Caspar has a one-word reply to Eight's chiefest warlock. Its echo thunders across the basilica floor, guttering the candles, clattering the burnished relics against the walls, bursting the massive tempered glass windows into a jagged multicolored hailstorm.

He goes rocketing from the Suzerain's grip as the old man slams backward into his throne, denting its brass backing and reducing the joined wood of its body to splinters. The unfortunate cardinal by the Suzerain's shoulder, whose stricken look made it clear he didn't realize his master's allegiances, is hurled from the throne platform and dashed against the far wall.

The dominion guns flare to life, but even in their insulated armor, and even with their warlock healing factors, the guards have been knocked loopy by Caspar's evocation. The roaring autocannons go wide, tearing rents in the polished masonry.

Caspar sprints for one of the massive columns that dot the room. Adaire follows, dragging a blinking and bewildered Tilliam. The goo responsible for his balance is flowing out of his ears. A templar with a submachine gun, likewise destabilized, steps from behind the pillar and fires a wild burst toward them. She's gone through half the magazine when a Peat Moss acid glob catches her full in the face. By the time Caspar's reached her, her brains are sliding out of her nasal cavity. He seizes the gun from her twitching hands and empties its remaining bullets toward their attackers as he slides into cover.

His three companions pile in after him. Adaire rapidly shakes her wigged head. "What in the Sisters' name was that?"

Caspar finds the extra magazines on the templar's corpse and slots one in. "My last trick."

"Mr. Cartwright," the Suzerain calls. "I can't imagine this was how you visualized your first meeting with me. I'm sure there were many sweeter versions in your head over the years. Why don't you come out, and let's talk. Let's see if we can't find a different tenor."

"Hear you fine from here, milord."

"Really? Even over the—"

His final word is cut off by another buzz-saw choir from the dominions at his side.

"That's brother Arthur and brother Octavian," the Suzerain says, once the ringing's settled. "Thank you, brothers. And the gentlewoman you killed in the initial exchange of fire, in case you're wondering, was sister Velouria."

I see the star of sister Velouria's soul disappear into Eight's maw. That wasn't a warlock's soul she just claimed. The Suzerain is telling the truth. I'm not strong enough to pull Caspar in if he goes.

The great pillars of bone and sinew and masonry close toward us like the fingers of a tectonic-plate sized hand. The ground itself rises in spinning chunks of shrapnel stone and floating, twitching flesh.

Her warlock has the Key. Heaven is hers. I thought the hunger had maddened her; I never imagined she could bide her time so thoroughly. But she played us. The whole time we were ambling into her trap. If we'd known, if she'd given us cause to suspect, we could have scattered; we could have fled into the void, like Alexandra. But now we're all here for the harvesting, and our warlocks are being dangled over the abyss, and we're going to lose.

Ganea—wondrous, strong Ganea—charges. Even with her massive, panzer-plated form, she's a third of Eight's size at most. She catches Eight's prime form as it begins to emerge from the gate and digs her dewclawed heels into the ravaged earth before it.

But that 150 second calculation she made never included the Key's power. She's not just keeping Eight at bay, she's keeping the whole fucking Gate. It's uprooting, peeling out, sharpening into spear points that harpoon into Ganea's back.

Eight's war-forms cascade out from the newly hewn openings. Great gibbering abyssopelagic beasts, some nearly my size. My body is still healing. I'm nowhere near strong enough to do a goddamn thing about them. Still, I add my paltry war forms to my sisters' armies as they meet the ocean of teeth.

"It's beautiful here."

I turn. Milinoe's black dress trails across the meadow. Curled, dead leaves stray in its train.

"Irene." She spreads all six of her arms out for a hug. "Hi."

I stand stock-still, staring at her. "Alexandra said you were around. I only halfway believed her."

