The reflective flash of the shinning blade is the sole visible sign of the ritual going on below. It rises up in an arc, and then flashes downward in a terrible motion. With that, the blade no longer reflects any light. Curiously, nothing in the room emits any light for the blade to reflect. Even darkness does not disturb this circle. The black arena seems bereft of more than merely light, as if even such forces and bright and dark dare not enter the grounds. It is as though there is nothing for the eye to see, not dark, not light, no sight at all.

Sound, however, does.

The sound that currently emanates from the lightless space is a terrible keening that runs up the spine and plays havoc with the nerves. At least, it does so for the police gathered at the door. Silently, they creep into position. One places a sledge against the door while the other two lift automatic rifles and signal readiness. An instant passes, each trading looks that carry subtle meanings reserved only for one another. Then the one with the sledge brings it back and slams it into the door, bursting it from the hinges.

Instantly, the three men race inside, the first two moving with flashlights and shouting, “Police!” while the third drops the sledge and reaches for his own weapon. The lights violate the sanctity of the space and reveal the scene below. With crazed expressions, a group of men stands around a fallen woman covered in blood. They reach for weapons, various guns and blades, soon as the police enter the room. But before they reach them, the police open fire.

A few sharp retorts of the weapons later, the police and the woman are the only ones left alive in the room. On the radio, one of the police says, “Medics and an ambulance, immediately. She’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get her to the hospital fast.”

The other two men move to check the downed gang, pushing weapons out of reach and checking for any signs of life. Finding none, they turn to the third. One pushes up his mask and says, “Four dead gangbangers.” He then motions to the girl. “She gonna make it?”

Grimly, the third says, “Don’t know. She looks pretty torn up.”

“Shi-”

Interrupting them is a female voice. “Yes, she is pretty torn up.”

Whirling about, the three men stare in surprise at the now standing girl. She inspects her body with curious detachment, poking at the stab wounds and smearing the blood across her skin.

“I don’t think she’ll last the night to be candid.” Her voice is amused, almost as if she finds the prospect of dying slightly funny, or perhaps just entertaining.

In a different world, dear reader, these police might have paused. They might have hesitated for crucial seconds and given the woman a chance to act. But this is the world of Becca, of Beacon, of Ascherus, and of Eldritch. Hesitation is death, and the police knew it. So it was that they raised their weapons before the woman finished speaking and squeezed the triggers tight. Yet, for all their preparedness, for all the training, for all the hours spent practicing a on the firing range, these men were merely mortal, and that, dear reader, is sometimes the only difference that matters.

The woman grins, her face splitting impossibly wide as her mouth contorts. Two of the police slump to the ground with an audible crack, their bodies contorting in ways unintended by the creator. The third shivers, watching the woman walk leisurely toward him.

She runs a finger along his gun and says, “There’s a spark in you. Something dark and delicious. Tell me, do you hate criminals?”

The man whimpers, caught like a bug in amber by the magic energy rolling off the woman. She sniffs him and then gestures to the dead gangsters on the ground.

“They targeted her,” the woman says. “They hated her, because she refused one of them.” The woman pauses to let out a grating, disinterested giggle. “That’s a silly reason to hate, don’t you think?”

Fingers trembling, the man tries to angle his weapon upward to point at the woman. She shakes her head and waves her hand. A moment later his gun points directly at the ground.

“Silly or not, when you saw what they did, what they were doing, that little flame unfurled. Deep down inside you feel it,” she hisses with sudden urgency, “you hate them, which is all I need.”

Running her fingers along his arms and up toward his head, she adds, “Just a little bit, that’s all I need to dig my way inside.” Pausing, her hands braced on the policeman’s temple and curled around to his ears, she says, “She hated them too, if it makes you feel any better. You’re no worse or better than most humans,” she hesitates, her hands digging into his skin, then adds nonchalantly, “but then, that’s all I need you to be.”

Bursting into the room, the medic pauses at the scene before him. Then, forlorn, he says in his mic, “Everyone in the room is dead, including the woman.”

Over the mic comes the crackle of a response, “What about Simmons, Andesto, and Reymal?”

Checking the police bodies, the medic shakes his head and says, “Andesto and Reymal I see, but there’s no Simmons!”

In the corner of the room, just inside the inky black, the man who used to be Simmons smiles. Then, he turns and walks calmly into the void.

Hundreds of miles away, almost across the world, a woman sits at her desk reading a report.

“So, my cousin chose a teenage girl to carry the dagger and managed to create a magically binding oath preventing anyone else from taking up the mantle until one or both of them are dead.” Shaking her head, she continues sarcastically, “And yet I’m the one who was unworthy of receiving the name Belinda. Somehow I think aunty Bella got it wrong, oh cousin of mine.”

Sighing, she places the paper back on the desk and massages her temples. “God dammit Bel,” she says in an exhausted tone, “what in the name of Christine de Pizan were you thinking?”

She glances over at a pair of photographs sitting framed on the edge of the desk. Both of them are women who bear a striking resemblance to her, the first a brown-haired brown-eyes motherly figure and the second almost her exact twin with a darker hair color. She reaches out and gently takes the photo of the brown-haired woman, rubbing the corner.

