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Beelzebub told Blackheart to keep his faith in Johnny alive, and rounded up the Hidden for a trip to Earth to find the missing Johnny Blaze.

Meanwhile on Earth, Johnny and the ghost of Carter Slade, now acting as an angelic agent for the Sacred Bureau of Investigation, are hot on Danny Ketch’s trail through the North American desert. They stop to rest after ten solid days on the road, and Carter finds out the real reason why Johnny’s been hanging around in San Diablo. The caretaker is shocked to learn that his protégé is actually in love with the preggo Prince of Hell, but that pales in comparison to the shock Johnny receives when he finds out that nearly three months have passed in the time he’s been on Earth, and Blackheart could be having the baby any day now!

Now maniacally inspired to find his long-lost brother and whip the other Ghost Rider into obedience, Johnny sets out on the road again with Carter Slade in tow. Not far from their campsite the Hidden and Beelzebub appear, tired but determined to find Johnny. Sensing that they’re closing in on him, they hit the trail again.

At Morningstar Manor, Blackheart has gone insane from loneliness, insomnia, and the idea of being a single parent, and not even his father’s words of comfort can ease his pain. Mephisto puts his wreck of a son to bed, but Blackheart can’t sleep — deluded by dreams of giving birth to a monster baby and dying in the process, Blackheart puts on his coat and leaves Morningstar Manor, knowing that he won’t return alive. The only trace he leaves behind is his wedding ring, a token of a love that almost was.

Meanwhile in the intermediate area between Earth and Nether-earth, the realm known as Limbo, the Wolf Brothers arrive to fulfill their mission as requested by Heaven: destroy the child that the Prince of Hell plans to “unleash upon the human world”. Though the massive wall bars them from entering Nether-earth, on Independence Day (October 31st) the gates will open to allow demons free passage between Hell and Earth . . . and that is how the Wolf Brothers plan to infiltrate San Diablo. And now, harpies and hellions, the next chapter in this epically ridiculous tale!

Chapter 11: The Race Against Time

The darkened streets of West Valley City were quiet and deserted, and aside from the stray cat or odd bum shuffling between the alleyways, no other soul was to be seen. One particular bum, an addled old drunk by the name of Lester, stumbled out onto Main Street, muttering incoherently to himself and pausing only to toss back the bottle of booze in his fist.

The unmistakable sound of an approaching motorcycle didn’t faze Old Lester until the loudness finally caught his attention. It sounded like a rocket or some kind of jet engine, downshifting with the power of a thunderclap. Lester raised his head and squinted his bleary eyes down the street, whose flatness allowed for greater sight. In the distance he saw a glowing light, not like a headlight, but more of a fire.

“What the-?”

In a matter of seconds the mysterious vehicle was in full view, and Lester’s snaggle-tooth mouth fell open.

It was motorcycle-shaped, but it didn’t look like any motorcycle Lester had ever seen. Its wheels were on fire, for one thing, and it was leaving a trail of blue flames down the center of the road. The body of the bike seemed mutated, huge, more of a weapon than a mode of transportation. But it was the sight of the rider that made Lester drop his Jim Beam onto the street, the shatter of glass insignificant compared to the horror that was approaching:

A man on fire — no, a skeleton — dressed in denim and leather and howling with laughter like a madman. Spikes and buckles and chains flashed silver under the street lights. Hot blue flames rolled off of the bleached white skull, whose bottomless eyes burned like the coals of Hell itself.

“Holy MOLY!” Lester shouted, throwing himself into the gutter as the demonic biker blazed through the spot where he’d been standing only seconds before. He heard the evil, deep-throated laughter fade as the rider continued on before he finally disappeared into the night.

After a few dazed minutes, Lester pulled himself out of the gutter and stood swaying on his feet, blinking slowly, wondering if what he had just seen had been real. He shook his head. “I gotta quit the bottle,” he grunted.

Then he heard a similar noise, coming from the same direction. Lester ducked behind a post box and peered cautiously from around it. He couldn’t believe his eyes for the second time that night: a ghastly grinning skull, all black leather and steel, a small nucleus of wildfire consuming its form. It was another rider, just like the one before, and he was hauling ass down the street, leaving fiery trenches in the asphalt where the wheels touched, drowning out the blue flames with his red ones. However similar he seemed to the first rider, this bike was different — more evil than the first, if possible — and the fire engulfing it and its rider was as red as blood and hellfire. And beside this flaming apparition rode a man on a horse, white and foggy, the ghost of a long-dead cowboy.

They passed by Lester with a deafening roar of wind, igniting soggy newspapers and scattering their ashes up onto the sidewalk. Lester stared down the street where they disappeared into the night, nothing left but a trail of fire and cracked pavement.

“That’s it,” the old bum muttered, crawling away. “I’m goin’ sober.”

