CHAPTER ONE

  The gentleman sneered at the sight before him.

  “These are the accommodations of the gentry?”

  The home was large, but it lacked… something. Elegance? Gravitas? Damn this mortal psyche! It was galling to go from a consciousness that spanned the cosmos itself to being shackled by this wretched mortal shell's feeble perceptions. It was like being bound, gagged, and thrown in a thick wooden trunk…not that he'd ever experienced that scenario, but he imagined that would be a vexing situation for mortals.

  Time moved differently on this plane, so though to the gentleman's perspective he had been banished for eons, it had scarcely been a century on this plane. When he was here last, the manors and chateaus had possessed character. The love the carpenter had for his craft shone in every grain of wood. Architects at that time were like grand master painters, singing their arias in the medium timber, stone, and plaster.

  The monstrosity before him lacked the beauty and grandeur of those bygone manses. The Masters' home was far larger than any of the other homes he'd seen that day, by an order of magnitude. He hadn't been on the physical plane long, but already he'd seen enough houses to know mediocrity had become this era's fashion.

  No doubt the Masters were proud of what they had achieved. It doesn't even have an estate to speak of! No gardens. No hedgerows. The parcel it sat upon would barely have been suitable for the lowest of farming peasants.

  As much as he detested his current form, the long walk from Ashley Williams' house to her erstwhile paramour's home was a delight. He reveled in the freedom, the ability to stretch his limbs and go wherever he wanted. Before, on the other side of the portal that brought him here, he didn't really exist. Not in a physical sense, at least.

  As limiting as this form is…it is leagues better than being trapped as a disembodied entity.

  The wind against his skin was delightful. The gentle touch arousing him like a courtesan's caress.

  As he approached the large home, his ears didn't hear the crunching of gravel under his feet. His eyes didn't marvel at the meticulously groomed lawn. Instead, his thoughts lingered on the feast to come. How long had it been since he'd savored the copper tang of mortal blood, thick and warm as it coursed over his tongue?

  The large wooden doors affixed to the home's facade, at least, looked as if someone had given the care and attention such things deserved. Ornate carvings lined the portals' edges. Remnants of the life that had been snuffed to give birth to the thick doors cloyed around the wooden flesh. Centuries ago, the tree's highest boughs had brushed the clouds. The pressure in his trousers grew and his mouth watered.

  The wrought iron knocker thudded into the wood. It was a faux pas of the highest order for someone of his status to arrive unannounced. But that was a century ago, he reminded himself. Who knew how things had changed? He made a mental note to acquire a manservant at all possible haste, then a small frown creased his brow as he wondered if his fragile human brain could retain the thought.

  Before he could contemplate the shortcomings of the human form further, the door whipped open. A middle-aged man with graying brown hair stood in the doorway, his top button undone and sleeves rolled up.

  “What do you want?”

  The gentleman's lip curled and he struggled against the urge to push past the unsightly servant. “Tell the master of the house that he has a caller.”

  The man's eyes flicked up and down, sizing the gentleman up. “We're not interested. Fuck off.”

  The gentleman's hand shot out, effortlessly halting the door mid-swing. The servant's face flushed, his futile struggle a pathetic display against the otherworldly strength arrayed against him. With a grunt, he relented and threw the door open.

  “I told you, we aren't interested. Leave. Before I call the cops.”

  He didn't know what the word meant, but the gentleman surmised from context that the man was threatening to summon the authorities, or perhaps the house guards. He really needed to find some way to acclimate to this strange world he found himself in. As liberating as it was to be out of the cosmos, he felt like a man out of time, which, of course, he was.

  “Tell the master that he has a caller.”

  The man barked a laugh and straightened his posture. “I am the master of the house. Randall Masters. And I told you, we aren't accepting visitors at the moment. Now, leave.”

  The gentleman took in Masters' shoddy appearance one more time, then gave a mental shrug. What did it matter to him if the gentry of this era entertained guests in such a sorry state?

  He didn't smile, but his tone softened. A bit. Seamlessly, he dropped the tone one used to speak to the help and adopted something more cordial. He wouldn't speak to Masters like he was a peer, but would address him as if he were a man of substance, laughable as that thought was.

