There was a sudden flash of heat as the bodies of the Nemesis soldiers were engulfed in flames. Only Franks could hear the piteous wails of the demons being cast back to Hell. It was a stark contrast to how Myers’ spirit had gone peacefully to his reward. The emotion hit him then, a sense of loss so profound that it was physical. He roared at the universe, and then slammed his fist into the rock so hard that his bones cracked the stone. His incoherent bellow slowly died off.

I have failed you.

Franks looked at his shaking fist and the blood leaking out around rock shards embedded in his skin. The word HATE had been tattooed on his knuckles by the arm’s last owner. The word was so faded now it was almost invisible. The mortal flesh was weak and temporary. The eternal was unyielding. He had failed Myers. He would not fail their mission. He would not fail his part of The Deal. The muscle tremor passed. Hands steady, Franks reached down and gently closed Myers’ eyelids.

“Good-bye, my friend.”

Franks stood up. There was still work to do and people and demons in dire need of killing. Stricken would pay for this. Anyone allied with Stricken would pay for this.

Jefferson seemed to be shell-shocked. Archer was waiting there with an empty gas can in hand, staring at Myers’ body. Strayhorn got to his feet, swaying, appearing that he might collapse at any time. Could I have a son? That was not part of The Deal, but he would ponder on that later. Right now, the agents looked as lost as Franks felt.

The rain kept on falling. The four of them were in a circle around their fallen leader. Lightning cracked across the sky.

They looked to Franks for guidance.

“What do we do now?” Archer asked.

“Fucking kill everything.”

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

I spent years in that dungeon. Our conversations grew better over time. They had to, or I would have murdered him in frustration. Unlike the humans, my memory of the before had not been wiped entirely, only damaged. It did not take long for me to understand how to act human. My spirit had spent years observing them. I secretly had a head start.

It was Father who taught me how to speak. It took time for the language centers of my once-dead brain to begin working again. He talked a lot. I mostly listened. Even then I wasn’t much for talking. Humans talk too much. It’s like you never shut up.

He taught me to read. Every day he would bring me more books, theology, philosophy, and history. I would read them by the light of a torch. Father had a great library by the standards of the day. I read it all. I did not like poetry. Poetry is stupid. You must have to be born to appreciate that stuff.