Logan rarely kept track of the days any longer, except to know that seven of them meant a week, and 365 of them meant a year. He vaguely acknowledged the months passing, knew the holidays because of the decorations and such that surrounded him. Now it was the empty spread of days between midsummer and the Harvest Festival.

 

He felt fairly good about himself tonight. Another soul had been sent back to hell; another tattoo had burned itself off his skin. He could still feel the tingles in his shoulder where the mark had been, and knew it would be raw for a day or two until the nerves settled back down.

 

While he reminisced he hadn’t realized that his feet had been carrying him along without thinking, until he was standing in front of the door to his room at the inn.

 

He dug in one of his coat pockets until he finally came up with the key. The lock was sticky, and he jiggled it unsuccessfully several times before the knob finally turned and the door creaked open.

 

“Welcome home, Logan,” the devil crowed from a chair in the corner, the local gazette in hand. “Welcome home.”

 

Logan seriously thought about closing the door and just walking away.

 

The devil chuckled to himself at the look of abject disgust on Logan’s face. He couldn’t deny that he got a sadistic thrill out of just randomly appearing in Logan’s life, but the truth of the matter was, beneath the heckling and the irritation, he always had something important to discuss. 

 

“Couldn’t leave me in peace for even one day, could you?” he said as he walked to his room and wearily tossed his key onto the rickety kitchen table.

 

“Never. Not when you’ve got work to do and you’re whiling away the hours on unnecessary earthly indulgences.”

 

“Yeah, well, every man’s soul’s his own.”

 

“Oh, no, Logan.” His voice was low, serious. “Your soul is still mine. Never forget that.” 

 

“Smug bastard,” Logan thought. “About that second chance,” he asked, “How does that work, exactly?”

 

“That’s for me to know and you to find out… in the event you actually succeed in rounding up all one hundred and thirteen of your wayward brothers and sisters.”

 

Logan didn’t respond, he just walked to the wash basin, placed his hands under the tepid water and splashed water on his face.

“Have you heard the latest news?”

 

“I’m a little out of touch with current events.”

 

“Your lack of intellectual curiosity is disappointing, Logan,” the devil said as he turned over a page and shook out the creases. He glanced over at Logan. “You really should take more of an interest.”

 

“I’m taking ’em at my own pace,”

 

“Really? You seem more interested in the past than the present. While you were wasting time in the tavern reminiscing about bygone days, the guests at the Galloping Griffin Inn have been complaining about loud noises and a strong burning smell.” 

 

“The Galloping Griffin, huh?”

 

“Oh yes. Not everyone who books a room at that fine establishment has been getting the exact ‘happy ending’ they were bargaining—or paying—for. You might want to see for yourself.”

 

“Might I.”

 

“Don’t dilly-dally, Logan. I’m not keeping you up here to oggle the scenery or spend your money on junk food your body doesn’t require.” 

 

Without another word the devil was gone.

 

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The watchman winced as he lifted the sheet covering the dead man’s body.

 

“Is it…?” his partner began to ask.

 

“Yep,” the watchman sighed, dropping the sheet and rising to his feet. “Damn, a sight like that is enough to make even a man like me swear off sex for the next decade.”

 

His partner snorted. “As if you’ve had any in years to begin with. You’d think men in this city would be more careful, given how many deaths we’ve had in the past few months.”

 

Glancing over toward the room door, the watchman spotted a man hanging around in the hallway who didn’t seem to belong there. He wore no uniform but simply lurked in the background as if he was trying to stay out of sight while taking in everything he could.

 

 “Just what we need,” the watchman said, catching his partner’s attention as he strode toward the intruder. 

 

“Hey, you,” the watchman called to get the man’s attention. The man didn’t budge or even seem to react as he stood there in the hallway. “Hey! This is an investigation being handled by the City Watch, so unless you witnessed something we should know about, how about you move along.”

 

Logan didn’t answer and pulled out a fake badge as the two watchmen walked over to him. “Inspector Carcer.”

 

The watchman’s eyes flickered over the gold badge, their posture stiffened when they recognized the superior rank. “Apologies sir, we didn’t recognize you,” one of the watchmen answered.

 

“Who’s the victim?” 

 

“We don’t know yet. We were just assigned a short time ago,” the other watchmen answered.