† † †

The two Riders blazed their way through the city with roaring engines and squealing tires of solid flame. The fleeing quarry was aware of his pursuer now, and with bursts of demonic laughter led him on a wild ride through the Utah night. He toyed with him, slowing until he was merely yards ahead, and then gunning the engine of his hellish machine, bringing the front wheel off the ground and exploding into the lead. Zarathos was beside himself with rage at the cockiness of this fiery blue demon, and gnashed his teeth with fury as he strove to catch up, pushing the Hellcycle to its limit. Slade fell behind, his ghostly steed unable to keep up with the astounding speed of his companion.

The world passed in blurs and sparks. Turns came suddenly, and one false move could send either of the Riders sliding into a realm of bone-splintering agony. Asphalt was smashed to crumbs. Scorched tire marks at intersections testified to the desperation of the blue Rider, who was quickly discovering that he could not shake the infuriated demon behind him so easily. He fled before Zarathos now, cutting sharp turns, barreling through parking lots, jumping curbs, anything to put distance between himself and his pursuer.

They burst out onto a stretch of open road, and Zarathos pulled his chain from off his shoulder. Keeping one hand firmly on the throttle, he leaned forward into the wind and began to swing his chain above his head, his eyes locked on the back of his prey. The Hellcycle inched closer. Closer. Gaining by precious centimeters, until Johnny’s boots were getting licked by blue flames.

Now.

The red Rider grunted and threw the chain forward. It cracked on the rear fender of the blue Rider’s bike, and he looked over his shoulder in shock. He tried to increase his speed, but Zarathos was ready and on the throttle, closing the space between them. He drew the chain back in again and leaned close to the handlebars, decreasing his resistance against the wind, and threw his chain once more. It wrapped itself around the engine manifold like an angry steel boa constrictor, and Zarathos laughed triumphantly as he slammed the Hellcycle to a stop.

The other bike came to a crashing halt, falling onto its side and sending up a shower of white sparks. Sir Isaac Newton tells us that an object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by another force or object; Zarathos acted upon the bike, but not its Rider, and so the Rider kept moving. He flew over the handlebars with a roar of dismay and smashed into the ground hard enough to leave a cracked depression in the pavement. He rolled, tumbled, sideways and end-over-end, until at last he came to a standstill. The flames vanished, leaving the dark shape of a young man lying face down and unmoving on the pavement.

Zarathos retreated and the flesh of Johnny’s face grew over his skull again. The fire igniting Grace disappeared, and so did the flames on other Rider’s bike, revealing a shiny midnight-blue BMW K1200. But Johnny wasn’t interested in motorcycles right now — he was focused on the body of his brother lying in the road.

“Oh shit,” he uttered, chucking down the kickstand, dropping his chain, and jumping from his bike. “I killed him.”

The rhythm of hooves sounded as Carter approached the scene: fire and fragments of asphalt littered the empty road out of West Valley, and as he took on his human form again he saw Johnny half-running toward a dark shape lying on the double yellow line. “Oh no,” the caretaker murmured.

Johnny kneeled down and hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t move someone who has just been in a crash, but he had to know if the rider was alive. Taking him gently by the shoulders of his worn leather jacket, Blaze lifted and rolled the young man over onto his back. He stared.

Danny Ketch’s eyes were closed, his auburn-brown hair scattered over his sweaty, grit-speckled forehead. He wore a pair of black jeans that had faded to charcoal-gray from years of wear, black Doc Martens, and a white Brooklyn Dodgers T-shirt underneath a black leather bomber jacket. He had a bloody scrape on his cheek, road rash on his chin, and blood oozing from a deep cut on his brow. Even through these injuries Johnny could see a reflection of himself in this stranger: the same nose, the same jaw, the same chin.

“Daniel?” whispered Johnny, reaching out to brush the dark fringe of hair from his eyes. “Danny . . .”

Slade approached slowly, removing his hat with a solemn air.

Blaze hung his head, dangerously close to tears. “He’s dead, Carter. I just killed the brother I never knew I had.”

“Don’t be so sure,” the old cowboy grunted. “It’d take more than a spill to get rid of that demon.” He stepped back cautiously, as if catching wind of something ominous. “Brace yourself.”

“For what?”

Blue fire exploded under Johnny’s face as the demon awoke once more. Danny’s flesh burned away until the skeleton beneath was all that remained. In an instant Zarathos resurfaced, saving Johnny from a punch that would have taken his head off. The red Rider reeled from the powerful blow, but grabbed his opponent’s fist before he could pull it back. Zarathos snarled and heaved forward, sending his attacker sprawling backward across the ragged pavement. The blue Rider scrambled to his feet and started to make a run for his bike, but Zarathos was quicker — he grabbed the demon by the neck and whirled him in a half circle, hurling him into a metal lamp post across the street. The post bent with a shriek of metal and the blue Rider fell to the ground.

