“What was that?” Sasha asked.

  Looking back at the rest of the group, Zoe realized they’d all felt it. “Something bad, if past experiences are anything to go by.”

  They’d only left the kite up for a minute or two before stashing it back in Zoe’s inventory and making themselves scarce. From there, the two demons regrouped with Zoe’s other accomplices to wait things out until Lord Loch or whatever came to save them at dawn.

  The group of four had situated themselves outside a cafe around the corner from Zoe’s clinic and Stella’s shop. The place was closed, given the hour, but it had a charming little row of bins that would dispense black tea or crumbled bits of muffins in exchange for pieces of tin. Some kind of enchantment would either heat or cool the liquid on its way out, making a decent drink out of what would be a tepid experience.

  The shredded bits of muffin were less charming. Zoe had to wonder what kind of issues could make dispensing a whole muffin infeasible.

  “You’re right about it being bad,” Stella said, not taking her eyes off the distance. “But bad is relative—I think we just felt the first side-effect of our dear cultists and Inquisitors getting acquainted.”

  There was little doubt they were all talking about the same thing. Just seconds prior, a wave of an invisible and deeply unsettling sensation slammed through all of them. It was an intangible thing, too, feeling more akin to vertigo than something truly physical. It left them behind as quickly as it approached.

  A bitter, burning sensation across Zoe’s horns was the only remnant of its passage. Having grown more accustomed to their role as a conduit for the arcane, it was only a moment before Zoe thought to take a closer look a the ambient magic.

  Manasight!

  She bolstered the skill by also drawing upon her Perception attribute and, on a whim, directing it all through the relevant monster trait—arcane antennae. It felt like it helped. “Okay, yeah, there’s definitely something up with the mana.” It would have been hard to miss it, even if she hadn’t taken the opportunity to practice the more refined way of using her skills. “It’s a lot denser than it usually is around here, which I’m pretty sure is because there’s now a bunch of gross, dirty stuff in it.”

  There were still the usual tones—the pale, bluish tint of air mana, the dull, dusty earthen hues of earth and stone, and no small amount of green-gold life mana and a smattering of other colors. But they were all being smothered by a chunky, brownish, yellow-green soup. It clung to everything like gunk, and the color and texture reminded Zoe of her own infernal mana—if someone poisoned it with bile and burned it into nasty little clumps. Who fucking curdled the demon magic?

  “Revulsion. The stench is almost unbearable, even from here. ” Stella locked eyes with Zoe and made a sour face. “At least Disdain is bearable. If I’m going to work with another demon, anything is better than that.” She punctuated her comment with a, well, a disdainful sniff.

  Zoe didn’t have the time to care about feigning offense. Her mind was racing. Revulsion. That makes sense. Stella said they’re Revulsion cultists, and the leftover mana of whatever they’re doing over there at the mine definitely looks nasty. But that wasn’t the most important thing—Zoe was more interested in the broader implications.

  You—we—demons—have different reactions to the different flavors of Infernal magic. My own Infernal alignment is Disdain, and that feels like silent, bitter and cold hate. Fitting, I guess. I wonder what Stella’s feels like.

  Maybe it wasn’t just demons who felt those things. Zoe remembered feeling that same kind of chilling aura when she first approached Basil and his followers. She’d still been human, then, and Millie and Sasha had also reacted to the magic pulse.

  Zoe wasn’t the only one having revelations, it seemed. Millie’s eyes were flicking between her and Stella like the girl was watching a ping pong match. “Other—you? You’re a demon, too?” Hesitantly, Stella nodded. Millie’s eyes went wide, but she didn’t stare for long. Instead, she rounded on Sasha. “Are you a demon?”

  “What? No.” Sasha’s hands went up. Zoe couldn’t help but eye the Lycan’s claws. They were bigger than hers. Why does that make me feel envious? I’m not even supposed to have claws. “I’m just a Lycan. Nothing scary about me.” She frowned when Zoe coughed into her fist. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just noticed that you left out the Corrosive and Death parts of ‘Corrosive Death Lycan. Not scary.”

  Sasha’s ears flattened, which Zoe found endearing. “Whatever. What’s the plan now, anyway? Keep sitting around here until we get attack by cultists, or inquisitors, or random monsters or something?”

  “We’re not going to be attacked by monsters,” Millie said. “Right?”

  Zoe wasn’t so sure about that. She decided not to say anything—Millie was already doing enough to tempt fate on her own. That being said, monsters, even demonic ones, probably wouldn’t be as bad as actual cultists.

  _____

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  The former mayor of Blossomfell lay dead at the foot of a small hill. The once-enormous man was now half-off—or perhaps it was more of a ‘two for one’ deal. A great arc of searing flame and blinding light had sundered him from hip to shoulder.

  Inquisitor Marceus lowered his hand. “I suppose I’ll say it one more time. Forfeit the profane aspect of your advancement, lay down your arms, and you will be spared.” The cultist mayor hadn’t taken up the offer, so Marceus used his refusal to better illuminate the benefits of taking him up on his offer.

  The Inquisition had developed a reputation of favoring a harsh approach. And, unlike many of the rumors that circulated, there was a certain truth to it. In general, the Inquisition acted with caution, patience, and a light touch—but when the time to act came, the action was swift, forceful, and unyielding. It was a necessity.