 

“Looks like the same pattern as the other victims: strangled, his twig and berries not just cut off but the wound somehow burned closed,” offered the other watchman.

 

His partner looked at him incredulously.

 

“What?! I pay attention,” the watchman said with pride.

 

“What’s your name, watchman?” Logan said in a tone of authority.

 

“Claudius, sir.”

 

“Well Claudius, what else do you know?”

 

Claudius nodded. “The ring finger is missing as well. Just like the others.”

 

Logan nodded in acknowledgement and bent down to inspect the corpse for himself.

 

Claudius’ partner contorted his face. “I pay attention,” he whispered in a mocking tone.

 

Claudius scowled and punched his partner in the arm.

 

Logan’s acuite perception picked up on the horseplay taking place behind his back and he smiled to himself at the buffoonery.  “Looks like she’s got a grudge against cheating husbands.”

 

“And how are you so certain it’s a woman?”  Claudius asked. “We still haven’t talked to anyone who’s seen a thing.”

 

“Only a woman would do that to a man. Trust me.” 

 

Claudius shuddered, thinking about the body beneath that sheet. There was something about guys losing their privates that was particularly unsettling—at least to any other member of the male sex.

 

As Logan continued with his investigation he found a necklace on the ground near the body. It featured a large, elaborate pendant covered in jewels and pearls, hanging from a gold chain of unusual and intricate weave. The chain was now broken, as if it had been grabbed during a struggle. “Something I can look into later,” he thought to himself as he palmed the item.

 

“Oh! And this is the first attack in a reputable place instead of a flop house or ally,” Claudius’ partner added excitedly.

 

“Thanks Claudius,” Logan said as he stood up.

 

“I’m not Claudius, sir. He’s Claudius.”

 

Logan turned to face the watchmen and gave them both a scrutinizing glance. “You guys brothers?” 

 

“No sir,” Claudius responded. 

 

“Why does everyone ask that?” Queried not Claudius.

 

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A woman walked on a dark street,  humming to herself as if without a care in the world. Some might say it was dangerous for a lady to be alone at this hour. But she was not at all concerned for her safety. She knew how to handle herself, how to fight off those who might mean her harm.

 

That was perhaps the first crucial lesson she’d learned from her mother, so very many years before. Survival. Self-defense. “Never trust anyone else to take care of you, my darling child. You must always be able to take care of yourself.”

 

The music of the opera she’d heard earlier that evening played on in her head, so lovely and often, so sad. She had never heard this music until tonight—it came from after her era, but the story of the woman had spoken to her soul, her own broken heart.

 

No, no one had cried or placed flowers at her grave. No one had etched her name to a stone cross above her bones. And for that she was thankful, even after all of her decades of torment and misery. She would never bow before any god so cruel and heartless, the gods who had given her so few choices in life and then punished her for the choice she’d been forced to make.

 

She would never sing the praises of any god who had turned the only man she’d ever truly loved against her, dooming her to fire on Faerûn and then for eternity in the hells.

 

But now, she had broken free from that endless misery. She had emerged from centuries of torture to find a world both new and so very familiar to a woman such as herself.

 

Her mother had taught her many things as soon as she’d been old enough, particularly how to please a man. Since her return to Faerûn she’d survived on those well-practiced skills, all while expanding her knowledge, her understanding of this new era. She had plied her trade along this city’s riverbanks like a lowly courtesan, pleasing many—and dispatching a few who tried to do her harm or treat her with no respect. She had slowly saved her earnings, learned the language, picked up on the tools of the modern trade until she could rise from the murky landscape into the brilliance of city life once again.

 

She found it a pity that so much had changed in this world, and yet men were so much the same. A pure and honest man seemed nowhere to be found, and while that made her life easy in ways, it did nothing to soothe a heart that continued to yearn for love.

 

She spun the gold band on her thumb around with the fingertips of her other hand, sadness filling her once more. She regretted losing her favorite necklace during the earlier struggle, but this wedding band would be easier to sell for the gold she needed to survive.

 

“Ah, Tarane,” she said to herself. “I thought perhaps you were different. I thought you might truly know how to love me.”  And he had so reminded her, in pleasing ways, of her M’dhal, the man who had once promised her a life with him, an honest one. But in the end he had betrayed her heart just the same, choosing a loveless marriage of convenience and safety over the passion she could give him.