“Go easy on him, tiger,” Slade said warningly as he watched Zarathos storm across the road toward the other demon. “That’s your brother under there, you know!”

“I know,” grunted Johnny as he reached down and hauled the blue Rider off the ground by his jacket collar. He held him up as if he weighed nothing, and stared into the burning cobalt sockets with his own crimson ones. “Why are you here?”

The other demon growled lowly and said nothing. Zarathos gave him a spine-rattling shake. “WHY DID YOU POSSESS THIS MAN?”

At this the flaming blue skeleton laughed. “This man possessed me,” he guttered. “I was awoken to serve him.”

“You have shed innocent blood,” said Zarathos, tightening his grip. “There will be a reckoning.”

“You cannot punish me,” replied the demon with a chuckle. “You are just another Rider.”

Carter recoiled as Zarathos bellowed, red flames flaring up as if he’d just been doused with lighter fluid.

“ANOTHER RIDER!” seethed Zarathos. “I AM BOUND IN WEDLOCK TO HIS INFERNAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS AND THE LORD OF DEMONS. HIS POWER IS MY POWER, AND YOU SHALL OBEY ME AS YOU SHALL OBEY HIM — THE PRINCE OF HELL, YOUR ROYAL MASTER!”

Though skulls aren’t capable of expression, the fear that took hold of the blue Rider was unmistakable.

“NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU RISE WITHOUT CONSENT, NOR DO WHAT YOUR HUMAN HOST FORBIDS. IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE DIRE CONSEQUENCES. UNDERSTAND?”

The demon whimpered in defeat and fled, leaving behind the small groggy form of Danny Ketch hanging from Zarathos’ clutches.

“Danny!” cried Johnny, and abruptly returned to his human form . . . which had only a fraction of the Ghost Rider’s strength. Danny plummeted from Johnny’s hands and crashed onto the curb. “Oh God, I’m sorry! Are you okay? I’m so sorry about that.”

Danny sat up with a moan and rubbed the back of his head. “What happened?” he asked, his voice clean and young, devoid of any accent, unlike Johnny’s slight Texas twang. “Where am I?”

Johnny crouched down beside his brother. “Are you alright? Is anything broken?”

“No, I’m okay . . .” He raised his head and looked at Johnny for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”

Johnny felt a grin grow on his lips. “I’m Jonathan Harley Blaze,” he said. “And you?”

A funny look crossed the young man’s face. “Daniel Davidson Ketch.”

“Davidson?” Johnny repeated.

Danny murmured, “Harley . . . Davidson . . .”

Brother and brother stared at each other. It seemed strikingly apparent that their father had been more than a motorcycle enthusiast: he had been the ultimate HOG fanboy.

Carter strode over, smiling from ear to ear. “Looks like you fellahs got a lotta catchin’ up to do.”

† † †

Friday, October 30th
San Diablo

The mid-afternoon sun was shining dimly behind the red and black clouds when Mephisto finally finished the rest of his paperwork and stood from his desk. He turned to stare out the window at the lovely infernal day. The air was spicy with smoke, sprinkled with ash, and the flowering trees were in full flame. Cheerful little bats nestled together under the ledges of gargoyles, and red butterflies fluttered between the bushes of ebony-colored roses in the front garden. Such a beautiful day.

The Devil smiled sadly to himself. He remembered how reluctant at first Johnny had been to go outside on days like this; terrified of suffocating or getting rabies from the bats . . . Then, when he realized that the smoke would not singe his half-demon lungs and that the bats were as tame as songbirds, he ventured outdoors and reveled in his new surroundings.

Ah, Johnny, wondered Mephisto, I hope you’re alright. I know my people are no substitute for human companions, but we tried our best. We couldn’t have been that bad . . .

He sighed. I wish you were back with us. Only you know how to fix Blackheart.

He stared out the window for another minute before turning back to his desk and pressing a button on his phoneset. “Courtney? Call Blackheart and see if he’s up yet. I was thinking we could go visit the royal gardens today.”

“You know he won’t want to go, hon,” came Courtney’s melodious voice over the speaker.

“I know, but I thought I’d try.”

“Okay. Just a minute.”

A minute passed, then Courtney came back on:

“He’s not answering. He must have already woken up.”

“At this hour of the afternoon?”

“You want me to try the kitchen?”

Mephisto leaned on his desk, a troubling feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. “Sure, sweetie. And try the rec room. He might be in there.”

But Blackheart was not in the rec room, nor was he in the kitchen, nor was he in the bathroom, the libraries, the main hall, the dining rooms, the conservatory, the lounges, the sunroom, the indoor pool, the spa, the gym, the ballroom, the armory, the indoor movie theater, the chapel (satanic, naturally), the formal parlor, the informal parlor, the music room, the billiard room, the museum, the dungeons, the wine cellar, the attic, the kennel, or Beelzebub’s apartment. He was not to be found on any of the six floors of Morningstar Manor.

