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Music is an integral part of my writing, so I conjured a playlist of some of the songs I’ve listened to while writing the first book. The music roughly aligns with the plot of the book. Please enjoy 🙂

July 3, 1863 (Year 19417, Yava)

Battle of Gettysburg

Major General George Pickett stood at his division’s front, the humid Pennsylvania air thick with pine and black powder. He leveled his brass binoculars down Cemetery Ridge, where blue-clad Yankees skulked among rocky outcrops and churned wheat fields. A hot-air balloon drifted above, spotting for an array of advanced weaponry west of Seminary Ridge, far beyond the Union’s artillery range: M1908 6-inch howitzers. Great blossoms of flame erupted as one-hundred-pound shells launched from four of the guns.

Pickett had given the fire command moments ago to dial in their bombardment. With the ammunition for these behemoths scarce, this was the first test—he didn’t know what to expect—the shells might be duds, or they might overshoot, or worse yet, undershoot into his division’s ranks at the forest’s edge. The South’s victory balanced on the blade’s edge of this moment.

A distant thundercrack. The guns. Whistles overhead. Shells flying. Four massive explosions sundered men, timber, and metal. Panic ensued in the Union ranks as they abandoned their forward positions behind demolished wooden fences.

Pickett’s division raised their hats, cheering.

“By the Lord, what infernal thunder is this?” Pickett draped his binoculars around his neck. It seemed the might of Almighty God had been conjured from above, damning the enemy. Elated but unsure if such divine might should be wielded by mortal men, he gazed at Brigadier General Lewis Armistead, who wore a fine-wool uniform with brass buttons, his well-trimmed black beard flickering in the wind.

Armistead scanned the rising plumes of smoke. “Our Savior Jesus Christ has blessed us with this armament,” he said in a thick southern accent as he removed his hat, stabbing his bayonet through it, lifting it high. “Let’s give them the Lord’s full battery of cold steel!”

At this decree, the rebels hollered their approval.

Armistead’s conviction bolstered Pickett to call in the order. He set the mouthpiece of his field-radio against his jaw. Fingers coaxed a crackle of static as he adjusted a dial for transmission to the balloon, who also held a similar radio to communicate with the battery of guns. “This is General Pickett—do you read me? Over.”

A heartbeat passed.

“Captain Thomas Blackwood here, sir. Loud and clear. We’ve done it! Over.”

Pickett’s grin sharpened as he traced Cemetery Ridge’s silhouette. “Increase angle of attack and fire all guns at that mass of blue behind the stone wall. You may fire when ready. Over.”

“Order received for full bombardment behind the stone wall. It will be relayed. Over.” Static ensued.

Weeks earlier, General Robert E. Lee had confided in his corps commanders that these monstrous guns, along with M1918 assault rifles—and the wireless-telegraphy devices enabling this instant reach—came from a joint effort with a benefactor in Germany: Werner von Siemens, who whispered promises of Southern victory followed by their North American domination. And a long-lasting alliance with the Germans, who planned to conquer all Eurasia.

Like the Second Coming, thunder tore the sky apart; the radio slipped from Pickett’s fingers. Earth quaked beneath his boots as stone and blue uniforms vanished in a mile-long bloom of colossal explosions, the Union line rupturing like parchment torn by steel.

Pickett’s eyes blazed. He rocked back on one heel. “God Almighty—those guns can rend heaven and earth.” He drew his saber and swept his gaze across his division of riflemen. His voice rang out, low and fierce, “Virginians, the Lord fights with us!” Sword held high, his voice boomed, “For home, for your sweethearts and wives, and for old Virginia!” Sword lowered, he cried, “March!”

Drums beat and rebels whooped, drawing their experimental rifles, raising red flags crossed by blue overlaid with thirteen white stars.

A gray sea advanced.

***

Like the cannons, the first test of the new rifles exceeded expectations as the crack of machine-gun fire erupted. Pickett’s division surged forward with Trimble’s men to the north, lead spraying into the fleeing Union ranks, each burst tearing through blue wool and scattering men like grain before the scythe. Bodies pitched into the earth, anguished cries swallowed by the relentless staccato of ruin. In minutes, the Federal line dissolved into a shattered swarm of fugitives fleeing beyond Cemetery Ridge.

Out of ammunition for the new guns, men put them on their backs and drew their muskets, scanning for any Yankees. Only the dead remained.

Pickett halted atop the ridge, the reek of gunpowder and blood heavy on the air. A beep on his radio and he put the mouthpiece to his lips.

Crackling. Then General Lee’s voice, who had stayed at the battery of guns to witness their firepower. “What of their divisions, Pickett? Over.”

Awestruck, Pickett surveyed the field below—a graveyard of mangled Yankees glinting in the afternoon sun. He let the silence stretch before replying, his words cold as the steel in his hand, “General Lee, they have no divisions. Over.”

I cast my corset off, set Soulash down, and jump into the lava-filled pool in the steamy, obsidian rock bathhouse. Pleasure licks my skin with every drop, riding up my tail and wings, as I submerge—just what I need after putting up with the insanity of this Underworld. They need an overlord. I birthed just one year ago, and I already know how to fix everything.

Preview of poker game from Act IV scene from Games of Blood and Shadow, Bane War Vol. II. Not just any poker game mind you. Poker with demons against archdevils.