Chapter 3: Between a Blade and a Bad Place

The battle erupted with the fury of cosmic forces colliding in a space far too small to contain them.

Lucifuge's shadows lashed out like living tentacles, each one edged with malice that could flay souls from bodies. They struck the angel's spear of light and recoiled with sounds like reality tearing. Seraphina moved through the darkness with impossible grace, her weapon carving arcs of purifying radiance that left afterimages burned into the air itself.

"Your power is diminished," she observed, her voice carrying over the clash of opposing energies. The spear swept in a wide arc, dispersing his shadows like smoke. "Three years of playing mortal has made you weak."

She wasn't wrong. Each manipulation of infernal energy sent spikes of agony through Lucifuge's skull, and his carefully tailored suit was already beginning to smoke from the strain of containing power his reduced state could barely handle. But weakness and helplessness weren't the same thing.

"Weak?" He sidestepped a thrust that would have opened him from sternum to spine, moving with the fluid precision of someone who'd survived centuries of supernatural politics. "Sweetheart, you're confusing 'diminished' with 'out of practice.'"

His shadow split into dozens of smaller tendrils, each one striking from a different angle. Seraphina's response was immediate and devastating—her free hand erupted with light that turned the darkness into a kaleidoscope of conflicting forces. Where divine radiance met infernal shadow, the air itself screamed.

The floor-to-ceiling windows began to crack.

"The building," Seraphina said, her ice-blue eyes widening as she realized the structural damage their battle was causing. "There are innocents—"

"Now you're concerned about collateral damage?" Lucifuge pressed his advantage, his shadows coiling around her ankles like living chains. "Bit late for that, considering you just erased a man from existence."

"I liberated his soul!" She broke free with a burst of purifying light that left scorch marks on the marble floor. "Hartwell chose damnation. I offered him redemption!"

"You offered him your version of redemption." Another tendril of darkness lashed toward her face, forcing her to lean back. "Without bothering to ask if he wanted it."

The spear's butt-end caught him in the ribs with enough force to crack bones. Lucifuge staggered, tasting copper and sulfur, but managed to grab the weapon's shaft. For a moment, they were locked together—angel and demon, holy light and infernal darkness, neither able to gain decisive advantage.

This close, he could smell the ozone and lilies that clung to her like perfume. This close, he could see the absolute certainty in her eyes waver just slightly.

"He was dying," she whispered, and for the first time, her voice carried something other than righteous authority. "The contract was killing him slowly. Consuming him piece by piece."

"That's not how Faust contracts work," Lucifuge replied, but even as he said it, doubt crept into his voice. "The binding preserves the soul until collection. It's basic infernal law."

"Your uncle's contracts have... evolved."

Before he could process that revelation, the building's security system finally caught up with reality. Klaxons wailed, sprinkler systems activated, and somewhere far below, human voices began shouting orders. The elevator chimed, announcing incoming company.

Seraphina's eyes met his for one electric moment. Mutual annoyance flickered between them—nothing quite ruined a good philosophical argument like mundane interruptions.

"Blackstone Security, this is a Code Seven alert!" The voice echoed from the stairwell. "Building lockdown in effect. All civilians evacuate immediately!"

"Well," Lucifuge said, releasing his grip on the spear and stepping back. "This has been enlightening, but I'm not particularly interested in explaining to mortal authorities why there's a crater where the penthouse used to be."

Seraphina's wings—barely visible manifestations of pure light—flickered into existence for just a moment. "This isn't over, demon."

"Wouldn't dream of it, angel."

She dissolved into radiance, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and the sound of shattering glass as she departed through what remained of the windows. Lucifuge allowed himself exactly three seconds to appreciate the view of her departure before his own shadows wrapped around him like a living cloak.

By the time security breached the penthouse, they found nothing but expensive wreckage and a faint smell of sulfur that the sprinkler system couldn't quite wash away.

---

Lucifuge materialized in an alley six blocks away, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking. The dimensional shift left him retching against a dumpster that probably cost less than his shoes, while his body reminded him exactly why he'd retired from this line of work.

