit to a career, for Christ’s sake.

He could only commit to the bottle.

Chapter Two: Social Ruin. Twenty-seven and my life is over. Ooh, the way my head is pounding, I really wish it was over.

He stumbled across the living room and down the hall, cursing out obstacles like the carpet. When he reached the bathroom, he had to hold onto the sink for several minutes until the room quit spinning.

Frank stepped into the shower, not bothering to remove his shirt or briefs. A touch of genius there, to clean himself and his stinking clothes in one fell swoop. He spun the dial all the way into the blue, and steeled himself.

Freezing water had the desired effect. Dull, throbbing pain echoed through his skull, but the fog was starting to lift. He could sulk over his problems with more clarity. After the initial shock, he slumped against the wall, mouth hanging open to catch some of the spray.

Anything was better than the taste of cotton.

After twenty more minutes of this self-imposed abuse, Frank felt marginally better. His stomach had settled enough to pour some coffee into it.

He turned the shower off and sloshed back to the sink to gargle away the last remnants of dry mouth.

Oh, yeah. Need coffee. Wish I could afford anti-depressants or something. There’s no health-care for the starving artist types. And the illegal stuff costs even more.

He shocked himself with that last thought. He could never bring himself to touch drugs. He’d never even tried a joint. Not after what had happened…

The last thing he needed was to drag himself down further with memories of his distant, painful past.

Pretty soon, beer won’t even fit into the budget. As if what I got could be called a budget. Ha.

The kitchen looked as if Dorothy’s cyclone had passed through. Frank couldn’t believe he’d caused this much damage by himself. Newspapers and beer cans were strewn all over the table and floor. His pants were tossed into the sink. He’d thrown something at the counter…salsa?

Musta been one helluva party. I did this? Good thing no one called the cops on me.

He froze in his tracks. The only sound in the room was water dripping from his shirt, hitting the floor with a loud ‘plop’. The sounds of the city had receded, died away.

Something was terribly out of place. Something other than the destruction he had created.

Sunlight was already streaming through the half-cocked blinds on the sole window, casting bands of yellow on the dirty linoleum. The clock on the microwave said one-thirty. The one part of the room still in shadow was the nook between the refrigerator and the wall, where the coffee filters were stored on a small shelf.

That was normal. The fridge stood between the window and the corner; the nook never got natural light.

It was the shadow that wasn’t normal. Instead of the usual gray of shadow, where you could still see the outline of items within, the area was black. Inky black.

Inky black that was staring at him with huge pupils ringed with amber. If they were really eyes, they were easily more than a foot over Frank’s head.

Pull the blinds, it commanded. Shut them completely.

Frank shuddered.

Getting the DT’s already, Rhoades? Or just having a real intense hallucination? Either way, it’s not a good sign.

Frank had nothing against hallucinations. Some of his finest work had come from drunken imaginings. Alcohol worked wonders for unlocking his mind.

But this was different. This dream genuinely scared him.

Still, he was cursed with a certain morbid curiosity, and he closed the slats on the blinds, never taking his eyes from the figure in the corner. As soon as the last bands of light faded, it stepped forward.

Frank nearly swallowed his tongue.

He (for it was obviously male) stood at least seven feet, and at a first glance appeared human. The second glance dispelled that illusion. The being had glossy blue-black skin, a shade not to be found among any race Frank could name. A long mane of silvery gossamer hair almost hid the delicately pointed ears. The eyes were enormous and tilted up at the corners. His dress was archaic; pewter-gray breeches and high boots were all he wore, leaving his torso bare.

The torso bulged with all sorts of muscles.

Frank got the impression that this fellow was pissed off.

Pointed ears, slanted eyes…looks like an elf. A black elf? But elves are supposed to be little, kind of wispy, not built like Rambo…

Elves don’t even exist, dumbass!

As if in protest, the pounding at his temples resumed and picked up tempo. His mouth went bone-dry; the hangover was reasserting itself in the face of the impossible.

If it is real, it’s just an intruder, he reasoned. I’m seriously messed and just not seeing things straight. He’s a friggin’ burglar, nothing more. A burglar who’s still into the punk scene. Shit, they sell those wigs everywhere. Maybe he even has designer contact lenses.

Of all the days to have to deal with this.

Take whatever you want, man. He held his hands out to indicate he wouldn’t interfere. Not a whole lotta money but it’s in the top dresser drawer. He realized he was slurring; his tongue felt too large for his mouth again. Take the stereo. Hell, you could probably carry the television under one arm.

The stranger walked up to Frank and backhanded him across the jaw.