 

So she’d done the only thing she could do, really. It was tragic, but that was life.

 

And life was hers for the taking, the pleasure and the pain of it, once again.

 

Still humming to herself, she climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to the apartment which had become her new home. She wasn’t sure how long she could stay here… hopefully a few more weeks before its former occupant was noticeably missed. The young girl hadn’t known what had hit her, the poor dear.

 

They simply didn’t train courtesans these days like they used to.

 

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Logan got moving early this morning. As the devil frequently reminded him, he didn’t exactly need to sleep, but there was something about simply lying down in the dark for a while that renewed his inner strength, made him feel at least a bit less like a damned soul who had no business being in this world.

 

He made his way to the Galloping Griffin Inn to find Claudius and not Claudius, as expected, now gone. Logan wanted to get in there before any more watchmen came around to continue working the scene. 

 

He spotted the innkeeper at the registration desk and walked over purposefully and introduced himself, then showed his fake badge. “Were you working last night?”

 

“Yes, but I told the City Watch everything I could yesterday. Don’t you guys talk to each other?”

 

Logan put on his best, ‘I understand smile’. “I often find it helpful to re-interview witnesses, to see if you remember anything more after the initial shock and surprise has worn off. I’d like to go over your recollections of events directly.”

 

The innkeeper sighed in annoyance. “Tarane Idler. Married, though perhaps not that happily. He was in the company of a woman who appeared to have long, light-colored hair, was wearing a classic black evening gown, and spoke with a heavy accent. After Lord Idler checked into the inn they shared a drink at the bar before going up to their room.”

 

Logan thanked the innkeeper and sat down in the lobby with the local gazette. He found the gazette had been more helpful in getting him up to speed: a string of murders over the past few years that seemed to be connected to one killer targeting men of a certain age range and general appearance, all of whom had been out to ‘enjoy’ the company of a lady of the evening.

 

Logan reached into his pocket and withdrew the necklace he found on the ground near the body. As he visually studied it he thought about how many of the fugitives had brought things with them: garments, jewelry, or even an ancient weapon. Quite often those material items ended up being major clues in helping Logan identify his quarry–he wondered if that would be the case here. 

 

He decided to take a walk that afternoon to clear his head, so he hit up a few shops where he had established decent contacts with the owners. He paid off the guys working there to make sure they would help spread the word. There might be a lot of hot property that ended up getting pawned, but when said property was connected to a high profile murder case like this one? Most of the better brokers didn’t want to be associated with that kind of business.

 

Logan’s tactic of greasing palms paid off. The network he created directed him to Madroon’s Curios.

 

The business was housed in a nondescript building, its contents were anything but mundane. Shelves groaned under the weight of fantastic items large and small. Boxes and chests overflowing with mysterious relics were piled high in every nook and cranny, forming narrow passageways of their own. Dusty books of ancient lore, flasks bubbling with strange liquids, crystal balls filled with swirling mist, wands and other magical implements of all sorts, alchemical components in unlabeled tins; all this and more could be found here.

 

The elderly man behind the counter peered over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses, and let out a low whistle as he gently examined the necklace. “This is remarkable.”

 

“Nice piece of work, is it?” Logan asked. 

 

“Nice? It’s extraordinary.” Madroon’s voice was filled with obvious reverence. The heavy set older man looked like he could barely move about the crowded store without banging into or breaking something, yet his hands handled the necklace with the delicate touch of a skilled surgeon. “Where in the realms did you come across this?”

 

“At a crime scene,” replied Logan. “Left by someone who was in a bit of a hurry.”

 

“They’d have to be, to leave something this valuable behind.”

 

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Logan asked.

 

“Impossible for me to put any kind of precise price tag on it without performing tests, but the design is clearly Netherese; Shadowed Age-era most likely.” 

 

Madroon shifted his gaze from the necklace to Logan.

 

“We’re talking about something worth tens of thousands of gold pieces, easily. And if it’s an original from Netheril, well…I know a few mages that would pay even more to have something like this in their collection.”

 

Logan appeared a little surprised. “Well, that’ll have to wait.”

