Chapter 4: A Draught of Secrets

The Undercity existed in the spaces between Blackstone's official architecture—a hidden district that occupied subway tunnels, abandoned foundations, and the gaps in reality that most mortals instinctively avoided. Descending into it was like peeling back the city's skin to reveal the supernatural circulatory system beneath.

Lucifuge's meeting with Mammon had been... illuminating. His uncle's rage over the Hartwell contract was genuine enough, but there had been something else lurking behind those piglike eyes. Fear. The Prince of Greed was afraid, which meant the situation was far worse than a simple case of angelic interference.

"The Prometheus Clause," Mammon had said when pressed, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Ancient contingency. Not your concern, nephew. Find my property."

But it was his concern now. Seven high-value contracts erased from existence, and those mysterious mortals in the alley had known about all of them. Someone was playing a game that made both Heaven and Hell nervous, and Lucifuge was caught in the middle with forty-two hours left to save Bael's skin.

The entrance to Finvarra's speakeasy was marked only by a door that shouldn't exist—a slab of Irish bog oak set into a subway maintenance tunnel, carved with symbols that predated human civilization. As Lucifuge approached, the wood shimmered like water, recognizing something in his supernatural signature.

The Gilded Thorn occupied a space that was bigger inside than outside, because Fae architecture followed rules that made Euclidean geometry weep. The main room was a study in controlled chaos—crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling that might have been carved from a single massive tree, while the bar itself was hewn from black stone that drank light and reflected stars.

The clientele was... eclectic. A table of vampires played cards with currency that glowed softly in the dim light. A witch argued contract law with something that might have been a djinn, their voices creating harmonics that made nearby glasses ring like bells. In the corner booth, a pair of what looked like ordinary businessmen conducted a conversation in a language that hurt to listen to directly.

Neutral ground. One of the few places in Blackstone where supernatural predators could drink together without immediately trying to murder each other.

Finvarra himself stood behind the bar—tall, sharp-featured, with the kind of ageless beauty that came from being older than most nations. His suit was perfectly tailored, perfectly pressed, and probably cost more than a small country's GDP. When he smiled, it was with the warmth of a shark recognizing a particularly interesting meal.

"Lucifuge Rofocale Faust," he said, his Irish accent carrying undertones that made reality shiver slightly. "Three years since you darkened my establishment. I was beginning to think retirement had made you boring."

"Finvarra." Lucifuge settled onto a barstool that adjusted itself to his height without being asked. "Still running the supernatural equivalent of Switzerland, I see."

"Information is the only currency that never depreciates." The Fae lord produced a bottle that definitely hadn't been there a moment before—something amber and ancient that smelled of peat bogs and older magics. "Though I suspect you're not here for my excellent hospitality."

Lucifuge accepted the offered glass, noting how the liquid inside seemed to move of its own accord. Fae alcohol was notorious for its... side effects. "Seven souls have vanished from infernal contracts in the past month. High-value bindings, completely erased from existence. I need to know who's responsible."

"Ah." Finvarra's smile turned predatory. "The liberation campaign. Yes, I've been following that with considerable interest."

"You know about it?"

"Dear boy, I know about everything that happens in my city. The question is whether that knowledge is for sale, and if so, what you're willing to pay for it."

This was the part Lucifuge had been dreading. Fae bargains were legendary for their creativity and cruelty. They never asked for gold or power—they wanted things that couldn't be quantified, pieces of soul and identity that left you fundamentally changed.

"Name your price," he said, because forty-one hours didn't leave room for negotiation.

Finvarra leaned forward, his eyes catching the light like cut emeralds. "A memory. Something precious. Something that defines who you've become rather than who you were."

"Which memory?"

"Your choice. But make it count—I can taste the significance of what you offer, and I won't be cheated with childhood recollections or professional anecdotes."

Lucifuge closed his eyes, sorting through three years of carefully constructed normalcy. The morning he'd brewed his first perfect espresso. The afternoon he'd spent reading Sartre in his penthouse, genuinely enjoying the philosophy for its own sake rather than as psychological warfare. The evening he'd realized he could go twenty-four hours without thinking about Hell, souls, or the weight of cosmic politics.

But one memory stood out—recent, precious, and utterly human in a way that terrified him.