  But the Inquisition was not without mercy. The branch had a natural tendency to favor the virtues of Justice and Purity, but to enact either without regard for Grace was to twist Virtue into Vice.

  “Stand aside,” Marceus commanded.

  The wrinkled face of the guildsmaster-turned-cultist twisted into a hideous sneer. “No, I don’t think I will.”

  So be it, then. Marceus reached for his skills—and the young lad on the other side of the mine entrance and fallen mayor prostrated himself upon the ground. “Spare me!”

  If the older cultist’s expression had been ugly before, now, it was truly grotesque. There is only one thing the wicked hold in greater Disdain than the Righteous, Marceus thought, his features turned grim. The repentant.

  What came next was a dance of dark lightning and brilliant flame. The Infernal elementalist had done what the Inquisitor had expected as soon as his young accomplice surrendered. Rather than strike against a powerful opponent, the bastard had turned on his own former ally.

  Marceus couldn’t allow that. It was for this reason he’d prepared a protective ward around the kneeling man in advance. It wouldn’t hold for more than a single strike—but that was all that was needed. The guildsmaster’s cruelty cost him precious seconds as the fight began in earnest.

  The man’s sorry appearance was deceptive. Years of retirement belied the strength that had earned him such a position in the past. In fact, it was likely that the practice of Infernal arts had only augmented his power in that time. Inquisitors seldom survived long without a respect for the frightening power perverse practices could bestow.

  But no power came without cost—and Marceus was strong, too. The gifts given to those who devoted themselves to the Hallow were likewise formidable. Bit by bit, over the course of mere seconds, the Inquisitor pushed the cultist back. His opponent had now retreated well within the dark entrance, and he was growing desperate. Marceus didn’t celebrate prematurely. He merely continued to press his advantage.

  That advantage vanished at the same time a flood of Blighted, Infernal mana geysered up from somewhere deep down in the mines below. The sheer intensity of it was enough to make the Inquisitor recoil backwards—and worse, the tide was so strong and thick as to nearly drown out the ambient mana.

  It would make his own skills just a little bit more difficult to use, but for the guildsmaster, the difference would be far greater. Only, instead of hindering the cultist, it was a boon to him. Damnation! And yet, the sudden boost to the powers of the old elementalist was the least of the problem. That much infernal mana could only have come from the completion of a major cult ritual.

  Naturally, the mana was attuned most closely to Revulsion—but the Inquisitor couldn’t forget the bitter, acrid sting of Blight staining the air around him as well. The fact that these cultists were working with the Blight was no surprise. It was to be expected, especially for a cult specializing in their chosen Vice. Still, a lack of surprise was not the same as a lack of danger. Just what have these fools gone and done?

  The only consolation Marceus had was that he couldn’t detect any additional taint of Corruption—it had already become clear that Blight was far from the worst ill that the cult in Blossomfell was meddling with. However, whatever ritual they’d undertaken below him clearly didn’t involve that worst of impurities. Yet the thought only firmed Marceus’s resolve. They can’t be allowed to continue.

  A successful infernal ritual that incorporated elements of the Blight was already a disaster. The Inquisitor shuddered to imagine what the results of a Corrupted ritual would be—and so he prayed that he would never have to live to find out. But the Purity of the Hallow didn’t act alone. It was through the Virtue of the Faithful that the Blighted, the Demonic, the Corrupted, and any and all other stains were cleansed from the land.

  The profane guildsmaster cackled—truly cackled—but Marceus only readied his blade. Only one of us will fall here—and by the light’s Grace, it shall not be me.

  _____

  The group continued chatting for another few minutes, but Zoe started growing nervous. Her concern skyrocketed when she caught sight of an armored figure dashing down the street, shooting blasts of brilliant light and flame up into the sky as he ran. Is that—wait. That’s the same Inquisitor!

  Zoe didn’t understand. She killed the Inquisitor who tried roping her into being one of his contacts in the town, only to later attack her upon walking in on her right after she’d finished her advancement to Rank E. But this guy looks exactly the same—they could just be identical twins or something, but she started to get an even worse feeling. It’s definitely going to be the same guy, and he has some trick up his sleeve that let him somehow survive that whole mess.

  The fact that he’d essentially stalled her for time, only to end up blowing himself up, made it all the more suspicious. But what is he doing running around in the middle of the night, shooting up signal flares? That was exactly what it looked like—it was less magic flamethrower and more magic bottle rocket. It reminded her of something she’d seen a long time ago, actually, though this one was a fiery yellow instead of a cool, frosty blue.

  The whole table had noticed him now—and so had much of the town, it seemed. Lanters and crystal lights were lighting up all down the street on both sides, and some people were even venturing out of doorways or peeping through windows. The fact that the Inquisitor was also hollering something over and over certainly helped to wake people up.

  Could you maybe enunciate more clearly, please? Zoe wanted to know what he was yammering about. She had a terrible feeling that it had something to do with that surge of yucky, Infernal mana they’d all felt not too long ago. As the Inquisitor drew closer, he seemed to catch sight of them as well. That nearly made him stumble, but he caught himself and carried on—eventually running past their stunned assembly without bothering to antagonize any of them.

  And finally, Zoe was able to clearly catch what was so important that the man saw fit to run up and down town in an effort to forcibly shake the entire local population awake. ‘Monster horde,’ he kept shouting. ‘Blighted monster horde!’