"Well." A soft laugh. "It's true. Eight can't bring herself to manifest something this—petite. Or to speak this limited language. So she's let me out to do it for her. I'm here to say sorry to you. And because I don't want you to be afraid. It's gonna be all right. You won't disappear. Eight doesn't want that. She wants her sisters back. Just… like this. Like me."

"What are you?"

"I'm everything you see here, and nothing else." She does a little turn. The tuille of her dress rustles. "Like a human, sort of. Like Caspar. It hurts at first—like the dickens—but once most of you has burned away, it's…" She smiles. "It's kind of nice. It's quieter. Less going on all the time. You said you admired their simplicity. She heard all that, y'know. Perks of Godhood."

"Milinoe—that can't last. You know it can't. Not forever."

"I know," she says. "This last part of me will be ready, eventually. To merge with her. Just like the first time. Maybe this is what's supposed to happen, Irene. Maybe a re-conglomeration like this is what's next."

"There is no next, Milly. We're supposed to be eternal."

"Okay." She shrugs. "Then prove it."

"She holds the Key, Caspar." The Suzerain's in televised sermon mode, chummy and smiling. "My mistress. Your enemy. She's tearing yours apart. If you die here and now, without surrender, you won't go to your goddess. No, sir. The Key's mine. My mistress is God. That's with a capital G, son. You'll go to her. And she, well." He chuckles. "She's hungry."

"She's eating you, too," Caspar calls. "Hope you people knew that when you signed your names. The Father's dead. You go, you're gone."

"The Father is dead. Yes." He tries to track the Suzerain by sound, but the hall is too echoing. "And we must remake Him. This is the deal I have struck with the being you call Eight. The greatest test we will face. When you learned of the Father's death, your faith broke. Mine is not so fragile."

"He's mad," Adaire breathes. "He's mad."

"We must bring Him forth, Mr. Cartwright." The Suzerain's voice is smooth, musical, almost. "From our souls. But our souls are not their souls. The deviant, the invader. The Tabarkan, the blasphemer, the sorcerer. The blueprint is already in place. We know His precepts. We will apply them to humanity, past and present and future, and we will cull the sicknesses from His heart. The foreign hordes will bend the knee, and their souls will be saved. Or they won't. Ah, well."

"She's using you," Caspar calls. "She won't let anyone go."

"She will." The Suzerain corrects him like a patient schoolteacher. "I'm under no illusion that it will be most of us. Even half of us. Once we've found our true adherents, we might even number in the paltry thousands. But it's all for the good. Like the Hirudo Leech. She'll suck the bad blood away from the Sacred Body. We will update the Temple. We will make it all true. And when we have harrowed Heaven, and removed the chaff, we will have the golden substrate."

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"There'll be no one left for your new God to rule."

"Not on Diamante, perhaps. But the void is full of souls. Souls He—souls We—could shepherd into the light. Think of the God at whose feet you grew, Caspar. The fine man you became. Think of the glory we could bring forth."

"What about the sisters? What about Irene?"

(As he asks it, I'm wrapped in Saoirse's coils. Her prime form is shielding mine from the worst of it.)

"Right. Your 'wife.'" He chuckles. "Her greater being would give succor to my mistress, yes. Would merge and be absorbed. But the Sisters needn't die, Mr. Cartwright. Not really. This is the mercy we offer. The mercy they never offered our God. Eight would let some small piece of her family remain. A manifestation each. To be together once again, and free. Free to be with you, Caspar. In the Kingdom."

"That's a goddamn lie," Caspar calls.

"No sir, Mr. Cartwright. No lie. There will be many lost. Many who don't believe, or don't believe hard enough, or who only pretend to. But that was never you. You had the love in you. It was real. There's a place for you, and for her, if you can teach her piety. A manifestation given free rein to be with you. To walk Heaven's ways. I'd even officiate the ceremony myself. Truly. So that you can be an actual husband, an actual wife. A pure and good love in His eyes. Those who have strayed may return to the fold, Caspar. You loved the Father. You can love Him again. And provided you live by His precepts, you can have it all back. Your friends, your community. The Kingdom you were promised with Mrs. Cartwright. You can have her, too. No longer her servant, but her keeper." He chuckles. "Her equal, even, if you like. I know how progressive the kids can be. That's fine. Up to you."

