Chapter 216 The Jester.

Chapter 216: 216 The Jester.

I stood on the porch, equal parts impressed and horrified.

The kind of theatrical pomp currently blocking out the sun could only belong to a handful of individuals on the planet, and almost all of them sat on The New Order’s Council of Nine.

When I squinted up at the massive emblem forged into the iron gates of the floating castle, my stomach dropped into my shoes.

Wrought in black steel and tarnished gold was a grinning, horned harlequin skull—the personal crest of The Jester.

Master of ancient sorcery and twisted science, and the second most powerful man in the entire New Order. Which meant the mountain currently hovering over my rosebushes was the Royal Court.

Oh, fuck.

Movement caught my eye on one of the high stone balconies. Several figures stood looking down at the estate. As I watched, two of them stepped casually off the ledge.

A flat disc of crackling arcane energy materialized beneath their boots, bearing them smoothly down toward my front lawn.

As the platform descended, I got my first real look at The Jester in the flesh.

I knew him from the media coverage, of course—usually footage of him trading blows with his arch-nemesis, Doctor Thaumaturge.

Seeing him in person, however, was an entirely different experience. He looked like an ancient demon who had wandered out of a Renaissance court and decided the world was one big, hilarious tragedy.

He was tall and whip-thin, draped in centuries-old, tattered velvet motley and heavy brocade fastened with tarnished silver chains.

Beneath a two-pointed cowl that curved like devil horns, his skin was corpse-pale, stretched taut over high cheekbones and split by a wide, razor-thin grin.

Beside him stood his lieutenant, a towering slab of scarred, concrete-gray muscle clad in heavy black war-plate.

Cull looked less like a man and more like a siege engine on two legs, a massive chained war-hammer mag-locked to his spine.

Yet despite his size, the brute was completely overshadowed by the suffocating presence of his master.

The pair touched down lightly on the grass, the arcane disc snapping out of existence like a blown candle.

"Ah! You must be the Iron Polaris," The Jester purred. His voice was a aristocratic baritone, layered with the faint, unsettling cadence of a man suppressing a laugh.

"Jester," I said, forcing an agreeable smile onto my face even as my pulse hammered against my ribs. "This is quite the surprise."

"Mind your tongue, worm!" Cull barked, his voice like grinding boulders as his hand twitched toward his hammer. "You stand before the Master! Show the proper reverence!"

The Jester let out a high, musical chuckle, raising a hand to wave off his enforcer.

"Peace, Cull, peace! Do not ruin the punchline before we’ve even told the joke. Manners cost nothing." He tilted his horned cowl toward me, his wide grin never wavering. "Forgive the unannounced drop-in, my dear boy. Theatrics are a terrible habit of mine, I’m afraid. However, we have a matter of business to discuss."

"Do we?" I said, keeping my voice level. "Fantastic. Would you... care to step inside?"

"I would be utterly delighted," The Jester said, executing a sweeping, courtly bow.

Well, that made one of us.

I stepped aside and gestured toward the open double doors. The Jester glided past me into the chalet, smelling faintly of ozone, old parchment, and funerary incense.

Cull stalked in right behind him, ducking his massive shoulders through the doorframe while glaring at me like I’d personally insulted his ancestors.

Fun.

I followed the pair into the foyer, where The Jester had paused to take in the newly renovated hall.

He spun slowly on his heel, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Marvelous," he murmured with genuine appreciation. "Truly, wonderfully bleak! The industrial motif has teeth, and the spikes are an exquisite touch. Very old-world impaler."

"Uh, thanks," I said, feeling a weird flicker of homeowner pride despite the circumstances. "It’s still a work in progress. My interior decorator is a big fan of sharp edges."

"Miss Edna’s abandoned protégé, unless I miss my guess?" The Jester mused, tapping a metal claw against his smiling lip. "Little Lilith Morningstar."

"Yeah. Didn’t know ’Morningstar’ was on her birth certificate, though," I admitted. "You two are acquainted?"

"Oh, intimately! We have danced across the stage many a time," he said cheerfully, drifting deeper into the corridor.

"The Hellgate Incident of ’84?" I guessed, falling into step beside him.

His cowl turned toward me, the ancient eyes gleaming with sudden delight. "A student of history! You know of my work?"

I shrugged. "Hard to miss. You tried to drag Manhattan into the lower planes by hiding demonic ritual sigils inside the graffiti on the subway cars."

"A tragedy that the transit authority painted over the third act," he sighed wistfully, though he gave me an approving nod. "It warms this old heart to meet a young man who studies the classics."

"If you want to last in this industry, you do your homework," I said.

He barked a sharp laugh. "Well said! Very well said indeed. Though, truth be told, Manhattan was merely a reunion. I first crossed paths with dear Lilith back in Sumer. Or was it during the fall of Babylon? Ah, the centuries blur together like watercolors in the rain. One forgets the dates, only the faces."

I bet time flew when you’d been terrorizing civilization since the Bronze Age. I kept that observation to myself, however, and guided him into the drawing room.

Lilith had overhauled this space too, giving it the exact level of dark, aristocratic gravity required for hosting a millennia-old warlord.

The lighting was kept low, the fireplace casting long, dramatic shadows across the floorboards.

More importantly, the walls were practically wallpapered with medieval weaponry. Broadswords, battleaxes, flanged maces, and halberds hung in decorative arrangements all around us. Stylish, sure, but also my insurance policy.

Just feeling the dense, familiar hum of all that iron settled my nerves. If talks broke down, I could at least make a messy fight of it—though I prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

The chalet had already been trashed twice, and replacing custom gothic masonry was murder on my bank account.

I gestured toward a pair of high-backed leather armchairs facing the hearth.

The Jester settled into one with theatrical grace, crossing one long leg over the other, while Cull took up a sentinel position directly behind his chair, arms crossed over his armored chest as he continued to eyeball me like a piece of meat.

A sudden mechanical whirring broke the quiet. I sidestepped as one of Rhea’s spherical service bots scuttled into the room on articulated metal tentacles, balancing a silver tea service on its upper chassis.

"Care for some tea?" I offered belatedly.

The Jester peered down at the porcelain pot, his wide smile curving higher. "Charming! Though I don’t suppose you happen to have a vintage carafe of virgin’s blood in the cellar?"

"...Afraid we’re fresh out," I deadpanned.

"Ah, a tragedy. Youth today has no respect for tradition," The Jester sighed, waving a clawed hand toward the bot. "Earl Grey will suffice, my boy. Do pour."