 

Madroon laid the necklace down on the black velvet pad on his desk and sat back, rubbing his chin and frowning. “There’s something about this necklace that feels incredibly familiar, as if I’ve seen it somewhere recently, or something very similar to it. I know you can’t leave it with me here, but may I draw a sketch? For research purposes, and to check with some of my contacts.”

 

Logan thought for a moment before answering. “Sure. Anything you could find out would be of great use to me. But you report to me directly.” 

 

“Of course. Can I ask who you are looking for?”

 

“I assume you heard the news about the murder the Galloping Griffin?”

 

“The pecker thief?” Madroon exclaimed.

 

“Try not to sound so excited,” Logan said. “I wouldn’t be.”

 

“Oh, yeah, no. Just…this is certainly a big deal. I’ll definitely see what I can do for you.”

 

Logan waited in the shop for several minutes while Madroon worked on his sketch. Once Madroon was finished Logan began to walk back to his room at the inn. There was no other angle for him to investigate, at least not until he got further information from Madroon.

 

“Ah, lust and adultery. They never seem to go out of fashion.” The devil said happily. “Having a nice time?”

 

“Doing what?” Logan asked as he looked up to see the devil fall into step beside him.

 

“Finding out about your new friend of course.”

 

Logan shrugged and kept walking, not looking in the devil’s direction, hoping he would get the hint. He did not.

 

“You know, your time might be better served visiting The House of Sune instead of going back to your room brooding.” the devil said as he kept pace.

 

Logan stopped in mid-step.

 

“Why so surprised Logan? I’m a firm believer in worship. It’s best of course when I’m the one being worshiped but we can’t always get what we want,” he said, smiling sunnily at Logan.

 

Logan’s suspicion increased tenfold and he turned to face the devil fully. “I’m almost afraid to ask where this is coming from?” 

 

“Why Logan, I’m merely trying to help. Do you doubt my sincerity?” When Logan’s only response was a disbelieving look he smiled again and began walking, forcing Logan to catch up to him. “Try the Grace Street church Logan. I hear the services there are hot.”

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

His footsteps made no sound as he walked across the stone floor. The temple resembled a party held by the elite more than a place of worship. It was, however, a temple, as denoted by the symbols and shrines everywhere. Mingled among the religious iconography were people, all of whom are quite good looking, and well dressed. The place smelled fragrant, thanks to several censers placed all around the building. The ceiling opened to the sky in the center, giving it a courtyard appearance.

 

“Welcome.” purred a feminine voice “I am First Heartwarden Cheria. How may I help you?”

 

Logan turned to address the woman. She looked more like an upper-class madame than a priestess, what with her revealing clothing, perfect makeup, and dark flowing hair.  He showed her his fake badge before speaking. “Do you know Tarane Idler?”

 

“Our worshipers  are some of the most prestigious men and women not only in the city but all of Faerûn. They rely on us to value their privacy.” she replied with a cool smile.

 

“Even more than their lives?” Logan shot at her. “I guess you haven’t been following the news, First Heartwarden, or else you’d know that Idler is dead. Two nights ago he was found strangled in a room at the Galloping Griffin with his family jewels and ring finger hacked off. “

 

Cheria’s professional demeanor slipped and faltered notably at the news.

 

“So you tell me—was it one of your priestesses that he was seen with, checking into the inn the other evening? If so, I think you’d like to know if you’re setting up your ‘prestigious’ worshippers with a cold-blooded killer.”

 

Cheria didn’t answer as the color drained away from her face.

 

“She is one of yours, isn’t she?” Logan pressed.

 

“No, she isn’t, but…I think I may know who she is. Tell me, did your mystery woman speak with a heavy foreign accent?”

 

“According to the innkeeper she did.”

 

“Then I do think the woman I have in mind is her, though it’s hard to say with complete certainty.” 

 

“What’s her name?” Logan inquired.

 

“Soraya Ventinari. She came here petitioning to join the clergy.”

 

“So you turned her down,” Logan said.

 

“I did. She came in about…three months ago. She was certainly well-spoken, attractive, put together, and showed an extensive knowledge of the arts and culture. A near perfect candidate. But she was, well…something seemed a little…” Cheria trailed off, as if uncertain how to express herself.

 

“Yes?” Logan asked.

