Scene: A Deal with Another Devil

The Crossroads Club had once been a church, then a theatre, and finally a nightclub catering to those with very specific tastes. Its gothic architecture remained largely intact—flying buttresses and stone gargoyles watching over a dance floor where stained glass had once filtered sunlight. Now, red and blue lights pulsed across writhing bodies as bass-heavy music vibrated the ancient foundations.

Mick stood in the shadows of what had once been the choir loft, surveying the scene below. Without Marchosias’s enhanced vision, the club appeared ordinary—just another London nightspot where beautiful people engaged in the ancient ritual of courtship through movement and alcohol.

But Mick knew better. He’d been here once before, with Marchosias active within him, and had seen what truly lurked beneath the surface—entities that were not human mingling freely with the unsuspecting, feeding on emotions, desires, and sometimes more tangible essence.

Under normal circumstances, he would never have returned alone. But normal circumstances had ended when Marchosias went silent, and desperation made for strange bedfellows.

“He actually came,” a voice purred from behind him—feminine, cultured, with an accent Mick couldn’t quite place. “The famous detective without his demon. How... vulnerable you look.”

Mick turned to face the speaker, keeping his expression neutral despite the chill that ran down his spine. “Lilaeth. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

The woman before him appeared to be in her thirties, with porcelain skin and hair so black it seemed to absorb light. She wore a crimson dress that moved too fluidly, as if responding to currents other than her movements. To ordinary eyes, she would appear merely striking—beautiful in a severe, intimidating way.

But Mick knew what lurked beneath that careful disguise—a lesser demon, an information broker who traded in secrets across realms. Marchosias had introduced them during an earlier case, making it very clear that while Lilaeth could be useful, she was never to be trusted.

“Curiosity compelled me,” she replied, moving closer with a predator’s grace. “The mortal who hosts Marchosias, suddenly alone. I had to see for myself.” Her eyes, seemingly human, briefly flashed with vertical pupils. “What happened to him? Is he... gone?”

“Not gone,” Mick replied carefully. “Dormant. Trapped.”

“Fascinating.” She circled him slowly, like a shark scenting blood. “And here you are, seeking my help. How desperate you must be.”

“I need information,” Mick said, getting directly to the point. “About the Blackthorn Initiative. About what they’re doing to demons.”

Lilaeth’s expression hardened. “That name is becoming most unwelcome in certain circles. They are... disrupting established patterns.”

“They’re harvesting demonic essence,” Mick said, watching for her reaction. “Creating human-demon hybrids without consent from either side.”

The flash of genuine rage that crossed her features confirmed his suspicions. “Abominations,” she hissed, her disguise slipping momentarily to reveal something scaled and ancient beneath. “They take what is not freely given. They bind essence never meant to be contained.”

“Then help me stop them,” Mick pressed. “Tell me what you know.”

Lilaeth’s laugh was like glass breaking. “Information has a price, detective. Especially for one so... unprotected.”

“Name it.”

She smiled, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. “Not so fast. First, I must know—what became of Marchosias? What could possibly silence a Great Marquis?”

Mick hesitated. Revealing weakness was dangerous, but without Lilaeth’s information, he had few other leads. “A binding artefact. Disguised as an object in Judge Blackwood’s chambers.”

“Clever,” Lilaeth murmured. “Such bindings are rare and difficult to create. Someone with considerable knowledge and resources would be required.”

“Can it be broken?”

“Perhaps.” Her eyes gleamed with calculation. “That would be a second piece of information, with its own price.”

Mick had expected this. Demons like Lilaeth never gave anything freely. “I’m willing to negotiate, but I need assurance that your information is accurate.”

“You doubt me?” She pressed a hand to her chest in mock offence. “I’m wounded.”

“Cut the act,” Mick said flatly. “Marchosias may be silent, but I remember everything he told me about your kind. You can’t lie directly, but you can mislead. I want your oath that the information will be complete and accurate.”

