Apostles of Doom

“Yes,” Tamarin said, getting into the argument. “However, I am not sure we cannot rule out other possibilities.”

“Such as?” Reggie asked.

“Well, Tom could be a reincarnation of Orcus, who was simply reincarnated on an Earth. Given that the Earths provide a lot of demons, that would increase the probability of someone summoning him back to the Abyss to resume his destiny,” the djinni explained.

Tom just shook his head at such insanity.

“Or,” Reggie countered excitedly, “maybe Orcus, wounded after the battle, fled to someplace safe, like an Earth, and has been living there with amnesia as a human for the last four thousand years.”

“You are not helping!” Tom glared at Reggie.

“In either of those two cases,” Tamarin continued, “the memories would be a sign of healing, not possession. So, while possession is a worry, it is not the only possibility. I would thus not immediately fear the worst from these memories.”

“Exactly!” Tizzy interjected. “And think of this: these memories will be very helpful when we go to collect back payments from those deadbeat gods!” He clapped his hands enthusiastically.

Boggy grimaced and looked at Tizzy. “What in the Abyss are you talking about?”

Tizzy shrugged. “Orcus has been gone for four thousand years, and according to Arg-nargoloth, no one from Doom has been collecting the containment charges for the prisoners in Tartarus. We are going to have to start collecting them again, with interest of course. So it would be useful if Tom could remember who owed us what.”

“Ugh.” Tom put his head in his hands. He wanted this entire conversation to go away.

“Uhm, who is going to go tell a god that he or she needs to pay up?” Reggie asked.

Tizzy grinned. “You’re an incubus; pretty sure you could convince the goddesses to pay up.” The octopod made leering motions with his eyebrows.

Chapter 128

Mount Doom: DOA + 7, Late First Period

Tom followed the mental map of Doom that he’d constructed from his links towards the Library of Doom. He had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning with worry over the thought of having more dream memories from Orcus if he fell asleep. He had finally decided to get up and walk around.

As a kid — well, up until he had been summoned as a demon — he had always felt great comfort in the company of books. Real books, not e-books. Sure, he read e-books and always looked forward to the gift card for his e-book subscription on his birthday each year; however, while convenient they were not a substitute for the weight of a real book, particularly a hardback. The smell of the paper and ink, the texture of the pages, and the sheer impressive weight of all the knowledge and adventure stored within aisles and aisles of books gave him comfort.

Libraries were thus a place of solace; a place to learn and take comfort. The quiet, contemplative atmosphere soothed the nervous anxiety engendered by the frantic modern world. Cellphones were silenced, voices were whispers and an air of quiet respect pervaded the rooms. Sure, students searching frantically through piles of books and taking notes on multiple pads of paper had begun to give way to students peering into glowing screens, but the towering shelves of knowledge still guarded the treasures of thought and reason.

He needed reason. He needed objectivity. He was getting too panicked. Not only by the invading memories, but also the never-ending onslaught of insanity mixed with responsibility that was now coming his way. As fast as he made new friends and allies, he was acquiring new enemies with vast resources and far, far greater experience.

He was not trying to make these enemies; it was simply that at every turn, he was apparently stepping on someone else’s toes and somehow forcing them to act irrationally. He was starting to realize that it was not just the wacky wizards of Astlan, like Lenamare, Jehenna and Exador, but everyone. Every single individual he encountered was paranoid and guilty of making crazy assumptions based on very little empirical evidence.

And now, as if that was not bad enough, he was starting to become paranoid himself. Was it contagious? The invading memories, the way events seemed to be driving him in an unknown direction to some unknown end? It seemed like some giant conspiratorial plot. If that type of thinking wasn’t paranoia, then what was? He was searching for explanations that most likely did not exist. Shit happens; that was a fact. However, he was guilty of chiding those around him for looking for connections that did not exist, and at the same time feeling the allure of assuming there was some sort of conspiracy of events — destiny, if you will — that was driving things.

Tom did not believe in destiny. Destiny only existed in storybooks. When real people talked about destiny, they were trying to find meaning in random events, and the choices that the people involved in those events made were based on numerous factors, many of which were likely suspect.