By the time evening rolled around, the entire staff was desperately searching every nook and cranny of the massive mansion and coming up empty-handed.

Mephisto walked numbly through the halls as maids and butlers rushed back and forth before and behind him, coordinating with each other frantically. Courtney followed at his side, reading off a list of the rooms that had been checked twice already and the ones that were still awaiting a second inspection.

“-the vineyard has been searched, no sign of him there, but the groundskeepers still haven’t finished combing the west end of the Manor property. Let’s see. None of the vehicles were missing out of the garage, so he must be nearby or he’s gone someplace on foot. Um . . . We’ve still got to check the servants’ quarters and the poolhouse, but after that there’s no other-”

“Forget it,” Mephisto murmured, his cane tapping on the floor as he walked. “He’s not here.”

Courtney looked worried. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s not here. We need to stop wasting time looking around when we know he’s left the Manor.”

“We know he’s left the Manor?”

“I do. He’s not well, Courtney. I think he’s snapped. You should have seen him last night — he was like a mental patient, cooking all sorts of vegetarian crap and babbling about monster babies . . .”

Mephisto pushed through the door to Blackheart’s bedroom. It was still a disaster area, having not been cleaned for the past three months. Broken lamps and curtain rods and strewn books covered the floor.

Mephisto stopped, looked around and sighed. “Oh, Blackheart,” he whispered, surveying the destruction. “How many times have I told you to clean your room?”

Courtney tapped her lips with her finger, puzzled. “Um, Mephy, what are we doing here?”

“Looking for clues.”

“Clues?”

“Yes. Clues. Scooby Dooby Doo, we’ve got some work to do now.” He shooed her away and began scanning the room like a crime scene investigator. (CSI: San Diablo was a very popular television program in Hell.) “Look for anything. A note, footprints, blood, missing objects, anything that might-”

“A ring?”

Mephisto stopped mid-sentence and turned. Courtney was standing beside the bed, staring at something on the nightstand. “It looks like Blackheart’s ring,” she repeated.

He moved forward. “Which one? The silver one he wears on his pinky, or the-”

“The gold one, the wedding ring.”

“What?”

Courtney picked up the golden wedding band and held it up for Mephisto to see. The Devil’s expression slowly melted into one of helpless fear. “Oh no,” he uttered.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Courtney asked, becoming afraid when she saw the look on her boss’s face.

“He’s given up,” said Mephisto quietly. “On everything.” He took the ring from his secretary, stared at it in silence, then closed his hand and strode quickly from the room. Courtney rushed after him as best as she could in heels and a mini skirt, stumbling over debris.

“Is this a bad sign?” she asked.

“Yes,” the Devil answered. “If we don’t find him in 24 hours, we may never see him again.”

Courtney trotted down the corridor at Mephisto’s side. “Do you think he might be suicidal?”

“Maybe. But Blackheart’s an incorrigible coward; I doubt he’d have the guts to go through with it. He loves himself too much to commit suicide.”

“Would he cross the border? It just opened this evening for the holiday visitors.”

“No, I don’t think he’s stupid enough to do that. In his condition it might kill him as well as the baby.”

“Are we going to send out a search party, then?”

“Absolutely not. The last thing we need is everybody in San Diablo knowing that he’s missing. We’ll gather the archdemons and look for him ourselves.”

“But-! But the Independence Day celebration is tomorrow night!” Courtney cried, looking at her clipboard. “You’re scheduled to make the opening speech and-”

“Let Beelzebu — wait, he’s missing, too. Damn! Ask Dagon to do it.”

“But Lord Dagon has agoraphobia!”

“I don’t care if he’s got arachnophobia, sign him up!” Mephisto shouted.

Courtney cringed. “Okay. But . . . what are you going to do?”

The Devil paused at the stairs and slipped the ring into his pocket. He gazed at his secretary with steady, determined eyes. “I’m going to find my son while I still have one.”

† † †

“A long time ago,” Slade said, “a hunnerd years even before my time, there was a man named Noble Kale. He was an ancestor of you boys, and the one who brought the curse of the Ghost Rider down on your family.”

Johnny and Danny sat on their bikes, looking very much like brothers as they listened to Carter’s tale.

“As the story goes, Kale’s father was a man of the cloth, but he had a lot of demons. He drank too much, gambled his family into debt, and he had a vicious temper. He liked beatin’ his wife and slappin’ his two sons around if they got in the way. He was also a powerful bigot. So when Noble, his eldest son, fell in love with a colored girl, Pastor Kale went to the magistrate and accused her of witchcraft.”

Carter paused to spit tobacco juice onto the pavement. Johnny and Danny leaned on their handlebars, all eyes and ears.