The strength behind the blow was unbelievable. Frank spun around and bounced off the counter, then staggered into the kitchen table. As he fell he dragged a chair down with him. Bright points of light skittered through his vision; his teeth felt loose. Bile rose in his throat as his stomach gave a violent lurch.

Real panic gripped him. This was no ordinary robber. This was a killer. On the afternoon of his worst hangover ever, he was going to be murdered in his own apartment, and he was too frigged up to lift a hand in defense.

My fault. Like every other problem in my life, it’s my fault. I knew the security system gets flaky, and I was too drunk to lock my door.

On your feet.

The voice was rich and resonant, soft but with the unmistakable timbre of command. This was a creature accustomed to being obeyed. The intruder now stood directly over him.

Frank trembled. He could only grunt in response, and even that slight effort made the left side of his face throb.

The grunt earned him another mind-numbing punch, and Frank slid down into blissful darkness.

Azbaelus had managed to work his massive frame into the chair in the living room, his legs stretched out before him. He wasn’t comfortable with human-sized furniture, but now he had nothing to do but wait for the mortal to wake. He’d thrown Frank onto the couch for the duration. While he chafed at the delay, it wouldn’t do to bring Rhoades back too horribly injured.

Random would be furious. The old man had an aversion to violence. A bruise he might dismiss, but complete unconsciousness, no. Unlike Azbaelus, Random didn’t grasp that sometimes brute force was a viable tactic.

Gods, how he hated mortals, and humans in particular. This one, too, seemed of the lowest breed. Oh, his features were nondescript enough: brown, vapid eyes and pale blondish-brown hair, fairly well-built although his guy had run to fat. His features were almost feminine despite a thick growth of stubble, and his nose ended in a large round bulb that already showed the broken blood vessels of a heavy drinker.

No, Frank wasn’t especially vile to look upon. He was average for his race. As for brains, well, Azbaelus thought that so far Frank had shown himself to be below average. For a male of the species, he was also short. Perhaps five-eight, he barely reached Azbaelus’ chest.

To be summoned from Hell for this! What in the Worlds did Random want with a human?

Frank began to stir.

One eye peeked through the swelling. The black figure was still there. He stifled a whimper and shut his eye again. His headache had reached migraine proportion, and now his jaw thumped counter-time with it. His shirt had dried against his skin, and he shivered with cold despite the humidity.

Could this day get any worse?

I should just let him kill me. It would be so easy.

Killing him didn’t seem to be the creature’s intent, however. There had been ample opportunity not taken. In fact, the intruder had even put Frank back onto the couch.

Hallucinations don’t get physical. They sure as hell don’t knock you down. What in blazes is going on?

Unless…maybe he plans to torture me before he kills me. Oh, please. No. I’m not strong. I couldn’t take that.

Whatever the thing was, and he refused to believe it was in any way human, and whatever its intentions were, he had to accept it as real. It was a real, physical entity. It certainly had proved itself a physical threat.

He reached one arm up slowly, groping for the phone on the end table.

Don’t bother.

Look, just tell me what you want. He winced at the rasp of his own voice. I’ve told you where the money is. Take everything. Or kill me, if that’s what you want. I can’t stop you.

You certainly can’t, the creature agreed.

Frank blinked, trying to focus. He could see no sign of concealed weaponry, although anyone who packed a punch like that hardly had need. If only he could guess at the intruder’s intent.

The being finally stood, with incredible grace for his size. Actually, I’m here at the request of an…associate. I don’t have leisure for explanations. I’ve been sent to collect you.

Frank swallowed. Collect me?

Isn’t that some kind of Mafia term? They send their goons out to ‘collect’ someone?

Yeah, like I have anything the Mafia would want.

For lack of better words, yes. It took a step towards him.

Uh, what if I decline? Frank huddled against the back of the couch, fully expecting a second beating for his presumption.

You don’t understand. You will come, voluntarily or not.

But…but…then why didn’t you take me when I was knocked out?

This is getting weirder by the minute. Why am I arguing? This is a dream, this is a dream, this is a dream. Keep telling myself that and eventually I’ll believe it.

Azbaelus cleared his throat. He had no intention of telling Frank the real reason he hadn’t taken him already. I’m feeling generous today. I thought I’d give you the chance to make an appearance on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest. Frank noted that each finger ended in a curved black talon. Use your head, Rhoades.

He knows my name?

You do need material for stories, correct? All but washed up in your chosen business, aren’t you?

Frank felt his throat tighten. How the hell does he know those things? Maybe he really is Mafia.

If you wish, consider the incident a dream. I have no objection. Cope however you will. But might there not be a potential story in this? What harm can come of accompanying me, whether you dream or not?

