A written contract!?
Those words from Mephisto were the worst choice he could have made.
Johnny, who had been trembling with excitement at the thought of his father being resurrected, felt his heart doused with icy water.
Memories of the first time Mephisto tricked him came flooding back.
His head cooled instantly. He glared at Mephisto.
"You're trying to trick me again."
"No."
Mephisto shook his head, smiling with gentlemanly calm. "This time, I won't deceive you."
At least, when he said those words, he meant them.
Later? That was another matter. The Mephisto making promises now would not be the same Mephisto breaking them later.
Just like when he told Hawk: "Find a body, and I'll release your sister's soul."
A bait. Nothing more.
Yes, his wayward son Satannish had indeed escaped Hell, seeking the Four Elementals to rebuild a new Hell under his dominion of Death's laws. That much was true.
Yes, Mephisto truly did want Hawk's help in stopping him.
But more than anything—Mephisto wanted Hawk's soul.
Who could resist such a prize? A soul not yet divine, but already carrying divine authority.
In his eyes: Replaceable. Usurpable.
Why stay a Hell Lord, when the throne of true godhood might be within reach?
But Death already had a master—the abstract entity, one of the five primal Cosmic Beings. As long as she remained, Mephisto could never rise beyond a dimensional god.
Unless…
Unless he could seize Hawk's soul.
When Hawk brushed the border of life and death during his rebirth, Mephisto had glimpsed the spark of something more. If he could devour that soul—extract its powers of Immortality and Rebirth—then he could ascend.
He'd been preparing ever since.
Even the wine he'd offered Hawk at their "meeting." Harmless, yes—even nourishing. But brewed from souls. Until fully digested, Hawk's spirit was not entirely his own. That opened a crack for Mephisto to exploit.
If he could drag Hawk's soul into Hell for even a second—he would never let it leave.
And now, thanks to Satannish's escape, opportunity had knocked.
So he lured Hawk to Texas. The closest point to Hell's dimension. His trap prepared.
And the bait?
Johnny Blaze.
No ordinary man could claim Hawk's soul. But the Spirit of Vengeance could. Mephisto remembered well the sting of the Penance Stare. If it could nearly pierce him, it could surely tear away Hawk's weakened spirit—especially now that the soul-wine dulled his divine spark.
Provided Johnny cooperated.
So he smiled, spun his lies, and watched as Johnny's doubts melted.
"Really?" Johnny asked, his heart hammering again.
"I swear it." Mephisto extended a hand. A parchment scroll of infernal leather floated toward him. "By my throne of Hell, this contract contains no tricks, no hidden text. Read it."
Johnny unrolled it. Slowly, painfully, he checked every word.
It was clean.
Bring back the specified soul, and his father's spirit would be freed.
Not resurrected. Freed.
Released from a cage, not returned to life. But a release all the same.
Mephisto had not lied.
Johnny swallowed, voice trembling. "Whose soul?"
"Hawk."
Mephisto conjured Hawk's image in Hellfire, smiling. "Deliver him to Hell, and your father walks free."
Johnny's brow furrowed. "Who is this Hawk? Why his soul?"
"He's a monster," Mephisto promised smoothly.
And with a wave, he conjured visions.
Hawk tearing apart Quantico Base, reducing it to rubble. Hawk in Wakanda, souls of the fallen rising in black clouds, crying out in silent accusation.
Johnny stared, shuddering. The evidence seemed undeniable.
Yet one doubt remained.
"Even if I agree… look at him. Do you think I have the strength to approach someone like that?"
"You do."
Mephisto's smile never wavered. He raised a hand. Hellfire flickered, then shifted into a cold, blue blaze.
"With my gift—the Flame of Vengeance—you'll have all the power you need."
This was why Texas. Closest to Hell, where the Spirit's fire would burn brightest.
And where Hell's energies would suppress every rival force.
The stage was set.
He could already see it: Hawk, dragged screaming into Hell. His godhood shattered. His soul devoured.
A god, born from theft.
…
"Achoo!"
In the back of a S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV rolling into Fort Stockton, Hawk sneezed. He frowned, feeling the air around him… wrong.
Sharon glanced at him. "God bless you."
"Thanks."
But Hawk's senses stretched wide—and he realized something disturbing.
In New York, his Sixth Sense could envelop the entire city without strain.
Here, in a town of less than nine thousand souls, spread across thirteen square kilometers, his reach faltered.
Suppressed.
By Hell.
Of course.
And in that moment, Hawk knew: Mephisto's words weren't worth a single punctuation mark.
Another presence rushed toward him fast.
Hawk opened his eyes, looked at Sharon. "That hotel of yours—what's it called again?"
She blinked, gave the name.
"Good. Go back there. Wait for me. Don't follow." His voice hardened. "This will kill people."
And he vanished.
The driver swerved in shock, then recovered. Sharon only sighed. She was getting used to this.
"…vacation, my ass. I'd better call Director Hill."
…
Outside the city, in the desert, Hawk landed in a canyon.
The earth rumbled. The sand heaved.
From the ground rose a hulking figure of stone and dust.
The Earth Elemental.
Gogum.
…
(End of Chapter)
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