In Which Octavius Gains an Unlikely Ally

October 14, 1165

What seemed to be the lingering remnants of a headache drummed throughout Octavius's head as he pushed himself from the couch. He tried to remember what had happened after Deian's orb had emitted that light--he found nothing. Perhaps he had blacked out and Florian or someone had dragged him back to the castle.

But then what about Deian's game? He certainly wasn't playing it now. Had he won? He might have thought the whole thing had been a dream if he hadn't woken up in chain male and with a sword on his belt. What was going on?

"Holladrin?" he called, the sound of his own voice sending a sharp pulse through his brain. "Florian? Children?"

No answer. They must have been out of earshot, or otherwise occupied.

Still, it would have been nice to know why he'd been put on the couch in Medea's old room rather than the one in his study or Holladrin's sitting room or even his own bed. As far as he knew, the only people who had been in this room since his marriage to Holladrin were the servants. By just being here, he felt as though he was intruding, violating some untouchable place that was meant to be undisturbed; it was almost like being in a crypt. "Holladrin?"

"She's not here, you imbecile--nor will she ever be, at this point."

He knew that voice. He rushed to the mirror and stared in disbelief at the pale form it reflected, casually reclining on the bed with the controlled dignity of a lioness.

"Medea?"

She tossed her head back and sniffed. "Why do you need the mirror? Are you even more of a sniveling coward than you had me believe? Just turn around and face me like a man."

What was she? A ghost? A hallucination? Whatever the case, he figured there was no sense in arguing. He crossed the room and stopped at her bedside. "Uh... how have you been?"

She pulled herself off the bed with a dismissive shrug. "Well enough, I suppose; at least, as well as one might ever hope to be here in Hell."

From what Octavius could tell, she was as sane as she had been before Geneva had run off; therefore, he could only conclude that he had heard incorrectly. "Sorry?"

Frustrated, she shoved past him and about-faced to meet his eye. "You know what I said, you stupid ass! This is Hell--at least, our own little personal section of it."

So he'd lost. His young son was now baron, at the terrifying age of nine. He'd left a widow and four orphans, not knowing that the morning's parting kisses would be the last he ever gave them--and since he'd wound up in Hell, he'd never see any of them again. "I'm dead, then?"

Medea laughed, much like a malevolent child might have snickered at a peer struggling with basic arithmetic. "Actually, you're still very much alive."

"Then how am I in Hell?" he demanded. "I must be dead."

Insistent, she shook her head. "Trust me, you're not dead. If we were both dead, we'd be having sex right now."

"What?"

"Well, that's my punishment in the event of you dying and ending up down here with me," she explained with a shudder. "Sex with you for all of eternity, with no chance of ever having an orgasm. It's a little more personalized than just fire and brimstone for all, you know."

There was so much yet so little he could have said in reply to that statement. "I see, but... I still don't have any answers. If I'm not dead, why am I here?"

Medea tilted her head, the dim glow from the stained-glass windows illuminating her neck and sloped shoulders. In her own hard, frigid way, she was rather beautiful. "You living people are so ignorant. Look, what Deian used on you is an old sort of magic, long-forgotten by all but his own disgusting kind. What it does is send the recipient to the afterlife, which is dependent on his religion. You and Dalston and Severin are all Catholics in practice, so you were all sent to wherever you were headed out of Heaven and Hell--apparently, you have some serious praying and repenting to do if you manage to get out of here."

He got the sense that she was playing with him; he wished she wouldn't be so cryptic. "And how does one get out of Hell, exactly?"

Sighing, Medea rolled her eyes. "You just can't figure out anything for yourself, can you? Look, the thing about Hell is that while living people can leave it, they can't leave alone. If you can find one or both of your friends within three hours, then you'll be safely returned to your bodies on the surface. If you don't find either of them--or any other living soul, if one happens to be down here--then you die, which is a serious inconvenience for me, to say the least."

This was doubtlessly the most bizarre thing Octavius had ever heard, but he supposed it was the safe choice to believe her. "And suppose both Dalston and Severin are in Heaven?"

"Then all three of you and your precious kingdom are doomed, because apparently no one ever wants to leave Heaven," she sneered. "Just between you and me, that almost makes me think there would have to be sin up there."

Octavius sighed and closed his eyes, allowing the faces of his family to parade across his mind. He never would see them again; what were the odds of either Dalston or Severin ending up in Hell? "Well, I suppose we'll be seeing a lot of each other, then."

"Not if I can help it!" Medea snapped with all the determined intensity of a mighty general. "I can't tell you where Dalston might be if he's here, since Geneva isn't dead yet, but I'd suggest looking for Severin in this rotten old eyesore of a cottage about five minutes' walk south of here. If he isn't there, then start hollering for Dalston at the top of your lungs; if there's any chance of you getting out of here, I'll be damned if you don't take it--literally."

Old cottage, five minutes' walk south. Octavius managed a small smile. "Thank you, Medea. You've been very helpful."

Medea's blue-gray eyes narrowed. "Just do me a favor and get yourself to Heaven when you actually do die--if my eternal suffering wasn't dependent on your presence here, don't think for a minute that I would have told you anything."

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