“Mom,” she begins, “I miss you.” She stares at the photo for a few more minutes before glancing at the other woman’s picture. “Aunty Bella,” she says in a cool voice, “you and that idiot daughter of yours screwed everything up,” her face contorts slightly, “again.”

Frowning and speaking with obvious frustration, she adds, “Why is it always mom and I who had to clean up your messes? Didn’t we deserve better? A chance at real happiness? Something better than serving as the perpetual second fiddle to your headstrong family?”

A male voice emanates out of one of the dark corners of the room. “Sounds like you really hate them, Melinda Athow.”

Melinda doesn’t waste a second, spinning to face the voice and spitting out a curse at the same time. As she turns, she throws out her hand in an imperious gesture. A bolt of greenish magic flies from her fingers soon as she finishes speaking and from her other hand a cocoon of protective magic forms.

The green blast splashes harmlessly against the man, who then emerges from the shadow. Chuckling lightly to himself is the police officer Simmons-or the physical form of him at least. He no longer sports his combat uniform, instead wearing a simple suit.

Teeth gleaming white, he says, “Come now Melinda, a shield? How is that going to protect you, especially when I’m already inside your heart?”

Melinda’s face blanches in august terror as she drops the shield and begins a Latin incantation. Waving his hand, as if bored, Simmons silences her. Immediately, Melinda jumps behind her desk and toward a cross hanging on the wall. Before she reaches it, Simmons grabs her ankle and drags her back across the desk. Leaning over her, he places one hand on her throat and shoves her back against the wood.

Resigning to her fate and thinking only of preventing him from seeing the report, Melinda frantically grabs the letter sitting on her desk and crumples it in her hand without Simmons noticing. Then she knees Simmons between the legs and hurls it toward the fireplace in the corner of the room. Reeling, Simmons cannot stop the paper mid-flight or fish it from the brazier in time. Snarling, he turns back to Melinda and grabs her by the hair, throwing her body across the desk again. Then he hisses out an epitaph that causes black runes to form on Melinda’s legs and sear into the flesh. Grunting in pain, Melinda realizes she can no longer move, or feel, anything below the runes.

Simmons leans over her and whispers, “What was on that page?”

Melinda spits at him and says in a defiant tone, “You’ll never find out!”

Simmons does not react to the glob of spit running down his face. He simply stares at Melinda for a few moments before his skin seems to turn a deep shade of red. A second later, the spit sizzles and evaporates away. As it does, Simmons smiles.

Gasping in horror, Melinda says, “A Named Demon! But how?”

Soneillon spreads his host’s hands wide, keeping Melinda restrained with his magic. “A little help from your father, as it were.”

“My father?”

“Well,” Soneillon amends in a wry tone, “not exactly your father. But you do bear his name, and that gives him some claim, I think.”

Melinda closes her eyes in helpless rage. Then she whispers, “Thorm Athow.”

“Indeed,” confirms Soneillon. “He heard I was planning a visit to this plane and asked me to do him a little favor.” Soneillon’s face twists into a horrid grin as he adds, “I am but a humble devil, and when he bent my ear with his tale of filial woe I felt I simply ought to help the fellow out.”

“Filial woe?” spits Melinda, “he’s a monster!”

Soneillon walks slowly around the desk, hands clasped behind his back as he regards the flames. “Ah yes, he is indeed a monster,” he murmurs, “but then, he did do me a great favor and all he asked in return was that I aid in the process of hosting a little family reunion on his behalf.”

“Reunion?” Melinda asks, suddenly very afraid.

Soneillon smiles down at her with a predatory gleam. “Oh my yes, you see he’s been languishing in prison for long enough that even I, an immortal, empathize with his plight. All that time and none of his family have ever bothered to visit him. I understand he is quite disappointed.”

Melinda’s face turns pale. “You’re taking me there?”

“Not I,” says Soneillon, “I’ve so much to do, so much to see, up here!” He taps his chin. “Besides, this does seem like a family affair, doesn’t it?”

“Then why are you here?”

“Why, I’m here to make certain your soul doesn’t end up in some pesky Heaven!” says Soneillon with a shake of his head. “Can you imagine? An eternal reward for all those long years of labor on behalf of your aunt and cousin, both of whom ignored the necessity of your work? All because you’re not quite as adept with your spellwork? Goodness sake!” Soneillon pats Melinda’s head and adds, “I shudder to think of such a dreadful end.” Then he claps his hands together and says in an upbeat tone, “Perish the thought! Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Walking around the desk, Soneillon trails his hand along Melinda’s shoulder. “Flesh of his flesh,” he says reverently. Sinking his finger into Melinda’s arm, he ignores her scream of pain as he adds in a jovial tone, “Blood of his blood too, now I wonder…” The devil waves his free hand and a gag appears in Melinda’s mouth, silencing her to mere whimpers of agony. “Bone of his bone?” Soneillon asks, leaning over her struggling body. “That’ll do nicely for the ritual. Now, now, don’t scream yourself hoarse just yet, I want to savor this.”

In time, dear reader, the end comes for Melinda Athow as it comes for all of us. But it is the time in between then and now that we will not speak of, for some rituals and rites are too foul to put to paper. Unaware of her sister’s death, Belinda prepares her charge for the arrival of the demon. But Eldritch has more pressing problems, a fact that is readily apparent next week as she heads… “Down the Rabbit Hole!”