Chapter 12: 4 of Rings - Resources

“It’s time to come home, Monte. The throne is waiting for you.”

“He can’t stay in his room forever,” Meihua argued. 

“Why not?” Yema shrugged, and the others nodded. None of them saw a reason to interrupt his isolation.

Ammon had resigned himself to spending the rest of his life in that room, alone and forgotten. So, when he heard the knock at his door, he didn’t register that he had a visitor.

When no one answered, Meihua grew concerned and pushed the door open.

For a long moment they just stared at each other. The Devil, shirtless, ribs and tattoos visible, smirked. The young woman blinked. A ring of fire circled his lean bicep, a tree of life on his sternum, the Virgo symbol on his right pectoral muscle.

“Can I help you?” He growled. 

“It’s time to make yourself useful.” 

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You can’t make me.”

“You sound like a child.”

“It’s childish to not want to be held hostage?”

“No one is holding you hostage.”

“Great, when can I leave?”

She winced. 

“That’s what I thought.” He tossed himself back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, elbow resting on his knee. 

 Meihua slammed the door behind her as she left and the prisoner picked up the book he’d been reading, only to be interrupted by yet another knock at the door. He called out in response, “Fuck off.” 

“Your grandmother raised you better than that.” 

He flung the door open. If he’d had a drop of air magic in him, daggers would have come flying out of his eyes. Fortunately for the old woman standing at the door, and for the young Devil, he didn’t. Instead, a flame licked at the olive oil pools in his eyes. “What do you know about my grandmother?” 

The old woman brushed past him, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “Child, you could at least light a candle or something in here.” 

He pulled a shirt on. “Aunty, what are you doing here?”

“Rumor has it that you’re sulking.”

“I’ve been disrespected.”

Her eyes drifted to the window. “You might earn some respect if you stopped acting like a child and started acting like the protected asset that you are.” 

Ammon scoffed and pointedly walked back over to the bed. He picked up his book, pretending not to watch as the woman inspected the Devil’s Backbone, leaf by leaf. He waited for the same shiver he’d felt when Layna had looked the plant over, but felt nothing.

When the Healer left, he tossed his book aside and went to the plant. What were these witches seeing in this plant that was capturing their attention? He looked at each leaf, top, bottom, veins, stems. Everything looked normal. He counted the leaves: still nine. 

The next morning’s visitor did not knock. The Devil woke to his curtain being thrown open, sunlight streaming in. He sat up, squinting and complaining. Only to be hit in the face with his own clothes and the command: “Get up.”

He did, still squinting in the harsh morning light. 

“Get dressed.” 

As he pulled on his clothes, the woman had none of Meihua’s discomfort, but no apparent interest in the sight either.  

Once he was dressed, she opened the door where two fighters waited outside. “Go with them. Make yourself useful.”

They marched him to the fields, which were in better shape than the last time he’d visited. A low chant filled the air. The cadence felt familiar and the Devil recognized the sound of incantations in several different languages. Some he understood. Others he recognized. Still others were completely unfamiliar to him. The spells were directed at the plants, the earth, the sun, the water in the air, even the snacking bugs. 

A field full of Diablists chanting over some plants was far from shocking. What did surprise him was the plants actually responding. Growing on command, ripening, changing colors before their caretakers’ eyes: the spells were working.

A man with slightly less ego might have been impressed. Instead, Ammon threw his tools on the ground. “Y’all clearly don’t need me.” 

“Obviously not.” That laugh sounded familiar.