“Constantinescu.” Death rustled like autumn leaves on a wooded path. “One of those Romanians. Sixteenth century.”

“Fifteenth,” War corrected; when he spoke now, his usually-booming voice was toneless as a numbers-station announcer’s. “I remember. The 1450s. Yes. We were there. Not in these shapes.”

“We were pure,” Pestilence rattled. “I miss that.”

“I prefer being able to eat Ho Hos,” Famine said. “Now, child of mine, explain.”

“Simone. She’s a succubus. Was. Now she’s a god… in… an alcove… upstairs,” Alec gasped.

War looked at the ruined restaurant and stroked his beard. “She still is. She has only added, not changed. Her essence is. Her name is. Nor has she been blooded in her new shape.”

“A succubus hungers,” Famine said.

“Olympus,” Death mused. “This storm. Her nature merged with his…”

”...and with the name of the wizard who gave her flesh,” War finished.

“I helped. I helped you,” Alec babbled. “I helped, like I’ve always helped you, my lords.”