 

“Just…off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at the time, but it was as if she were not merely from another country, but from another time period entirely.” Cheria took hold of her holy symbol and shook her head. “And I also sensed something dangerous about her. In my profession I have to trust my instincts, and my instincts told me she was trouble.”

 

“I see,” Logan said. “So you’ve never set her up with Idler.”

 

“No, absolutely not. Lord Idler has been a worshiper of ours for several years, that’s true. But for the past several months he’s been training with another one of my priestesses. Rhaessa Carteri. She was the one who was supposed to meet with Idler for a date to the opera.”

 

“When was the last time you spoke to Rhaessa?” 

 

“I can’t recall, it has been a while. You don’t think…”

 

Logan pondered for a moment the possibility of what Soraya might have done to Rhaessa. Perhaps Soraya was keen on taking Rhaessa’s place…

 

“You’re thinking Soraya may have done something to Rhaessa aren’t you?” Cheria asked.

 

Before Logan could answer, a small yellow bird landed on the pedestal of a nearby statue and chirped at him earnestly. Looking at the bird, Logan noticed there was a small scroll attached to its leg. He retrieved the scroll and read the text; it was a message from Madroon requesting his presence at the Brasserie Gallery. 

 

Logan had every intention of visiting Rhaessa, but if he was right and Rhaessa is dead that visit could wait. 

 

Logan thanked First Heartwarden Cheria for her cooperation and excused himself. Once he exited the temple he went off to meet Madroon.

 

The Brasserie Gallery was easy to spot thanks to Madroon waving him over like an excited child.

 

“So, care to explain to me why we’re meeting here?” Logan asked. “Don’t tell me our femme fatale has also robbed the Gallery.”

 

“No, nothing like that. But I knew there was something incredibly familiar about that necklace when you showed it to me. You’ll see, upstairs.”

 

Logan followed Madroon up the grand central staircase of the Gallery to the top landing. 

 

“I wracked my brain for hours trying to remember why that necklace was so familiar. Like something out of an ancient tome. Then it hit me, because I’d just been here not more than a couple weeks ago for the Chardin exhibit. Besides the fact that I know the permanent collection of Netherese art here like the back of my hand.”

 

Madroon walked with determination past the first spacious hall of elven paintings to a second room full of even more vibrant canvases, large and small. Logan knew next to nothing about this kind of art; it had never been in his range of interest. 

 

In the second room, Madroon headed straight for one medium-sized painting in an elaborate gold frame. It was a portrait of a woman in a fancy blue dress against a dark background. Her bodice had been undone to expose her breasts, and she regarded the viewer invitingly, as if beckoning to draw you into her world.

 

Logan walked up and took a closer look at the painting and noticed the expertly painted necklace around the subject’s neck. “I’ll be damned.”

 

“I knew it! I knew it looked similar to the piece you showed me,” Madroon beamed.

 

“Who is this woman?” Logan asked.

 

“Sorella Ventdavathi,” Madroon answered. “Only one of the most famous courtesans of the Netherese Shadowed Age”

 

“A.K.A. Soraya Ventinari,” Logan said to himself. Logan then turned to address Madroon “Courtesan, huh?”

 

“Oh, but she was considerably more than that!” Madroon continued. “Courtesans such as Ventdavathi were highly regarded not only for their beauty but for their education and artistic skills, and ability to provide intellectual stimulation.”

 

Logan smirked. “As well as stimulation of a more physical kind, no doubt.”

 

“Of course,” Madroon grinned. “But the Hyrr’ol Turodahel, or ‘honest courtesans’ like Sorella, were some of the most powerful women in Netheril. For a young woman whose family could not afford a decent dowry, becoming a courtesan was often seen as a preferable fate to being locked up in a convent. Courtesans mingled with members of the noble families, the Council of Ten, even foreign emissaries and kings. They were skilled at reading and writing, they had freedom to travel the city and beyond without an escort. The clergy even turned a blind eye to their prominence in the region. It was believed these women helped discourage an even more terrible sin than infidelity, one which was rampant in other cities.”

 

“And that more terrible sin would be…” Logan began.

 

“Homosexuality.”

 

“But I’m guessing her fame didn’t come from making off with some of her customers’ family jewels.”

 

“Certainly not.”