  “Mr. Masters,” he said with a small tilt of his head. “I wish to speak to you about a lucrative business opportunity.” He hid the smile that threatened to blossom on his face. He couldn't count the number of aristocrats he'd charmed using those same words. They were all the same, the nobles. They confused money with power and spent all their time and meager faculties grasping for wealth. Hint at the chance to make a profit and they'd hand over just about anything.

  Unfortunately, either the modern aristocrat wasn't as greedy, or the gentleman had miscalculated somehow. Masters didn't look like he was going to take the bait. His hand tightened on the door as if he were readying to slam it.

  Silently, without so much as a flicker of movement, the gentleman reached out with his power. This fragile human vessel could not endure the faintest whisper of his former might, yet even diminished, his influence coiled like smoke into the recesses of Masters' feeble mind. Becoming mortal had required many sacrifices, one of which was giving up much of his power. Luckily, his body was humming with the surfeit of power he'd absorbed from the young couple, Ashley and Samael. Though he was less than he once was, his power was more than adequate to entice a man such as Randall Masters.

  The gentleman opened his mouth to issue a command, but another voice cut him off.

  “Father, who's at the door?” Even if the gentleman wasn't familiar with Randy Masters, he would have recognized the voice of an oldest son and heir. All firstborn sons had the same cocksure tone, a mixture of whiny pretense and adopted indifference.

  Masters frowned and behind him, the gentleman caught sight of the young Masters. The young buffoon was shirtless and held a bag of ice to a deep purple bruise on his forehead. The next words he spoke were said through gritted teeth. “We're a little busy, Dad. Now's not the best time for guests.”

  “Silence, boy!” Masters whirled and Randy stepped back involuntarily. “If I stopped working every time you had an issue, we'd be living down on State Street with the other laborers. Now, put some clothes on or disappear.”

  Randy's face paled, then darkened with anger and embarrassment. “Fine,” he spat, retreating toward the stairs with a venomous glare.

  “Actually, the business opportunity I mentioned concerns the young master.” The gentleman looked to Masters with an inquisitive eyebrow. “Perhaps the young master might join us after he's suitably attired? Dinner, perhaps?” He sent a pulse of power through the link he'd established with the man, and Masters didn't so much as blink at the impropriety of the gentleman inviting himself to dinner. Or maybe that was normal behavior for the people in this era. He really needed to find some way to catch up on everything he'd missed over the decades. While he'd kept tabs on the major happenings—he had little else to do during his banishment—there were many planes of existence, each with their own worlds, and he hadn't bothered to keep up with social norms.

  I also need to choose a name. The name he'd had before was chosen out of necessity. He had been summoned into a vessel that already had an identity, so he had had little choice in the matter.

  “Of course.” Masters turned and barked a command that sent his son up the stairs, a scathing glare on the youth's brow for their surprise guest. “Come in, please. May I take your coat and your… uh, top hat?”

  The gentleman fought down an irritated snarl at the incorrect term. Instead, he politely declined the offer to take his coat, but allowed Masters to take his hat. Masters looked at the bowler for a brief moment before setting it on a long, narrow table beside the entryway.

  Masters led the gentleman through the house. Though plain and uninspired on the exterior, the interior sprawled with a gaudy opulence that reeked of new money's attempt at grandeur. The hallways winded through the structure like a labyrinth. When finally they arrived at what appeared to be the man's study, the gentleman realized that Masters led such a circuitous route to show off the large home. Despite himself, the gentleman smirked. Perhaps the modern aristocracy was more akin to that of old than he first surmised.

  “Have a seat.” Masters gestured to one of a pair of low, dark leather chairs. The gentleman took a seat while his host approached a small shelf with a number of crystal decanters upon it. “Drink?”

  “Port, if you have it. Otherwise, brandy will do.”

  “Scotch,” Masters offered, presenting the decanter as though it were a rare jewel. The gentleman suppressed a grimace, mourning the days when spirits were crafted with art, not mere expedience. It lacked the nuanced alchemy of aged port or the fiery brilliance of the spirits he'd known centuries ago.

  “Tell me, Mr. Masters—”

  “Randall, please.”

  Ignoring the interruption, the gentleman continued. “Tell me, Randall. What is your business?”

  “You mean to tell me you came to me with a proposal and you don't know what it is I do?”

  “As you can no doubt ascertain, I am from far away. This is my first time traveling to this continent and things are…surprisingly different here. I confess I'm at somewhat of a loss for all the changes.”