“They didn’t have a proper justice system back in those days, for women or colored folk or the poor. So they burned that poor girl at the stake and forced Noble to watch.” Carter took off his hat and shook his head sadly. “He went mad with grief. That night after the burning, Noble kneeled in his lover’s ashes and called on her spirit to help him avenge her death.”

He paused, gazing at the two young men solemnly. “I don’t know whether it was love or rage that set Noble’s heart of fire, but when he summoned her spirit, he got more than what he bargained for.”

“The Devil,” Danny whispered. Johnny turned in surprise

Slade nodded. “Mephistopheles himself answered Noble’s call, it was that powerful of a prayer. Mephisto agreed to help Noble avenge his girl’s untimely death if he would sacrifice his life — and soul — by fire. The love in Noble’s heart was so fierce that he agreed; he soaked himself in kerosene and put a lit match to his coat. They say he didn’t make a sound, even as he was burnin’ alive, skin blisterin’ and boilin’.”

“God,” Johnny breathed, feeling a lump form in his throat. He could understand loving someone enough to die for them. It was a lesson he’d only recently learned.

Carter spat again. “He burned until nothing but his skeleton remained, and Mephisto breathed the power of Hell into the remains. Noble became a monster of fire and bone, the Ghost Rider, driven by a thirst for vengeance, and he descended upon the town that night on horseback, destroying those who had drawn innocent blood. It was a massacre, and the Devil just sat back and watched his new bounty hunter collect the souls of the damned. Just before dawn, with bodies lyin’ dead in the streets and the town burnt to ashes, Noble finally found his father.”

Carter waited. Danny leaned forward. “And he killed him, right?”

“Worse,” Slade muttered. “He gave the Pastor a dose of his own medicine.”

“The Penance Stare,” said Johnny.

“None other. Once Noble had punished his father for every life he’d ruined, he left him and returned to the place where his girl had been burned. Avenged at last, Noble shed tears for his lost love. But he didn’t have much time to grieve, ‘cause Mephisto returned to claim his soul . . . Then something strange happened.”

“What?” both Johnny and Danny asked.

Carter grinned knowingly. “Noble was saved by an angel.”

“No way,” said Danny.

“Was it his girl?” Johnny asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Slade, “but Mephisto and the angel struck a deal. Noble was given a second chance to live his life, and he did. He lived and died like an ordinary man, but upon his death his soul was sent to Purgatory, where it waits until it’s needed. Any ancestor of his who carries his blood is given the power to call forth Noble’s soul, the Spirit of Vengeance, and punish those who had done him wrong.”

Carter put his hat back on and gave Banshee a gentle pat.

Johnny and Danny were quiet, mesmerized by the tale. “So,” Johnny started, “are you . . . Are you related to us, Carter?”

“Not quite,” the old cowboy answered with a smile. “Mephistopheles used Zarathos to enslave me, not Kale’s soul. Only the family has that power.”

“That explains Danny,” agreed Blaze. “But what about me? Why have I got Zarathos and family ties?”

“You’re a special case, Johnny. Danny here is a natural-born Ghost Rider,” Slade said, gesturing to the younger man. “But so are you. And when you made that deal with Mephistopheles, you got bound to Zarathos as well as a part of Noble’s ghost. You’ve got the blood in your body and the fire in your soul, which makes you a hundred times more powerful than any Ghost Rider that has ever been.”

Danny crossed his arms and put on a sulking face. “No wonder you scared my Rider into obedience. You’re like, what, some kinda demon lord or something?”

“Yeah, I kinda am,” said Johnny sharply. “And without me you’d still be riding around on a murdering rampage. You should thank me for whipping your Ghost into shape.”

“Oh, I’m grateful. I just think it’s unfair that you get power from ancestry and a demon.”

Blaze shook his head. “Trust me, if you only knew the shit I’ve been through . . .”

“Couldn’t have been worse than what I went through.”

“Aw, bet you had a tough time in high school, huh?”

“I was home-schooled.”

“I can tell. You’re a real smartass.”

Danny fumed. “Well at least I inherited all the good looks.”

“What’re you saying? We look almost exactly alike.”

“But I don’t have red hair.”

“What’s not to like about red hair?”

“One word: firecrotch.”

Johnny scowled. “Kid, you’re about two seconds away from really pissing me off.”

“Ooh, I’m so fwightened!” mocked Danny. “Big bad Ghost Wider’s gonna beat me up!”

Carter sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Family,” he muttered. “Okay, boys. Calm down. We don’t need no fightin’ right now.”

“I agree,” Johnny snapped. “Arguing is for idiots.”

“And you started it,” Danny shot back.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Why don’t you both shut up,” Slade suggested, “and tell me what the hell that is.” He raised his hand and pointed.

