Mumbled incantations drift down the passageway, echoing off brick walls as Kashif Salik examines the Blood Wards etched into the floor of the main tunnel. Daphne hadn't been much help; the prisoner was assisting with the wards' creation, but would not admit to any knowledge of how to remove them, even under Jordan's subtle manipulations of her psyche.
You move through the pressed crowd, slowly working out your own nervous energy while getting a feeling for how the others are doing. From the back ranks of the mortal mercenaries, you overhear a soldier praying—the Plexiglas of his riot helmet does little to hide his wide, frightened eyes. He flexes a black-gloved hand over the butt of his rifle as he repeats his mantra a second, third, and forth time while his comrades steadfastly ignore him and keep their eyes on Qui—ready to follow his instructions at a moment's notice. A name tag stitched onto the man's uniform declares him "LaFlamme."
Not my first, no. Not my second either." The merc shakes his head and lowers his voice. "I didn't have much choice in the matter. Sold my soul to your master after he saved my daughter."
You blink. Did you hear him right? "Qui isn't my master, and he isn't in the business of soliciting souls."
"Master, Sheriff, different words with the same result. We're down here, staring down the barrel. You'll survive, but I won't be so lucky—God's stopped listening to my prayers." He takes a moment to breathe. "I'm underground, fighting demons at the behest of devils. Soon I'll be even deeper, paying for my sins."
The mercenary nearest the man makes a disgusted face and shifts away.