Lilaeth’s expression shifted from amusement to something more calculating. “Very good, detective. Marchosias taught you well.” She extended her hand, a small blue flame dancing on her palm. “I swear by the old bindings that what I tell you of the Blackthorn Initiative will be accurate and complete to my knowledge.”

The flame jumped from her hand to hover between them—a physical manifestation of her oath. It wasn’t foolproof—demons were experts at finding loopholes—but it was better than nothing.

“Now,” she continued, “my price for this first piece of information: a memory.”

Mick tensed. “What kind of memory?”

“One of Marchosias,” she said, her voice softening with what seemed like genuine interest. “A moment when he revealed something of his true nature to you. Something... personal.”

Of all the possible demands, this wasn’t what Mick had expected. “Why?”

Lilaeth’s expression became unreadable. “Marchosias and I have... history. From before his fall. The memory would be for my own purposes, not to be shared or used against either of you.”

Mick considered carefully. Memories were precious, intimate things, but if this could lead him to freeing Marchosias...

“Fine,” he agreed. “But I choose which memory.”

“Acceptable.”

Mick closed his eyes, sifting through his experiences with Marchosias. Most were too personal, too revealing of weaknesses, or too strategic to share. But there was one—a quiet moment after they’d returned from Hell, when Marchosias had briefly spoken of what he missed from his existence before falling.

“How does this work?” Mick asked, opening his eyes.

Lilaeth stepped closer, her perfume carrying notes of incense and something metallic. “Simply hold the memory in your mind and meet my gaze. I will do the rest.”

Mick focused on the memory—Marchosias’s wistful description of flight above celestial realms, of what stars looked like to beings that existed partly beyond physical space—then met Lilaeth’s eyes.

The sensation was immediate and invasive—like fingers rifling through his thoughts, selecting and extracting the specific memory with surgical precision. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but left him feeling exposed in a way that was profoundly uncomfortable.

When it was done, Lilaeth stepped back, something like wonder crossing her features. “He still remembers the music,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Mick swayed slightly, steadying himself against the railing. “Your turn. The Blackthorn Initiative. What do you know?”

Composing herself, Lilaeth’s expression returned to its careful neutrality. “They have discovered ancient techniques for extracting demonic essence from thin places—locations where the barriers between realms naturally weaken. They are not the first to attempt such methods, but they are the first to succeed on this scale.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“Three principals,” she replied. “The public face is Thomas Blackthorn, a human with old grievances against demonkind. His money funds everything. Dr. Eleanor Crane provides the scientific expertise—she has been studying demonic physiology for decades. And Professor Martin Keyes discovered the extraction method in forbidden texts from Alexandria’s lost library.”

“And the purpose?” Mick pressed. “Why harvest demonic essence?”

“Power,” Lilaeth said simply. “But not in the way humans typically seek it. They believe they can weaponise demonic abilities without the limitations demons face in your realm—creating soldiers who can wield infernal power without being constrained by wards, holy ground, or daylight.”

“The Hollow Men,” Mick said, thinking of Jeffrey Watts and his horrific transformation.

“Is that what they’re calling them?” Lilaeth looked genuinely disgusted. “Fitting. They hollow out humans to make room for stolen essence, creating abominations that are neither human nor demon, but broken fragments of both.”

“How do I stop them?”

“That would be another piece of information,” Lilaeth smiled thinly. “With its own price.”

Mick had expected this. “Name it.”

“Blood,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Three drops, freely given.”

Blood had power—Marchosias had taught him that much. It could be used in tracking spells, in bindings, in countless rituals both benign and terrible. Giving it to another demon was risky.

“What would you use it for?” Mick asked warily.

“That’s not part of our deal,” Lilaeth replied. “But I will tell you this much—I have no interest in harming you or Marchosias. Quite the opposite.”

The blue flame of her oath still hovered between them, indicating she was at least being truthful in what she said, if not in what she left unsaid.

