Abigor had strolled past the Lord Ovi’s desk, crouching in front of a locked cabinet and fiddling with it until it fell open. “Lux, was it?” he said as he stood, holding a small humidor of cigars. “I’ve been wonderin’ since you arrived,” he lit a wooden matchstick; transferring the flame to the cigar he’d selected, “of all the poor souls the Upper-Plane could choose to save, why my sister’s?”

  Lux watched Abigor slowly inhale, savoring the smoke in his mouth as she spoke, “I could make a guess or two as to why, but that decision wasn’t mine to make, so there’s a good chance I’d be wrong.”

  Abigor seemed displeased with this answer, cooing as he waltzed around the desk, “so you’ve taken on this job without reason?”

  “I don’t get the privilege of choosing my assignments,” Lux insisted, “I’m here because I was told to be, is that not reason enough?”

  “No—I don’t think it is,” the warmth in Abigor’s voice vanished, alongside his socialite’s smile and proper posture. He leaned erroneously against the desk, “three doctors, two witches—about a dozen of our servants—and my baby brother; all of them are dead because of her. And she deserves to be saved? By the God of Solstice himself?”

  There was a fickleness to Abigor’s disdain. The same fickleness she’d felt during their first exchange. Abigor was a public figure, the future leader of the Benaill Province, he had to be good at acting. His occupation demanded it. But she couldn’t prove that the reason Abigor hated Azazel was a lie; and part of herself wondered if her disbelief merely stemmed from her dwindling holy flame. As well as her slowing, scattered thoughts.

  Truth be told, Lux couldn’t care less if Azazel was deserving of salvation. Something she knew would make Abigor fume, whether his reaction was genuine or not. So, she put on an impartial voice, answering flatly, “regardless of the individual, I’m required to present a report to the Upper-Plane, detailing why or why not Lady’s Azazel’s soul is fit for ascension, the final decision will be up—.”

  “Then what about my brother, Amos?” Abigor interrupted, “out of everyone in the Avarice family, surely he would’ve made it to heaven?”

  Lux grated her teeth, “I don’t know—and even if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed to answer that question.”

  Abigor’s fake smiled tightened, his anger becoming more obvious by the minute, “then what about our servants? The maintenance workers, gardeners, maids—the people she treated like hogwash, then consumed?”

  Of course, Lux had considered the slim chance that Azazel wasn’t made a disgrace by her curse—but rather by her very existence. That perhaps, during Azazel’s birth, an innate evil had nestled inside her, lingered there, and would continue to linger no matter how Lux mangled and contorted it.

  Then there was The Morgue, the lowest tier of the Upper-Plane, waiting for her arrival. When Azazel underwent spirit operatives, and that innate evil was discovered—could it be erased? And exactly how much would her soul need to be altered before becoming holy?

  It doesn’t matter as long as she repents—Lux assured herself, she has to; otherwise, how will I ever graduate?

  “I can answer again if you’d like; but my answer is the same,” Lux sighed, hollowly like she was nothing more than a husk of a soul, “I don’t know.”

  Lux had grown tired of this quarrel; a deafening silence falling in the office. She turned to leave, reaching for the door and letting it fall open.

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  “Well, if Solstice is willing to take Azazel’s soul, I shouldn’t be surprised he sent an equally unholy angel to fetch it for him. Should I?”

  Lux came to a sudden stop, glancing over her shoulder, “what?” she muttered, but her attention was quickly diverted as an unexplainable sensation of warmth brisked past her. She thought she saw something flicker, a brief crimson light.

  Lux blinked; another flicker—then it burst into flame, engulfing the empty space between the two. A soul. And it was evolving quickly, sprawling into the shape of something human.

  But this was no mortal—this was a spirit; an energetic young woman with red-tinted skin, harshly burning eyes, and frizzy maroon hair. Dressed in tattered, mismatched clothes. Lux realized in an instant, she was staring down a disciple of the God of Eclipse, a devil.

  Before her limbs had even finished forming, the devil reached out to Lux, gripping her hands and shaking them eagerly, “I didn’t know you were in cahoots with the God of Solstice, Abigor!”

  Bewildered by her touch, Lux’s eyes fell to their interlocked hands; trying but failing to pull away. A circular sigil was engraved on the the devil’s knuckles, her name scrawled along the border, reading; VIXIE. In the sigil’s center, the childish image of a stick figure walking along a balance beam.

  That’s. . ., a rebirth sigil. Why does she still have one?

  Before she could fully analyze it, Lux ripped her hand back, glancing towards Abigor and finding his expression hadn’t changed in the slightest. As if he was expecting this visitor.

  The devil continued, waltzing around Lux as if she were prey, “so, what’s your name? Oh—and is that your real name or the one Solstice gave you?”

  “Vix—,” Abigor scolded, his familiarity with the devil spelled out clearly the nickname he’d given her, “you’re early, what for?”

  “Mmm?” Vixie hummed, backing away from Lux; but refusing to take her eyes off her. “Whoops, sorry about that,” She snapped her finger, “Thing is—my watch broke over the weekend, now I don’t have a way to tell the time,” she shrugged, sitting atop Lord Ovi’s desk as if she owned the thing.

  “This is the soul seeker you’ve contracted?” Lux said, nodding over at Vixie.

  Abigor sighed, snuffing his cigar and leaving it on the ashtray beside him, “to be frank, Lux, I don’t give a damn whose doctrine you follow—,” he inched towards Lux, “you’re on the Mortal-Plane now—an outsider in my province, a guest in my house,” he stopped just short of her, glaring down her spirit, giving her a damning non-answer, “Don’t matter whether it’s a soul seeker, money, or politics—you ain’t got a shred of authority down here.”

  “And for you to be sent here? To this run-down, small power state? For Azazel? I’m sorry to admit it; but I can’t help thinking your god views you as disposable.”

  Disposable?

  “You understand what you’re doing, don’t you? You’re giving her a weapon.” Lux said, her hands suddenly shocked by an intense burning. Then, Abigor’s eyes went wide, and he warily stepped back.

  “Vixie. . ., what have you done to her?”

  The room begun to sway—or was it Lux who was swaying? She wasn’t sure. She only processed Abigor’s waning confidence, and Vixie’s hand—she was wounded, ichor dripping from her palm onto the desk. When had she been cut? And why hadn’t Lux noticed?

  Vixie met Lux’s eyes, pointing downwards as she mouthed something Lux couldn’t understand.

  Doing as directed, Lux’s gaze fell, seeing red, brightly burning ichor coating her hands. It was unlike any she’d seen before; shimmering with tiny particles of light. As if the typical gleam of ichor wasn’t enough.

  As Lux’s vision blurred, she became unfocused, her thoughts spiraling into dread.

  If I disappeared, would the headmistress notice?

  Her head is always clogged with so many voices.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already forgotten about my assignment entirely.