"That's all some horseshit," Milinoe murmurs to me. "No way is Eight gonna let some cult make you a sister-wife. You and Cas can live in her, with me. With everyone. I'm sure she'd be willing to manifest a place like this for you. It's lovely here."

"Milly. Stop." I hold my hand up. "Go, please. Leave."

She looks like she wants to step in and embrace me. But she hangs back, wringing her hands. "Okay. I have some other sisters to visit, anyway." She gives me a sad smile. "I guess we'll see each other again soon, Irene. One way or another. It would have been lovely, if you'd managed to save me."

She melts into a puddle of iridescent oil. It hisses as it evaporates.

Caspar passes the gun to Adaire, who touches it like it's boiling hot.

The Suzerain tries again. "Why don't you come out from behind there, son?"

Caspar makes eye contact with Adaire. She mouths don't.

"Why don't you come out, and let's talk. You abhor the killing. I know you do. It was all duty for you. Service. You're a born servant. Simple and strong. Serve your mistress best, Caspar. Mine is confronting her at the gates to the Kingdom, as we speak. Both of you, in two fights you cannot win. Your heathen, your beast, your traitor. Stand and speak with me, and I'll spare them. They'll get the chance to find their redemption and save their souls from oblivion."

Ganea's run out of limbs. Her jaws close around Eight and she holds fast as great waterfalls of her blood seep into the ruins, but she can't keep my sister immobilized any longer. Eight's prime form ripples sinuously as it squeezes the rest of the way out of the Kingdom gate. She joins the flood of her war forms.

Caspar steps out from the ravaged pillar.

The Suzerain's smile is wide and genuine as my warlock approaches him. "There, now," he says. "I know we're—"

Caspar punches His Sacredness Armos Pastornos CDXXXI in the face. He staggers back and Caspar follows. The dominions' guns swing his way, but he's cinched the Suzerain against him in the crook of his elbow.

"You son of a bitch!" Caspar pulls back and hammers another fist against him. "My life was for you! My whole life!"

He sweeps the Suzerain onto his back. His claws shunt out and he tears and grapples like a rabid animal at the cuirass that covers the Key.

The cataclysmic dome of flesh and stone is closing above us. Saoirse's been pulled off of me by a thicket of suspension-bridge chains. She thrashes against them, corroding them to rusty dust, but with every second, more hiss outward from yawning windows and broken doors. I'm busy trying to fight off twenty mutant war-forms and a crumbling statue the Key brought to life. I only learn later what Eight does next. Two dozen warlocks die simultaneously across the surface of Diamante, blooming out like corpse flowers. The only servants she has left are in the throne room.

All the power she's brought to yield on your planet—all the power of those dead warlocks, whose souls she digests in a heartbeat, and all their fellows—sinks into the Suzerain. His armor thickens and slides across his body until he's as encased as a statue. His roar is so charged with vicious eldritch might that it barely sounds human. It resolves itself into a word.

I taught my warlock a syllable. Eight taught hers two:

Submit.

The explosion of eldritch energy breaks most of the bones in Caspar's body.

Every single non-warlock in the room is killed instantly. The templars land in piles of twisted limbs. Poor Cardinal Wyreth is reduced to claggy pulp. The dominions' shells and their warlock strength saves them, but only just—blood seeps from the joints in their armor.

The Suzerain's arm cracks and crackles as it reforms enough for him to lean on it. The bones in his legs fuse and the tendons lash to them. It's all so fast. So horrifically fast. Caspar's ribs are still in pieces as the Suzerain rises to his feet.

He approaches Caspar.

