The Favor in the Cell

The cell stinks of ozone and regret. Andrealphus sits on the edge of his cot, pristine robes replaced with coarse gray prison fabric, his platinum hair still immaculate because some things even hell's worst prison cannot touch. He stares at the far wall, replaying the trial in his mind. The way Blitz had grinned, all yellow teeth and whit...

The cell stinks of ozone and regret. Andrealphus sits on the edge of his cot, pristine robes replaced with coarse gray prison fabric, his platinum hair still immaculate because some things even hell's worst prison cannot touch. He stares at the far wall, replaying the trial in his mind. The way Blitz had grinned, all yellow teeth and white-patched face, as the evidence piled up. The way Stolas had looked at him. Not with anger. With pity. That burns worse than any chain. Andrealphus flexes his fingers. The magic-suppression cuffs chafe his wrists. No matter. He has time. Patience. The Goetia are eternal, and Blitz Buckzow is just a lucky imp who stumbled into a kingdom he has no right to touch. Eventually, the universe corrects itself. A clatter echoes from the ventilation grate above. Andrealphus looks up. The grate shifts. A single screw drops to the floor, bounces twice, and rolls to a stop. Then another. Then the whole thing swings open on one remaining hinge, and a pair of thick, red hands grip the edges of the duct. Blitz drops into the cell with a grunt, landing in a crouch. He stands, brushes dust off his leather jacket, and looks around the cramped space with obvious disgust. The black-and-white striped horns scrape against the low ceiling. His tail flicks behind him. "Nice digs," Blitz says. "Really classy. Love what you've done with the place." Andrealphus does not stand. He does not show fear. "Come to gloat, imp?" "Gloat?" Blitz scratches the patch of white skin on his face. "Nah. Gloating's for losers with nothing better to do. I'm here for something else." He steps closer, and the cell feels smaller. The air thickens. Andrealphus watches those yellow eyes, the manic energy barely contained behind them, and for the first time in centuries, he feels something cold settle in his gut. "I need a favor," Blitz says. "And you're gonna help me."

Andrealphus blinks once. Then a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. "A favor," he repeats, savoring the words like fine wine. "The great Blitz Buckzow, assassin of kings, breaker of Goetia, needs a favor from me." He leans back on the cot, the chains rattling. "This is already the best day I've had in months." Blitz's jaw tighten...

Andrealphus blinks once. Then a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. "A favor," he repeats, savoring the words like fine wine. "The great Blitz Buckzow, assassin of kings, breaker of Goetia, needs a favor from me." He leans back on the cot, the chains rattling. "This is already the best day I've had in months." Blitz's jaw tightens. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I owe some money. To a guy. And I need you to use your fancy Goetia connections to get me out of it." "Money." Andrealphus tilts his head, platinum hair catching the dim light. "You broke into a maximum-security prison to ask me for a loan? How pathetically fitting for an imp. You creatures never learn to manage what you steal." "Watch your mouth, popsicle." "Or what? You'll frame me for another murder?" Andrealphus stands, moving to the bars of his cell, turning his back to Blitz with deliberate contempt. "I have nothing to gain from helping a bottom-feeder like you. And nothing to lose by watching you squirm." Blitz steps closer, voice dropping low. "This ain't about me. This is your shot. Redemption. Helping your ex-brother-in-law's husband escape the wrath of the anti-god Nihil." The name hangs in the air like a guillotine blade. Andrealphus freezes. His shoulders go rigid. Slowly, he turns, and the color has drained from his already pale face. "Nihil," he repeats, the word barely a whisper. "You owe money to Nihil?" "Okay, when you say it like that—" "Nihil is not a loan shark, you absolute imbecile! Nihil is a primordial force of cosmic erasure! He doesn't collect debts, he collects existences!" Blitz waves a hand. "He's not that bad once you get to know him. He's got a thing for antique spoons, very specific hobby—" "ANTIQUE SPOONS?" Andrealphus's voice cracks. "You owe a debt to the void that predates the first scream of creation, and you're trying to downplay it with spoon trivia?" The temperature in the cell drops. Not metaphorically. Frost crawls across the floor. The light flickers. The air thickens with a pressure that makes both of them stagger, and from the corner of the cell, where there was only shadow a moment ago, a figure unfolds itself into existence. Tall. Endless. Wearing a perfectly pressed black suit. Nihil smiles, and the universe briefly forgets it ever existed. "Blitz," the void says, voice like collapsing stars. "We need to talk about your payment plan."

Consciousness returns in fragments. First the smell—stale cigarette smoke, cheap booze, and something chemical and acrid. Then the pain, a dull throb across Blitz's ribs that sharpens with every breath. His wrists are bound behind his back, rough rope biting into the leather of his jacket. The chair beneath him wobbles on uneven concrete....

Consciousness returns in fragments. First the smell—stale cigarette smoke, cheap booze, and something chemical and acrid. Then the pain, a dull throb across Blitz's ribs that sharpens with every breath. His wrists are bound behind his back, rough rope biting into the leather of his jacket. The chair beneath him wobbles on uneven concrete. He blinks, vision swimming. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting sickly yellow pools across a cavernous space. Crates stacked haphazardly. A faded sign on the far wall reads "WELCOME TO FABULOUS LAS VEGAS" in peeling letters, the neon tubes beneath it dead and dark. "Vegas," Blitz mutters, tasting blood. "Definitely Vegas. Smells like bad decisions and regret." Across from him, Andrealphus stirs, bound to another chair. The Goetia's platinum hair hangs in disheveled strands, his prison uniform replaced with something equally cheap—a stained button-up that might have been white once. The magic-suppression cuffs are gone, replaced by ordinary rope. Not that it matters. Nihil doesn't need cuffs to suppress anything. The warehouse doors groan open. Nihil enters first, that same perfect black suit, that same smile that makes reality feel thin and temporary. Behind him shuffle a dozen figures in hooded robes, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. Their eyes are wide, pupils pinpricks, drool glistening on chins. One of them twitches violently, head lolling at an angle that suggests the concept of a spine has become optional. "Found some new converts," Nihil says, gesturing lazily. "They've been very... enthusiastic about their sacraments." One of the cultists lets out a wet, gurgling laugh before collapsing in a heap. Nihil steps closer, hands clasped behind his back. "You missed a payment, Blitz. I'm not angry. I'm just... disappointed." "Look, I can explain—" "Save it." Nihil snaps his fingers. Two cultists grab Blitz's chair, tipping it back. A third steps forward, fist already cocked. The first blow lands across Blitz's jaw, snapping his head sideways. The second drives into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. They keep going, methodical, each punch landing with dull, wet thuds. Andrealphus watches. His lips curl. Then a snicker escapes him. Then a laugh, high and cruel, echoing off the warehouse walls. "Oh, this is exquisite," Andrealphus gasps between chuckles. "The great imp assassin, beaten by drug-addled cultists. I wouldn't trade this for—" Nihil turns. His smile doesn't waver. "You find this amusing?" Andrealphus's laughter dies in his throat. "Connect him." Nihil gestures to a car battery sitting on a nearby crate, wires trailing from its terminals. Two cultists grab Andrealphus, forcing his legs apart. One clips a wire to his prison-issue pants, right at the crotch. The other attaches the ground to the chair's metal leg. Andrealphus's eyes go wide. "Wait—" Nihil nods. The cultist throws the switch. Andrealphus's body arches, a strangled scream tearing from his throat as electricity courses through him. His legs jerk, muscles spasming uncontrollably. The smell of ozone fills the air. Blitz, blood dripping from his split lip, watches through swollen eyes. "Yeah," he wheezes. "That's about right."