Frank could think of all manner of harm; a dozen answers sprang to his lips and died there. He was better to keep his mouth shut. The fellow’s abrupt change of manner, from knocking him senseless to attempting to reason with him, left Frank disoriented and more frightened than before.

Once you hear the offer, I assume you may decline. But you must accompany me to find out what that offer is. The experience shall be worth it. Although I do recommend you make yourself presentable first.

Frank was torn by doubt, yet there was an undeniable logic behind the being’s words. If this was a dream, which it just had to be, then it couldn’t harm him. And there might be useful material, at that. For example, this very creature would make a spectacular villain. If only he could figure out what exactly the creature was…

Besides, he couldn’t take the beating that was sure to come if he refused. He fully believed this character meant to take him, conscious or not.

His options were few and far between.

With a nod, he sat up and gingerly touched his jaw. Just let me change clothes, he mumbled as he wobbled to his feet. He gave the intruder a wide berth as he weaved towards the bedroom.

Once inside, he slammed the door shut and took a deep breath.

What was going on?

He used the mirror on the back of the door to check the damage. His hair stuck out in all directions, but that was normal enough. His jaw sported a lump the size of a golf ball, and it was already an ugly shade of purple; forget shaving for a couple of days. Some of the swelling had spread to his left eye as well. Dried blood coated his upper lip and chin.

Oh, yes. The damage was very real. Clearly his safest choice was to play along.

Material for a book. Right. Looks like I should try my hand at horror instead of fantasy.

He began to sort through mounds of clothes strewn over the floor. As he stripped off the shirt he was wearing, he realized a corner of it was still damp, and used that to wipe the blood from his mouth.

In deference to the heat, he chose a tank top and baggy jeans. He found a pair of beaten loafers to slip onto his bare feet.

If this is some kinda job interview, I’m screwed. I don’t own a suit, and my face looks like its been through a blender. Oh, well. Play along, right? Key words. I could still wake up.

When he emerged, he found his visitor back in the corner of the kitchen. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t fond of sunlight.

His cigarettes and lighter were mixed in with the mess on the table. He grabbed both and shoved them into his pocket.

This is the best I could do, he said. This isn’t like a power lunch or something, is it? I just don’t have those kind of clothes. I don’t even own a suit.

Come here.

Frank hesitated. It hadn’t sounded like a threat, exactly; he had to wonder what he was getting himself into.

Well, we can’t leave through the window. He tried to keep his tone light. Someday his sarcastic tendencies were going to get him killed, but things were always slipping out of his mouth before he could stop himself. I’m ready, and going with you voluntarily, but we do need to leave by the door, you know.

Azbaelus uttered a low growl. His inclination was to snatch the human and leave, but with Random involved one had to handle these things delicately. If you’ve chosen to trust me this far, you’ll trust me further. Now come here.

Trust you? Frank brayed nervous laughter. Hardly. I’m just taking the path of least resistance. He walked towards the corner.

Actually, I’m taking the path of self-preservation. Not getting my teeth knocked out seems like the right choice.

As he approached the stranger, Frank noticed an odd scent he hadn’t noticed before. Vaguely smoky, almost like wood smoke, but with a faint undertone of rotten eggs.

Sulfur?

When he paused again, the creature reached out and seized his hand. Instinctively Frank tried to jerk back; the grip was like a band of steel. The fellow’s touch was smooth and dry, and uncomfortably warm.

Frank was keenly aware of those dead-black talons pressing against the surface of his own skin.

There was no turning back. No retreat.

Keep your eyes and ears shut, the creature commanded. Where we must pass, there are things humans were not meant to face.

Humans? Is he implying he’s not human? Not that I really thought he was, anyway. Hell, at this point I’ll buy anything. Why not? It’s only a dream, right?

Yeah, but what about…

His protest died on his lips as he realized a thick, grey mist was rising from the kitchen floor. Darker shapes appeared within, shifting and growing with the unnatural fog.

Frank became aware of chanting, and it took him a moment to understand that the sound was coming from his companion. It was a guttural noise, unintelligible to him, although with a certain musical quality to it. He was reminded of the Gregorian chant.

A thin film of sweat broke out across his forehead. The kitchen was gradually fading out. Mist surrounded him on all sides. Something solid remained under his feet, but the floor was gone.

In the span of two breaths, the temperature plunged below freezing. The figures within the fog had grown darker, as if they were solid beings coming near.

Frank wondered if the sudden chill weren’t caused by his own mounting fear. It was a far cry from the sweltering torpor of his apartment.

On the brink of panic, he made another desperate attempt to wrench his hand free. One claw punctured him as his