In Heaven, Eight has reached Salome; one of her largest mouths is trying to swallow her whole. My sister sparks and twists, digging extruded spikes into the roof of Eight's mouth, desperate to stay out of her gullet. Before I can stop her, Bina's dived into the maw, lashing her tendrils to Eight's teeth, straining along with Salome against the deep-sea-trench pressure of Eight's jaws.

They're losing. It's winching shut.

The Suzerain lifts Caspar's broken body and strides to his ruined, twisted throne.

"How about I send—" He slams Caspar, neck first, into its metal backing. "Your sorry ass—" Another smash. The throne deforms further. "To your heathen Goddess—" Smash. "And you can take her order." Smash smash smash.

He drops Caspar in a broken heap onto the remnants of the seat. My husband bleeds and coughs and blacks out.

His eyes open. He's in my arms, cradled at the burnt-orange edge of my forest. The sun has gone out—I can't maintain it. Night has come to Autumn.

I kiss him with weeping desperation. "Caspar. Caspar. Oh thank you thank you." I don't even know who I'm thanking. "You're here. Stay here. You can't go back there. He's telling the truth. If you die, you're gone."

"We can't surrender, baby," he says.

"I know we can't. I'd never do that. But we can—" I cradle him. "We can run, Cas. We can get out. I could merge you into me, like Jordan and Bina, and we could find a place. We could get away."

"They'd come for us."

"We'd run again."

"We can't leave them. All the people we'd abandon." He shakes his head. "Send me back, lover."

No, I can't. I won't. I can run with him, away from this dimension. I can leave you to Eight and her servant, and take my sisters and escape, and take Caspar with me.

But even as I weep and shake my head, I know he's going back. If I stole Caspar away, I wouldn't be the woman he loves. And if Caspar wanted to run, he wouldn't be the man I love.

And you, reader.

I love you. Not in the same way I love Caspar, but these aren't just words. Your virtues, your flaws, your dreams, your potential, your light. I can't just let it all disappear. If we fail, if we're devoured and there's nothing left of me but some strange, broken piece inside of my apocalyptic sister, and nothing left of you but some lobotomized handful of cult-souls, I pray those pieces will remember one another, somehow, and love that memory, and mourn for what could have been.

"I'm right in front of him," he says. "I'm where I need to be. And I got to see you."

"I was supposed to have you forever," I whisper.

He closes his hands around the side of my face. "You have me right now," he says.

I kiss him, and Eight's teeth scythe into my side, and I kiss him, and the war forms are dying in droves now, their bodies littering Heaven or disappearing down Eight's gullet, and I kiss him and if I don't stop it will be too late. It's already too late. It's all too late.

I awaken my husband and doom him. He disappears.

I scream in rage and sorrow and fear.

Caspar's eyes open again, to ruin. The throne room is cracked and disintegrating under its second and third syllables of the void tongue. Back in his Diamante body, slumped on the remnants of the throne in a joint state of wreckage. Bones protrude from the skin of his limbs. His breath rattles and bubbles.

The Suzerain stands before him, in chitin as massive and monstrous as the dominions that flank him.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." He smiles. "Welcome to your second chance."

"I." Caspar tries to sit up. His legs don't work anymore. "I am a servant. You're right."

The Suzerain nods. "And what says your mistress?"

"I'm a servant." Caspar inhales all the air his punctured lungs will allow him. "You don't know what that means. You can't do what servants do."

The Suzerain's wrinkled brow lowers. "What are you talking about, Mr. Cartwright? Is it a yes or a no?"

"Hail Irene." Caspar says my name, for the final time.

"No." Armos looks into my husband's steel-girded stare and realizes what he's about to do. "No!" He lunges forward. "Shoot him! Kill him!"

My entire manifold wails his name. Reality ripples.

I was supposed to have him forever.

Caspar's eyes close. "Hail the Old Ones."

My mark flares on his heart. The seal breaks. The careworn flesh gives way.

Caspar Cartwright opens.

I step through.

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