 

“What happened to her?” Logan tried to read the brief biographical notes on the subject next to the portrait. “Sounds like she died fairly young.”

 

“Yes. Not so uncommon for courtesans I’m afraid, honest ones or not. That said, Sorella’s death was grim. She fled the city—as many who had the financial means did—to escape the plague that was ravaging the city. Over sixty thousand died before the danger passed. But when she returned, she found all of her remaining fortunes gone. Her home had been looted, and the city as a whole was far less welcoming to courtesans than before. The clergy needed someone to blame for the gods’ wrath in killing so many in the plague and these women made an easy target.”

 

“Typical,” Logan said.

 

“Sorella faced charges of practicing the dark arts before an Inquisition,” Madroon continued, “and where before some of her wealthy clientele might have held sway and paid some extra alms to the clergy to see her to freedom, those remaining alive were cowered into disowning her to protect their own self interests. Even her most ardent admirer, M’dhal, the individual who originally commissioned this portrait. He, too, would not put his own neck on the line to save her. She was convicted and sentenced to public execution.”

 

“Hell of an end to an illustrious career,” Logan said.

 

“Legend tells that not only did she refuse to repent for her sins before her death, but she cursed the gods, and the city while being led to be burned alive in the city square.”

 

Logan studied the painting for a while longer. “Well this certainly is an interesting connection. I owe you.”

 

“You don’t owe me anything Inspector. It’s nice when I can put my obscure knowledge to real use for a change.”

 

Madroon hurried off to return to his shop. Logan followed him out soon after. He was now certain his current target was Sorella Ventdavathi. “Now to locate her,” he concluded to himself, stepping into the shadows.

 

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In another tavern, further uptown, a woman sat sipping her own drink and waiting for someone to arrive. Someone–anyone, really. Tonight she was not feeling too particular. All she wanted was company, a man she could entertain to keep her mind from drifting to thoughts of the past, recent and far more distant.

 

She knew she shouldn’t feel sad, but she did miss Tarane now, even if he had proven himself unworthy of her. She had decided to keep his ring for a while, not ready to let it go. Even though it only fit on her thumb, she could imagine what it would be like to finally find a man who would marry her and treat her with proper respect.

 

“Can I ask what the lady is drinking tonight?”

 

She turned to examine the man who had finally taken the bait. Fair-haired but balding, a little stocky, not entirely unattractive but not exactly the type she usually liked the most. Maybe that was a good thing. She wasn’t ready to fall for another tonight, but she could always use the money. This city was not an inexpensive place to try to survive.

 

“An old fashioned,” she said, taking a last sip from her tumbler to see if he’d offer to buy the next round.

 

“Funny, you don’t look all that old-fashioned to me.”

 

“You might be quite surprised,” she said.

 

“I love your accent, what is that, Halruaan?”

 

“Orofin,” she corrected him. She still had trouble accepting, no matter how much this world had changed, that the city states of her past that had warred so much were now united into one country.

 

“Chasolné, the city of love! I should have known. Can I buy you another round? A beautiful lady like yourself shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

 

She glanced quickly at his hands—no wedding band, but she knew that meant nothing. Provided he treated her properly tonight she only wanted some casual company…or whatever else for which he’d pay her.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Logan headed over to the address Cheria had given him for Rhaessa Carteri. She lived in an apartment above a storefront. No one answered when he knocked on the door. He decided to stake-out the place in a tavern across the street to see if Rhaessa or Sorella showed up.

 

He grabbed a table near the windows so he could keep an eye on the street. He listened to the other patron’s small talk as he sat and watched, keeping an eye on the outside. 

 

If neither woman made an appearance soon, Logan considered finding an alternative way inside the building. He had few doubts that Sorella had likely killed Rhaessa to take over not merely her apartment but in many ways, her life. It would make sense as a way for her to build a clientele and try to survive in this world. But for the moment he’d sit and wait, and try to make sense of this particular fugitive, her story.

 

Which of these tattoos is Sorella’s? he wondered, pulling up the right sleeve of his tunic to study his arm. And what did she do to end up in the Shelves of Despond?

 

“Contemplating the great mysteries of the universe, Logan?”