Johnny and Danny turned in their seats to see a deadly black cloud approaching from across the open desert. It was moving rapidly toward them ,against the breeze, almost buzzing with some sort of power.

“What is that?” Danny asked, fear in his eyes.

Johnny squinted. “I dunno, but it looks hellish.”

“You can say that again.”

“No. I mean. It looks like something I’ve seen in Hell.”

Danny turned his head toward his brother. “You’ve been to Hell?”

“Been? I live there.”

“Seriously?”

“I told you before, weren’t you paying attention?”

“I think I might’ve missed it when you were, uh, holding me off the ground by my neck.”

“I wasn’t holding your neck!”

“Yes you were!”

“No I wasn’t!”

“Goddammit, you two!” Carter cursed, holding onto his hat as a mighty wind rushed down onto the street. Banshee reared up and whinnied with terror, and the caretaker had to grab his steed by the reins to keep him from running away.

Johnny and Danny shielded their eyes against the blast of sand, fog and flies that suddenly consumed them like a tornado. Blaze was taking it in stride — stranger things had happened — but Danny was panicking.

“What is this!?” he screamed. “I can’t breathe!”

“You can breathe fine!” Johnny shouted to him. “Don’t fight it!”

And then from the depths of the black maelstrom came a familiar voice: “Johnny? Is it really you?”

The whirlwind came to a stop. Silence descended. Danny sucked in a lungful of air and coughed. The sand and dust began to settle onto the asphalt. The flies gathered into a man-shaped pillar that stepped toward Johnny, gradually melting into the pale, worried face of a nerve-wracked archdemon.

“Johnny!” cried Beelzebub, grinning with triumph and relief.

“Bubba? What the-? You actually came looking for me?” blurted Johnny, dismounting his bike and accepting an unexpected, massive glomp from the Lord of Flies.

Danny and Carter stared in awe, their jaws slack and eyes the size of pies.

Beelzebub pulled back and gripped Blaze’s shoulders. “Of course we’ve been looking for you! Things are miserable down there without you. Where the hell have you been? Why didn’t you come back?”

“It’s a long story,” sighed Johnny, meaning every word of it.

Movement over Beelzebub’s shoulder caught Blaze’s attention, and he was shocked to see the Hidden materialize out of thin air. They all looked haggard and worn, like bloodhounds who had been on the trail for too long. Abigor didn’t even fully regain his form — his legs remained a missing, misty swirl. And Gressil’s face was literally cracking from fatigue. “Thank Sod we’ve finally found you, Blaze!” he gasped, bending over and putting his hands on his knees.

Wallow wiped his watery brow with the back of his watery hand. “A minute longer and I would’ve thrown myself in the nearest holy water font,” he muttered.

“Lord Beelzebub is a slave driver!” whined Abigor. “We haven’t rested for days.”

“Did you say ‘Beelzebub’?” echoed Danny, garnering the attention of all four demons. “You don’t mean . . .”

“Who’s this kid?” the archdemon asked, furrowing his brow at the unfamiliar mortal.

“Bubba, this is my brother, Danny Ketch.”

“You don’t have a brother.”

“I do now.”

“. . . Uh huh.” Beelzebub’s eyes were vacant of comprehension.

“It’s a long story,” Johnny repeated, then his expression softened. “How’s Blackheart?”

“In shambles. You broke his heart, Johnny.”

Blaze hung his head and pulled the cracked pocket watch from his jacket. “I know,” he murmured. He raised his head again. “But I’m gonna try to put it back together again.”

“Well that’s good to hear, but right now we need to get you back to San Diablo ASAP,” Beelzebub said hastily, pulling back the sleeve of his coat to glance at the stylish black wrist watch he wore. “It’s already October 31st down there, and unless Dr Dementoad is greatly mistaken, Blackheart’s probably going into labor right now-”

“What!?” shrieked Johnny, face ashen.

Danny turned to Carter. “What’s going on?”

“Damned if I know,” mumbled Slade. “And I do know.”

Johnny had grabbed Beelzebub by the collar and was shaking him frantically. “You’ve gotta get me down there! The Wolf Brothers are after him, and if they get to him they’re gonna kill him and my son!”

“The who?”

“The Wolf Brothers!”

“Heaven’s mercenaries,” Slade drawled. He received the entire group’s attention. “Johnny had a run-in with some angels a while ago and they found out about Blackheart being . . .” He shifted uncomfortably. “. . . in a delicate state.”

“Oh no,” whispered Beelzebub.

“They think he’s tryin’ to pull another Antichrist stunt so they called on some hitmen to ‘take care of the problem’, if ya get me.”

The Lord of Flies looked completely horrified. “But they’re not authorized to enter Nether-earth! That’s a violation of the Truce!”

“They don’t care. They’re thugs. They don’t play by the rules.”

“Bastards. They won’t make it beyond Limbo. They can’t get through the gate, nobody can.”