  He needn't have wasted a single erg of power to influence Masters' thoughts. Like most men of substance, he took any opportunity to extol his own virtues.

  As Randall prattled on, the gentleman sank into the supple leather chair, letting his gaze wander. His legs and back ached from the long trek, and he felt the weariness of this frail body. The anticipation of the feast sharpened his senses, momentarily dulling the ache of existence. The luxurious sensation of movement and physical existence had fled, replaced with annoyance at his own weakness and frailty. He fought to keep the discomfort from souring his expression.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He took another drink of Scotch and a thrill shot through him. Despite the pain, his body began to thrum with anticipation of what was to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  If the gentleman had not been possessed of a mind that had lived for eons, a mind that had kept sharp throughout the millennia of his banishment, then the following twenty minutes would have been absolute torture. Randall Masters loved three things: venture capitalism, his classic car collection, and talking about himself. Despite his meager mortal accomplishments, the man was inordinately proud of himself. Then again, the gentleman thought to himself, maybe what Masters had accomplished was extraordinary. As an ageless astral entity, his ideal of achievement was vastly different from any mortal on this plane of existence.

  In spite of the droll topic, the gentleman did perk up when Masters began speaking about modern business. The gentleman hadn't paid much attention to commercial interests during his previous visit—the flesh suit he had occupied had been born into old money—but things were different. He didn't have the support he had had before. No zealots to do his bidding, no caste system to shelter his activities. As far as he knew, there weren't any Ygg-hatep worshipers any more. The last of the cult disappeared decades ago—if he counted time as the Earth did. If things had been otherwise, he wouldn't have had to go through such arduous lengths with that blasted painting to get to this plane.

  So he listened, and he learned. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough to gain true understanding of how the world worked, but it gave him a starting point… And a few ideas.

  Masters was just beginning to tell him about his time at university when Randy barged into the room, this time fully dressed. He stalked sullenly over to the pair, dragging a chair with him. He did little to hide his annoyance with his father or hostility toward the gentleman as he sat.

  “Thanks for joining us,” Masters said snidely. Not for the first time, the gentleman wondered if everyone in this age spoke so often with sarcasm.

  “Whatever.”

  The gentleman raised his glass to Randy in greeting, in what he hoped appeared a genuine gesture. “I find it's good for the heir of the house to be present during such matters. How better to learn the family trade and contribute to the family's fortune?”

  Both Masters men turned quizzical gazes on him. Randy looked like he was readying an insult, but his father cut him off with a snort.

  “I wish Randy showed interest in something other than chasing tail. He's nothing like me when I was his age.” His son shot him a scathing look. “I'm afraid his only contribution is wasting money on sport cars and settlement payments to angry families.”

  “Don't forget the bribes, Father,” Randy spat. “It's all about the money, right, Dad?”

  “Watch your tone, boy. Those bribes are the only reason you aren't rotting in prison right now. And you don't seem to mind the money so much when you're driving to school in a new Bugatti.”

  Randy's mouth snapped shut and he looked away. The gentleman's eyes tracked back and forth between them, a grin on his face. He could almost taste the emotion, the raw anger, the disappointment and resentment.

  “Are you well?”

  He snapped his eyes open, not even realizing they had been closed. Masters was peering at him. brow furrowed. He cleared his throat, an affectation he knew humans used when embarrassed and buying himself time to think. “Apologies, Randall. I smelled the delicious food.”

  Confusion crossed Masters' face, but just then a knock sounded on the door to the study. Without waiting for an answer, the door opened and a middle-aged woman in a dark grey dress stepped in.

  “Food is ready, Mr. Randall.”

  “Thank you, Luisa. Shall we?” Randall led the way to the dining room. It was a short walk, a mere two doors down from the study. The table was large enough for a full banquet, though it was set for three this evening. A rich miasma of smells permeated the air, and this time the gentleman did close his eyes to appreciate the scents. While the thought of eating repulsed him, he couldn't deny that his body was having a carnal reaction to it. They sat in silence, Luisa leaving the room after filling three glasses with a white wine.

  “Absolutely lovely.” He was still getting used to verbal nuances, and he hoped the words rang sincerely. His stomach roiled, and he wasn't sure if it was hunger or disgust. He'd tasted flesh on more than one occasion, though that had been ritualistic in nature and the women supplying the feast were not exactly willing participants. The idea of needing to eat, of the slopping biologics of digestion and excretion…

  Suppressing a shudder was the most difficult thing he'd done since arriving.

