Marvel's Midnight Suns: Infernal Rising

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—I

thought… 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 become

and—

"… 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—but

Malachi 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 losing

Agatha…

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?