“What’re you all talking about?” piped Danny, whose question was politely ignored by everyone.

“Wait a sec,” interrupted Gressil with a dusty cough. “On Independence Day the borders are left open, remember? Those guys could totally get in if they wanted to.”

“Judas Christ,” swore Beelzebub, putting a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe we’ve been so stupid.”

“We’ve gotta get down there right now!” Johnny barked, running toward his bike and jumping on. “Danny, Carter! Saddle up!”

“Ohhh NO,” Slade warned, taking a step back. “I’m not goin’ down there.”

“Carter, I need all the help I can get!”

“Not my help, you don’t.”

“Are we going to Hell?” asked Danny excitedly.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me to San Diablo, Johnny. Forget it. Count me out.”

Danny turned to Beelzebub. “You’re going to Hell?”

“Nether-earth,” the archdemon corrected.

“What?”

“Carter, please!” Johnny begged. “Do this for me. Do it for my son. Come on. We need you.”

The grizzled cowboy glanced at the demons standing around him. “Why would you bunch need an old ghost like me?”

“You’re on Heaven’s side,” Beelzebub answered sternly. “Somebody needs to bring these ‘Wolf Brothers’ back to Heaven to face judgment, and none of us can do that. We’re all demons.” He glanced at Danny. “Except you. Who are you again?”

“FUCK IT, LET’S GO!” Johnny roared, kicking his bike into gear and bursting into flame.

“Alright, alright!” shouted Beelzebub, dropping into a crouch. “Slow down! These things need to be done properly! You can’t rush them!” He pressed his palm into the pavement and closed his eyes. “By the power of darkness infernal,” he recited in Latin, “and by virtue of evil eternal . . .”

Danny turned to Carter. “What’s he saying? What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the caretaker grunted.

“ . . . Doorway through which the angels fell, grant our passage into Hell!”

Beelzebub sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. “Satanum ac ianuam, imbeat aperiri!” he ended. In the name of Satan, open this Portal!

A beam of black light shot out from around the archdemon’s hand and gradually began to spread, swallowing up the pavement in an unholy living darkness until a perfect circle stretched from one side of the street to the other. The blackness seemed teaming and alive, like writhing snakes or a pool of rippling black diamonds.

With a strained sigh, Beelzebub stood to his feet and turned, gesturing to the circle. “Gentlemen, be my guests.”

Johnny cut loose a howl and gunned it. The moment his wheels of fire penetrated the circle, he vanished. One by one, like anxious divers, the Hidden jumped into the gateway and disappeared into the darkness.

“Aw man, that’s awesome!” Danny gushed, starting his BMW with a kick and revving the engine. He wasn’t even trying to hide his glee. Slade muttered something under his breath about damn crazy kids and mounted Banshee. A second later he was transformed into a thin white mist, but the disgruntled look on his face was still visible.

With a wild whoop, Danny let off the clutch and streaked toward the portal, vanishing as if he’d been incinerated. The two remaining beings, Beelzebub and Slade, shared a brief glance. “After you, Agent Slade,” the demon said politely, arm extended.

The phantom horse reared up with a loud whinny and charged. Moments later the caretaker and his steed were on their way to Nether-earth.

Beelzebub glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight in San Diablo. “Hell,” he muttered under his breath, stepping into the circle. “I hope we’re not too late.” And then he disappeared.

The pulsating black gateway lingered for another few seconds, and then it slowly began to shrink, growing smaller and smaller until at last it disappeared and only solid ground remained.

A cold wind blew across the road where seven otherworldly beings had once stood.

† † †

Hector the hellhound lay drowsily on the back patio, listening to the raised voices inside the house and only vaguely paying attention to the occasional servant darting in and out the door. Night had fallen and the decorative lamps in the garden had lighted themselves, casting yellow halos of light about their bases.

Hector sighed and grunted, sat up and lazily scratched behind his ear with his back foot. The tags on his spiky leather collar jingled. He was the largest of the eight infernal hounds kept by the royal family, a solid black Cane Corso who tipped the scales at over 160 pounds. As the official leader of the pack and personal favorite of the family, Hector was given the freedom to roam the Manor grounds at his leisure. He wasn’t a fast runner, nor was he all that smart, but he was strong and fearsome looking, and he particularly enjoyed terrifying the human man who had come to live with his family several months ago. The man hadn’t been around for a while though, and the Master hadn’t played with Hector for even longer. The hellhound was beginning to feel depressed from the lack of attention, and seemed to sense that his family was going through some difficult times.

Hector’s nose twitched suddenly and he paused scratching to raise his head. He smelled something . . . something new. Something different.

With a low growl rumbling deep in his throat, the large dog slowly stood to his feet and stared toward the black edge of the forest that bordered the back yard. It was so dark within the woods that individual trees could not be seen, only deep shades of black and silhouettes of leaves. Hector’s growl grew to a snarl, however, as his keen eyes detected small pairs of light fading in and out within the darkness, moving and turning: the eyes of predators reflecting in the lamps’ glow.