His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then began the insistent electronic shrieking that meant someone very important was very unhappy.

The caller ID simply read: "ENFORCEMENT."

"Shit," he muttered, then answered on the fifth ring. "Lucifuge."

"Where the hell are you?" The voice belonged to Beleth, one of Mammon's senior enforcers—a demon who made professional torturers look like kindergarten teachers. "The Hartwell building is swarming with human authorities, and there are reports of 'unexplained atmospheric disturbances' on the top floor."

"I can explain—"

"Uncle wants to see you. Now."

The line went dead.

Lucifuge stared at his phone for a long moment, then at the city skyline where emergency lights were converging on Hartwell Tower like antibodies rushing to infection. Forty-five hours left on the ultimatum, one missing soul that had apparently been "liberated" by Heaven's intervention unit, and now he had to face Mammon with nothing but questions and the growing suspicion that his family's business had evolved in ways he didn't understand.

The alley's shadows shifted, though no wind moved through the narrow space. Lucifuge turned slowly, his instincts screaming warnings his exhausted mind was too slow to process.

Three figures stepped from the darkness—not demons, not angels, but something else entirely. Mortals, but mortals who carried power like a second skin. The woman in the center wore a business suit that probably cost more than most cars, but her eyes held the kind of predatory intelligence that belonged in boardrooms and battlefields equally.

"Mr. Faust," she said, her voice carrying a slight accent he couldn't place. "We need to talk."

"Popular evening for uninvited conversations." Lucifuge straightened, his hand moving instinctively toward the silver blade. "Though I should mention I'm having a spectacularly bad day, and my tolerance for additional complications is approaching zero."

"We're not here as enemies," the woman continued. "We're here because we have a mutual problem. Your angel friend isn't the only one liberating souls from infernal contracts."

That got his attention. "Explain."

"Someone has been systematically targeting high-value demon-bound souls across the city. Seven vanished in the past month, all of them premium-grade bindings. All of them erased from existence as if they never were."

Lucifuge's blood chilled. "Seven? The Hartwell contract was just the latest?"

"The latest we're aware of," one of her companions said—a thin man whose smile was all teeth and no warmth. "There may be more."

"And you are?"

"Concerned citizens," the woman replied. "Citizens who happen to have investments in maintaining the current supernatural balance of power. When someone starts destabilizing contracts that have been in place for decades, it affects... market stability."

Lucifuge almost laughed. Even in a world of angels and demons, everything came down to economics in the end. "What do you want from me?"

"We want you to stop them," she said simply. "Before they target something that would be... inconvenient for all parties involved."

"Them?"

"Did you really think one angel could erase that many high-level contracts? This is bigger than heavenly intervention, Mr. Faust. Someone is playing a much longer game."

His phone buzzed again. Beleth, no doubt wondering why he hadn't already prostrated himself before Mammon's throne. But the woman's words echoed in his mind. Seven contracts. Seven souls erased from existence. If that was true, then Seraphina wasn't the only player in this game.

"Forty-four hours," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing." Lucifuge looked at the three mortals, trying to read the game behind their eyes. "I'll consider your proposal. But right now, I have a family meeting to attend."

"Mr. Faust," the woman called as he turned to leave. "When you meet with your uncle, you might want to ask him about the Prometheus Clause."

The shadows swallowed him before he could ask what the hell that meant, but her words followed him into the darkness like a curse waiting to unfold.

Between Heaven's self-righteous intervention and Hell's increasingly desperate ultimatums, Lucifuge was beginning to realize he might need allies from neither realm. The game was bigger than he'd understood, the stakes higher than his cousin's life.

And somewhere in the city's supernatural underbelly, someone was systematically erasing souls with power that made both angels and demons look like children playing with matches.

Forty-four hours to find answers, save Bael, and maybe—just maybe—prevent whatever apocalypse was brewing in the shadows of Blackstone.

Time to remember why they used to call him Hell's best problem solver.