  With a reticence he was not accustomed to, he speared a morsel from the plate and brought it to his lips. Saliva flooded into his mouth as flavor exploded on his tongue. He was in such haste to swallow he nearly choked. Entire civilizations had formed and crumbled since the last time he'd tasted food. His physical form may be a prison, but nothing could have prepared him for the delicious flavor. His eyes closed and a moan may have escaped his lips. A snort of laughter brought him out of his reverie. Masters and his son were both staring at him, Masters frozen mid-sip of his wine.

  The gentleman cleared his throat again and wiped his lips on the soft satin napkin. “The meal is delicious.” He speared another morsel with the gleaming fork. “May I ask what it is called?” The flavors were vibrant, decadent, almost obscene in their indulgence. Yet his mind revolted at the visceral mechanics of tasting and swallowing.

  Masters sat the glass of wine down and looked at his guest like he was having second thoughts about inviting him to dinner. “That's horseradish.”

  “My compliments to the chef,” he said, taking another bite.

  Randy laughed again, not even trying to hide his delight. “It's a garnish, you idiot. You're not supposed to eat it.”

  Thin strips of horseradish were arranged on the plate to look like a delicate flower. The gentleman looked to the pink-and-white floret and to Masters, who, for his part, was looking somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Ah, how foolish of me. My voyage was rather arduous, and it must have taken more out of me than I realized.”

  Randy slapped his napkin onto the plate, the loud crack breaking the tense silence. “Are you serious, dad? Are you seriously going to do business with this guy? Look at how he's dressed. He's a fucking freak.”

  “Randy, I swear—”

  “No need, Mr. Masters.”

  Like moths to a flame, their gazes were irresistibly drawn to the Gentleman. Silent and transfixed, they watched as he wiped his mouth with meticulous precision, folding the napkin as though it were a sacred ritual and placing it neatly on the table. He acted as though he weren't the center of attention, like their eyes weren't glued to his movements. Randy's throat bobbed, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, any words he might have formed drowning in the oppressive weight of the Gentleman’s presence. When the Gentleman finally slid his chair back and rose, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier. Both Masters men sat rigid, their shirts clinging to their sweat-drenched skin as though the room's very atmosphere pressed down upon them. Their eyes bugged from their heads as they watched the gentleman walk around the table. When he passed behind the older Masters, goosebumps erupted on the man's flesh.

  Randall Masters had felt something like this only once before, as a child pressed against the glass of an aquarium tank. A shadow fell across him, and he looked up through the murky waters into the black, lifeless eyes of a great white shark. The sheer carnal intent in that gaze, the weight of its predatory focus, had rooted him to the spot. Now, decades later, that same terror paralyzed him, though the predator no longer swam behind glass.

  That was the same feeling Randall had as the gentleman passed behind him, the tips of those cold, soft fingers running along his shoulders. Aside from the passing caress, the mysterious man didn't pay any attention to the older Masters. He should have been concerned for his son, but the man breathed a sigh of relief when his dinner guest passed him by.

  “Randy, Randy, Randy,” breathed the gentleman as he leaned over the young man's shoulder. His words were like a line of ants crawling into Randy's ear. “Such passion. Such fervor. Such incivility.

  “I have an idea.” The gentleman's tone shifted, like he was suggesting an after-dinner game of Parcheesi. The two humans would have jumped if their bodies had been under their control. “Let’s take a walk,” the Gentleman said softly, his voice low and melodic. The lights in the room dimmed imperceptibly, the air heavy with an unnatural chill. The Masters men rose in unison, their movements stiff and unnatural, as though pulled by unseen strings.

  In exact unison, as if they had practiced it, the two stood and followed behind their guest as he led them through the echoing halls of their home. The journey didn't last long. Within minutes, the three entered a seldom-used room on the first floor. A number of sofas and divans were arrayed in the room, chosen for design and pedigree over comfort. A long, dark marble shelf lined one of the walls, crystal decanters of various liquors upon it. Glass shards sparkled on the rug and the rich aroma of a fine Scotch lingered in the air. The gentleman tutted as he took in the mess. He gestured for Masters to take a seat and the man complied silently, his back ramrod straight and his eyes burning with silent fury. And fear. Lots of delicious fear.