 

If he wasn’t so used to the devil’s out-of-nowhere appearances Logan might’ve jumped out of his skin. As it was, he merely rolled his eyes at the figure who had suddenly materialized across from him at the table. This time the devil was dressed in a dapper tuxedo, a red rose boutonniere pinned to his chest.

 

“Yeah,” Logan said, “like what you’re all dressed up for tonight.”

 

“Ah, an evening at the opera, my little minion! One of my absolute favorites is being staged tonight. Yon’Cath, of course. Thought I’d show up to give a little personal ‘inspiration’ to the singer performing Dispater.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll truly appreciate it. So tell me,” Logan asked, leaning across the table, “why Sorella Ventdavathi was sentenced to the Shelves of Despond. Simply for being a courtesan?”

 

“Not hardly. The gods have a bit of a soft spot for whores, at least the repentant ones. No, Sorella’s crime was her blasphemy, rejecting and cursing the gods in her hour of death.”

 

“So for that, she’s been tortured and imprisoned in hell for centuries.”

 

The devil raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t make the rules, Logan. If you don’t like the system, blame the gods, not me.”

 

Logan could only shake his head. “She was stuck living in an era and environment that gave her no other options to survive. I don’t think it’s fair.”

 

“And clearly, neither does Lady Ventdavathi. But before you get out the violins or sing a song of sorrow for this fallen soul, don’t forget about what she’s done since returning to Faerûn. Killing and mutilating all of those men…hardly seems like the actions of a noble, fair and ‘honest’ woman to me. What about you, Logan?”

 

He hated it when the devil was right.

 

“My my my, will you look at the hour? I’d better get going if I don’t want to miss the overture. You, too, might want to stay alert, Logan. I don’t want you to miss your chance to score tonight. But I’d watch out for this fair lady’s caresses…I hear she can burn you through to your very soul.”

 

In a blink of the eye, the devil disappeared. Logan sipped his ale, contemplating his next move. But then he saw her, across the street. A woman with long, amber-blonde hair, carrying herself with a style and allure that made her stand out in the crowd.

 

Sorella. It had to be her.

 

Logan watched as she walked up the block to the building entrance, then let herself inside. He waited a few minutes longer, contemplating his plan of action. He could hover by the door and hope someone would let him up, especially if he showed his badge…or he could try something a little more direct. As he thought, he took note of a flower stand at the corner of the street.

 

He gulped down the last of his ale and departed. He headed first to the flower stand and contemplated the various bouquets and single flowers available.

 

“Yes sir, can I help you?” the woman running the stand asked.

 

“Yeah, ah…what kind of arrangement can I get for…” he paused.

 

“Is this for a special occasion?”  the woman asked.

 

“Yeah you could say that.”

 

“Then may I suggest a dozen roses?”

 

“Okay, that’s fine,” Logan agreed. He couldn’t look too cheap if he was going to pull this off.

 

Logan finished the transaction and then carried his bouquet over to the building entrance.

 

He looked around to ensure he was relatively alone before he picked the lock. As soon as he heard the lock disengage Logan hurried inside and quietly made his way up the stairs. Remembering the apartment number Cheria had given him, Logan walked down the hallway as calm as he could manage, though his heart was going at a double-time pace. As often as he had done this by now, there was always a certain tension that came with first confronting one of the damned.

 

He knocked on the door, waited, but got no answer. 

 

He knocked again and a few seconds later heard a muffled “Yes?” come from the other side.

 

“I have a flower delivery for…Rhaessa Carteri?” he said.

 

“Rhaessa is not here today.”

 

“Could you sign for it? I don’t want to leave this out here in the hallway.”

 

There was a short pause. “How did you get in the building? The door is locked.”

 

“The nice old lady downstairs let me in.” Logan lied.

 

“Please, a minute,” he heard from inside. And even from out here, in the corridor, he could sense it; he felt the presence of another one like himself near-at-hand. It was a skill he’d only developed with experience, after all of the prey he’d tracked and returned to the hells so far. A subtle dark energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up…and the faintest hint of brimstone in the air.

 

The door was unlocked and then cracked open, until the security chain inside went taught. Logan peered around with a smile, trying to look cheery and non-threatening. Sorella studied him through the narrow opening, her dark eyes hard and distrustful.

 

He’d be, too, after centuries in hell.