Hector launched off of the patio at full speed, his huge paws thundering across the grass and foam flying from his mouth as he bared his knife-like teeth at the unseen trespassers on his turf. Hackles raised and fur bristling, the Cane Corso burst into the woods and slammed into another canine-like body that was only a little smaller than he was.

Hector struck first, sinking his fangs into thick, rank fur. A yelp of pain pierced the air, and two snarls sounded on either side of the hellhound. This was how the fight began, in utter blackness, fighting against the invisible teeth of three enemies who pitched upon Hector from all sides. But the hound was strong and hardy, accustomed to the endurance of vicious fighting, and in the end he sent the trespassers fleeing into the depths of the woods. The whole encounter had not lasted three minutes.

Hector limped from the woods and into the dim light. He sat on the grass, sore and bleeding from the merciless jaws of three large creatures whose scents were alien to him. He whimpered and licked his wounds, and wished that his Master were here to take care of him.

The servants continued to cross the lawn and shout orders to each other, oblivious of Hector’s condition. The loyal hellhound laid down on the grass and rested, his body hurting all over and the lingering odor of wolf blood strong in his nostrils.

† † †

In a clearing in the forest not far from Morningstar Manor, three shadowy figures emerged from the trees and collapsed onto the ground, their shapes shifting from beasts into men. All were clad in long coats and carried weapons, but their encounter with the savage Cane Corso had left their morale in tatters, along with pieces of their anatomy.

The red-headed man pressed his hand against the bleeding gash in his shoulder. “That fucking mutt,” he cursed. “He got me good. Nnnh.”

“Stop whining, Roth,” said the brunette man known as Rom. He was inspecting a deep puncture wound on his leg, and the end of his coat was shredded. “At least that monster had its shots so we won’t get rabies.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have gotten so close,” Roth growled, glaring at his other brother, the one with the black hair. “Thanks for nearly getting us all killed, Rook.”

“Shut your mouth,” Rook muttered, nursing his own wounds. “I miscalculated that one of the hellhounds was loose. It doesn’t matter — we know that our prey is not at the Manor.”

“Splendid,” Rom grunted. “Now we have to hunt him down.”

“His scent is weak,” Roth agreed. “If it rains we could lose his trail.”

“Then stop complaining and get up,” Rook snarled at his brothers. “The more time we waste the greater the distance Blackheart puts between us. He’s on foot and he’s slow, so he can’t be too far ahead of us.”

“But what if he uses his powers?” Roth asked, rising to his feet. “He could transport himself for miles and we’ll lose his scent.”

Rook strode over to his redheaded brother and poked him in the forehead. “Then we’ll just have to use our brains, now won’t we?”

Roth didn’t dare respond.

“Dumb animals always wander off to a place of sanctuary when they’re ready to have their litters,” Rook explained lowly. “Blackheart is going somewhere deep into the woods where nobody will find him . . . But we will. Rom.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you last pick up his scent?”

“By the side of the house. I think he took that path through the trees.”

“Your nose is best, so lead us on.” Rook’s face began to darken and grow hairy, his mouth melting into a muzzle and his yellow-green eyes becoming feral and bright. “Blackheart can run as far as he likes, but he can’t outrun a Wolf.”

To Be Continued...

“What the hell, Bender, you pathetic mortal peon! I wasn’t even in this chapter.”

“You were on maternity leave. I couldn’t get a hold of your agent.”

“I don’t have an agent.”

“Look, the next chapter will be all about you, Blackheart. I promise.”

“It better be . . . And it better not have any gushy-mushy scenes either.”

“I’ll try my hardest.”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re one of the worst writers I’ve ever met.”

“Gee, thanks. You’re too kind.”

“In fact, when you die you’re going straight to Heaven. My dad has connections.”

“I’ve been banned from entering Heaven since 1997, Blackheart.”

“Well you’re not going to Hell where I live. I don’t want you or your stupid faggy fiction anywhere near me. Hmph. I still can’t believe I’m letting you write this shit about me.”

“Dude, bad publicity is still publicity. I’m trying to make you famous.”

“Make me famous some other way, dude.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Then think, stupid. I’ll be in my trailer.”

“Okay. Say hi to Johnny for me.”

“Whatever.”

“And give him a big fat kiss for me, too.”

“Do you wanna live to write the end of this story?”

“. . . Not really. It’s killing me slowly and painfully.”

“Alright then. Call me when you need me. I know you’re worthless without me acting as your muse.”

“I am. Thank you.”

“Hmph.”

“Stay tuned for Chapter 12, folks! Blackheart’s little bundle of agony will be arriving!”

“Judas help me.”