“He has been gently guiding your master, the human known as Stricken. He believes he is defending your world, but in his attempt to stop my master, he has merely been playing into our hands. He is glad that it was one as great as you who deigned to dwell within this body.”

It might be true. It might be a lie. Kurst gave a nod of acknowledgement.

“The end has begun. Ownership of this world will be decided soon. The factions are gathering their forces. He would offer you a place in his host.”

I would lead this army.

“Of course. There is no greater general. Champions have been chosen for the final battle.” The demon looked at the new red scars on Kurst’s abdomen. “You have already fought one of them.”

A faction has chosen Franks as their champion . . . I will make them regret this decision.

“Will you join us?”

I will think about it.

Kurst wiped away the remaining steam, obliterated the ancient symbol, and walked away.

* * *

His official title was Special Advisor, but his business cards left off exactly who it was that he advised. The Congressional Subcommittee on Unearthly Forces had been around for a very long time, though outside of a couple select agencies, very few people in the government had ever heard of them. Benjamin Franklin had referred to them as learned men, meaning part of the handful in charge who needed to face the nasty truths. Their job was to formulate the government’s overall policy concerning all matters supernatural. The MCB was their shield. STFU was their sword.

Swords and shields were useless without a brain. Stricken figured that was his job.

As was fitting for the men and women who had to make the hardest of decisions, most of the Subcommittee were physically present for the briefing. The President would be joining them via teleconference from his bunker. The minute that the Secret Service had learned that Franks was still in town and that he was proclaiming that The Contract had been violated, they had rushed the President to safety. A few high ranking members of the Secret Service had worked with Franks in the past. They knew what Franks was capable of, so there had been no discussion on the matter.

Stricken rather enjoyed the idea of the President being carried off the golf course by nervous gunmen who understood just how dangerous Franks was when he put his mind to something. It would help drive the point home, to make it visceral. He’d long felt that the President saw the supernatural threats arrayed against them in an academically abstract fashion, as opposed to the blood and guts, world-ending, mind-shattering horror of the reality. It was a good thing to let the President feel like he had some skin in the game.