 

“I’m sorry,” Logan began. “This is Rhaessa Carteri’s address, isn’t it? My boss’d be really mad if I left the flowers at the wrong place.”

 

“Yes, it is, but as I said, Rhaessa is not here. I’m her…roommate.” The woman spoke with a heavy accent as the innkeeper and Cheria had described previously. “I’m afraid she is away.”

 

“Hey, I just have to deliver the flowers. A pretty lady like you,” Logan tried to lay on the charm, a skill that he felt incredibly awkward about after all these years, “I’m happy to give them to you instead.”

 

That finally earned him a smile. The door closed again momentarily as Sorella undid the chain and then swung it open fully. She had already changed out of the clothes she’d been wearing on the street and into a floral, silky robe. The sight of her was enough to make Logan catch his breath, deadly fugitive from the hells or not. She did have a certain something about her that was enough to turn a man inside-out with desire…perhaps a power which had only been intensified during her centuries in the hells. But he also knew how deadly she was, so he kept his cool and remained cautious.

 

“Please, won’t you come in?” She invited him. “You are too kind with your charming words. I want to give you something for your troubles.”

 

“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

 

“Ma’am,” she repeated with a small laugh. “You are a gentleman.” She took the flowers from him and then padded on bare feet toward what appeared to be the kitchen.

 

Logan stepped inside and took a quick glance around the space to get his bearings and verify there was no one else in the apartment. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

 

“No, I’m from somewhere quite far away. Almost another world, it sometimes feels to me.” She came out of the kitchen counting some gold coins.

 

For a second Logan almost hated what he had to do next. But he knew the longer he waited, the more danger he himself would be in.

 

His grip tightened on the hilt of his scimitar. She looked up at him just as he drew the weapon but he wasn’t fast enough for her infernal speed. The green-flecked steel blade sliced through the air and she was on him, screaming, her hands clawing at his neck and face, as she lunged at him.

 

“Bastard!” she screeched, her brown eyes alight with hellfire.

 

Logan flinched against the burning touch of her fingers searing his skin. He tried to block out the pain and summon his own infernal strength to push her off of him but she was strong—far too strong for a woman of her size.

 

The room filled with the sound of shattering glass as Logan crashed through the living room window.

 

“Dammit,” Logan cursed, frustrated and angry at himself. He shouldn’t have missed that first shot. 

 

Falling always hurt like, well…hell. There was no other way to describe it. But his body had been broken and mended itself over and over again, and he’d jumped out of windows and off rooftops far higher than five stories before.

 

He landed roughly on the ground in the alley outside.  Logan staggered to his feet, checking he hadn’t lost his sword. 

 

The next thing he knew the wind was knocked out of body as she threw him against the wall with enough force to leave him briefly dazed.

 

She glowered at him, preparing for another attack. “Agent of Bel, who are you to think you can send me back there!” she hissed at him.

 

“I’m only doing my job, Sorella.” His voice was weak, his body ached, and if he’d been mortal the fall probably would have killed him.

 

“You can burn in hell, like all the others!” Rage filled every word she spit out at him. “All the men who used me and threw me away, now it’s your turn. I will take your manhood and leave you as worthless as they left me on my own funeral pyre.”

 

She was on him again. With her teeth bared in a feral grin Sorella leaped forward, her hands lashing out at his neck. Logan stepped forward and to the outside. He slammed the pommel of his scimitar and his other forearm against Sorella’s arms, blocking her assault. Sorella reacted quickly, folding her arm back to make her elbow a blunt object. Her momentum carried her forward, and her elbow hit Logan hard at the base of his rib cage. With a concussive whuff, he felt half his breath abandon his body. It was only an instinctive tightening of his abdomen that prevented him from being left gasping for breath. He felt her fist coming. If he stood still and looked for it, his upraised face would be a natural target she could not miss. She howled with rage as her fist came hurtling down, Logan darted to his left. As he moved, his left hand came up, and his blade slashed across her neck. Her screams fell silent as Logan’s blade found its mark. The veins of hellfire steel that ran the length of the blade pulsed with a dim infernal light as her soul was ripped from her being and returned to the Shelves of Despond. 

 

Logan fell to the ground clutching his chest and gritting his teeth as he fought the agonizing pain. Wisps of smoke escaped his grasping fingers as another tattoo burned away.