“Three drops,” Mick agreed cautiously. “No more.”

Lilaeth produced a small crystal vial from somewhere within her impossible dress. “Your hand, please.”

Mick extended his right hand. Lilaeth took it in hers—her skin cool and smooth like polished stone—and pressed one sharp nail against his index finger. The cut was quick and precise, drawing three perfect drops of blood that fell into the vial.

“Now,” Mick said as she sealed the vial, “how do I stop the Blackthorn Initiative?”

“You can’t,” Lilaeth said bluntly. “Not alone. Not without Marchosias.”

“That wasn’t our deal,” Mick growled. “You promised useful information.”

“And so it is,” she countered. “The truth is the truth, detective. The Blackthorn Initiative has safeguards against both human and demonic interference. Their facilities are warded against entities like me, while being too well-defended for a lone human to breach.”

“Then how do I free Marchosias?” Frustration edged Mick’s voice.

“That would be a third piece of information,” Lilaeth said, her smile almost sympathetic. “For which I require... a favour to be named later.”

Warning bells sounded in Mick’s mind. Unspecified favours to demons were notoriously dangerous. “Not a chance.”

“I thought not,” Lilaeth sighed. “Then I will give you a... hint, let’s say. As a professional courtesy.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The binding used on Marchosias works through connection and reflection. What silences him is tied to him. Break the connection, break the binding.”

“That’s not very specific,” Mick said, frustration evident.

“It’s not meant to be,” Lilaeth replied. “Bindings this powerful require specific counters. You need something unique to Marchosias, something that resonates with his true nature.”

A thought struck Mick—Eliza’s strange drawings. The child had seen Marchosias’s true form, had somehow pierced the veil between worlds. Could she perceive the binding as well?

Lilaeth must have read something in his expression. “You’ve thought of something,” she observed. “Good. Because time is shorter than you realise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Blackthorn Initiative is approaching a critical phase,” she explained, the blue flame of her oath still ensuring her truthfulness. “They’ve acquired enough essence for something they’re calling the ‘Aggregation’—a mass infusion into a specially prepared vessel. Something beyond their previous experiments.”

“When?”

“The dark moon. Three nights from now.” She stepped back, the flame fading between them as their deal concluded. “Find a way to wake Marchosias before then, detective. What the Blackthorn Initiative plans will tear holes in the barriers between realms—damage that will affect both our kinds.”

Mick processed this, the implications settling like lead in his stomach. “Why help me at all? What’s your stake in this?”

Lilaeth’s expression became unreadable again. “Let’s say I prefer the established order, with all its flaws. What the Blackthorn Initiative represents is chaos—unpredictable and uncontrollable. No one, human or demon, benefits from such instability.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “One last thing, freely given. When Marchosias awakens, tell him Lilaeth sends her regards, and that the feather is still in her keeping.”

Before Mick could ask what that meant, she stepped into a shadow and was simply gone—not walking away, but vanishing as if the darkness had swallowed her whole.

Left alone in the choir loft, Mick stared down at the dancing crowd below with new eyes. How many other secrets moved through London’s nights, he wondered. How many ancient feuds and alliances shaped the world humans thought they understood?

Without Marchosias’s guidance, he’d taken a dangerous gamble dealing with Lilaeth. Yet something in her manner suggested more than mere transactional interest in his predicament. The mention of a feather, the way she’d spoken of history with Marchosias... there were depths here he couldn’t fathom.

But he had what he needed—confirmation that the binding could be broken, that something connected to Marchosias’s true nature might be the key. And most importantly, a deadline: three nights until the Blackthorn Initiative’s “Aggregation.”

Three nights to wake a demon and stop a catastrophe that threatened both realms.

As Mick made his way through the crowded club toward the exit, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—not by Lilaeth, but by other entities recognising a human who walked between worlds, currently disconnected from his demonic partner.

Vulnerable, yes. But far from helpless.