"Six months ago," he said slowly. "I was having coffee at that little place on Fifth Street. Rain was coming down, and there was this woman at the next table reading poetry. She was... ordinary. Completely, wonderfully ordinary. When she left, she forgot her book, and I spent twenty minutes debating whether to return it or keep it as a curiosity."

Finvarra's expression sharpened. "What did you choose?"

"I returned it. Caught up with her three blocks away in the rain. She thanked me, we talked for maybe five minutes about Yeats and weather and nothing important. Then she was gone, and I realized..." He paused, the memory crystallizing in perfect detail. "I realized I'd had a conversation with a mortal that wasn't about contracts or corruption or cosmic politics. Just two people talking about poetry in the rain."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"Human." The word escaped before he could stop it. "For five minutes, I felt completely, genuinely human."

Finvarra's smile was gentle now, almost sad. "That's the one. That perfect moment of mortality."

He reached across the bar, his fingers touching Lucifuge's forehead. The contact was electric, invasive, and utterly final. The memory dissolved like sugar in water—not gone, but changed, drained of its emotional significance. He could recall the facts of the encounter, but the feeling, the precious humanity of it, was gone forever.

"The price is paid," Finvarra said, straightening. "Now for your answer. The souls aren't being liberated by angels, though your Seraphina is certainly involved. There's a coven of mortal mages working from the old Blackstone Asylum. They call themselves the Promethean Circle."

Lucifuge blinked, the name triggering recognition. "Prometheus. As in the Prometheus Clause?"

"The very same. Ancient contingency written into certain high-level contracts. A failsafe that allows mortal practitioners to... reclaim... souls under specific circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"That information," Finvarra said, his smile returning to predatory, "would cost extra."

The anger that flared in Lucifuge's chest was cold and precise. "You're holding back."

"I'm a businessman, not a charity. But I will offer you this much for free—the Circle isn't interested in liberating souls for altruistic reasons. They're harvesting the metaphysical energy released when high-level contracts are broken. Building toward something that has both Heaven and Hell very, very nervous."

"A power ritual."

"The power ritual. The kind that could reshape the supernatural hierarchy of the entire Eastern Seaboard." Finvarra refilled both their glasses. "Your angel friend stumbled into their operation while pursuing her own agenda. Now she's a target, same as you."

The pieces were starting to fit together in ways Lucifuge didn't like. Mortal mages stealing souls from demons, angels intervening to stop them, and somewhere in the middle, a conspiracy that made princes of Hell whisper about ancient clauses and contingencies.

"The Blackstone Asylum," he said. "Where exactly?"

"Rosewood District. Abandoned since the early nineties, but the city never got around to demolishing it. Perfect place for the kind of work that requires privacy and... psychic resonance."

Lucifuge drained his glass, feeling the Fae alcohol burn through his system like liquid fire. The loss of the memory was a hollow ache in his chest, but the information was worth it. He had a target now, a direction to point his investigation.

"One more question," he said as he stood. "Why help me? What's your stake in this?"

Finvarra's expression grew serious for the first time since the conversation began. "Balance, dear boy. The supernatural ecosystem of Blackstone depends on maintaining certain... equilibriums. Heaven and Hell may hate each other, but they provide stability. Mortal mages powerful enough to challenge both simultaneously?" He shook his head. "That way lies chaos, and chaos is very bad for business."

Lucifuge nodded and turned to leave, then paused. "The woman with the poetry book. What was her name?"

"I'm afraid that detail was part of the memory I claimed," Finvarra said gently. "Some things, once given, cannot be returned."

The walk back to the surface felt longer than it should have, the weight of lost humanity pressing down on his shoulders like a lead cloak. But he had what he needed—a target, a timeline, and the growing certainty that he wasn't going to face this alone.

Seraphina was hunting the same people, for her own reasons. The mysterious mortals in the alley wanted the Circle stopped. Even his uncle's terror suggested that whatever the Promethean Circle was planning, it threatened the established order that kept supernatural politics from exploding into open warfare.

Thirty-nine hours left. Time to pay a visit to an abandoned asylum and find out what kind of power was worth stealing souls to obtain.

Time to remember that sometimes, the enemy of your enemy was just another enemy with better timing.