  “You appear like you have something to say. Very well. Speak.”

  “What the hell are you doing? Who are you? What do you want from us? I demand you leave or I'll call the police!”

  The gentleman tutted again, shaking his head. He circled Randy, who had remained standing. “How small you must feel,” the Gentleman murmured, his words sinking into Randall’s ears like ice water. “A young man of your station, so used to command, now helpless before true power. Tell me, does it humble you, or does it terrify you?”

  He continued to circle Randy, glass shattering and crunching under his feet. “Young though you may be, you know a thing or two of power. About taking what you want. I wonder, did you learn that from your father?” He glanced at Masters, but if the older man could speak, he didn't answer. He turned back to Randy. “All you young aristocrats are the same. You believe your wealth and your father's station grant you dominion, don’t you? The power to do as you wish, take what you wish…whom you wish. You imagine every hole exists for you to put your cock in.”

  He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But tell me, young Masters,” the Gentleman continued, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, “how will you feel when someone more powerful takes from you what they want?”

  Randy's and his dad's eyes widened in horrified shock. Fear hung thick in the air, an acrid tang that vibrated along the nerves of his fragile human form. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, savoring the way it burned, both repulsive and intoxicating. When he reopened his eyes, he saw the two men straining, jerking their bodies against whatever invisible force held them still. As he watched, a smile grew on his lips. He leaned in as if to share a kiss with the young man, his hands resting on the young man's muscular shoulders.

  “Don’t fret, young Masters. My interest in you isn’t sexual.” The gentleman smiled, and in seeing it, the blood drained from Randy's face.

  “I assure you,” the Gentleman said, his voice like silk sliding over a blade, “my interest is… entirely nutritional.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The divan groaned under his weight as the Gentleman settled in, the rug beneath his feet squelching with the cold, congealing blood. The texture seeped through his mortal senses, a grotesque reminder of the limitations of his current form. Beside him, Randall Masters sat rigid and silent. He could speak now, could even have fled the room if the will remained. The Gentleman had loosened his grip on the man's body and mind a quarter hour earlier, relishing the slow unraveling of his host’s spirit.

  But the fight had drained out of him. The sight of one’s only son reduced to bloodied scraps, flesh torn and scattered, seemed sufficient to drain all resolve from a human. The Gentleman wouldn’t know—such attachments were foreign to him, mere curiosities of mortal existence. Well, the gentleman assumed that would do it to a person. He was as yet childless and had never felt beholden to anyone's health or well-being. He also wasn't a person, per se, so he was only guessing.

  The Gentleman retrieved a pristine handkerchief, its stark whiteness almost offensive against the blood and viscera staining his suit. With the utmost decorum, he wiped at his face with the elegance of a man accustomed to fine dining and etiquette. Done, he folded the handkerchief and returned it to his breast pocket.

  “Well… now that dessert is concluded,” the Gentleman said, impeccably polite as a guest should be to their host. “Shall we proceed to the heart of the matter?”

  Randall’s reaction was sluggish, his gaze dragging away from the carnage as though weighed down by the gravity of what he had witnessed. When his eyes met the Gentleman’s, they were empty, drained of all resistance. He didn’t answer.

  “Come now, Randall. I promised you a business opportunity.”

  Randall's pale lips moved soundlessly at first, trembling as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. The Gentleman tilted his head, his patience that of a being that had watched stars be born and devoured, galaxies collapse and reform—a patience immeasurable to mortal comprehension. Finally, Randall found his voice.

  “Who… who are you?” The words escaped like a dying breath, fragile and broken.

  A smile unfurled across the Gentleman’s face, widening unnaturally until it threatened to split the fragile boundaries of his mortal shell. It was a grotesque, impossible thing, more a crack in reality than an expression.

  “I am simply… the herald.”

  “What do you want?” His voice was hoarse, eyes defeated. He had no fight left in him. Not that he could have stood against Ygg-hatep's herald anyway.

  “Why, everything, of course,” the Gentleman said, his tone almost amused. The smile on his face stretched wider still, a glimmer of something ancient and hungry flickering in his eyes. “Your wealth. Your legacy. Your soul. Surely, you didn’t think the cost would be anything less?”