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The bright blue energy field faded away and the searing heat hit him as is appropriate for stepping into the furnace of Hell itself. Everything had a shimmery veil in front of it - the pavements, the buildings, the many shops and leisure venues.

This was because of the fire.

Now, it is perfectly understandable that there should be fire in Hell; that's Hell's thing. But the fire should be in the Great Pit where the anguished souls wail and burn and all that fun stuff.

It shouldn't be raging through the Hell Afterlife Services building. That was where the offices were. His office. Where the boardroom was. Where his executive Director's chair was. Where Peregrin would have gone if it wasn't burning up into ash right now.

Sweat sprung upon his brow, sweat not only from his location, but sweat from the hundred awful possibilities that could have led to today's situation.

Cinders drifted, glowing among the plumes of thick, choking smoke. The artificial sky was dark. It was a city skyline silhouette from an apocalypse movie.

Around him, demons and minions and imps chittered and chattered and pointed. Succubi huddled and whispered in high-pitched tones.

"You!" Peregrin barked at the group, "tell me what happened."

One of the scaly-skinned lovelies began to give him a rude sneer until her emerald eyes fell upon his cloak and recognised the tell-tale Director emblem of twisted horns upon the top pocket. "Dunno," she shrugged.

Her purple-haired pal was more chatty; "we had a power outage!" she squeaked. "Then the power came back on and FWOOMF!" she nodded at the ongoing blaze.

He remembered the panicked text messages that had flashed on the Nokia's screen. He hadn't had chance to read them before Lucifer himself had summoned him here. He quickly went through them. He'd missed a lot of events, it seemed. That was what happened when you spent as much time in the mortal world as you could get away with.

He summoned his imp secretary with a sharp click of his thin grey fingers. Information was vital at this moment in time; if he strolled into the devil's presence without it, things could go very sour very quickly.

Especially if his son was involved in all this drama.

Merkren appeared in a tiny shower of sparks, took one look at his overseer and began pulling at his wide, red droopy ears with a keening whine, "my sir, I promises I have been keeping up with the paperwork, my sir, so many paperwork..."

The small, hunchbacked, hairless rabbit-like creature was a lying little toerag. Everyone in the Underworld was.

"I don't care about the paperwork right now, Merk, I need information."

A forked tongue darted out and he licked his thin lips, looking relieved at this lack of interest in his workload. "Information my sir?" the fire reflected in his wide eyes.

"Quickly!" Peregrin growled.

"There was many alarms, my sir, many talk of natural magic."

"Shit."

"Director Matlock was took to basement, my sir, was caught in thievery," the imp's face showed pleasure in this.

"And Anar?"

The imp shuffled on long feet. "Much paperwork, my sir, many busy..."

With a deep breath, Peregrin launched at the ancient clerk, grasping him by skinny arms, twisting his bendy body until it began to crackle, "I could be in the firing line right now, you little shit, tell me about my son!"

"Administrator, my sir! That is all I know! Never home! Never visit! Never see! Many huuuurt - my sir- many huuuuurt!"

"You don't know the meaning of many hurt," the aardvark rasped as he dropped him to the dusty ground with a thump.

His head swam. His unbeating heart ached. Despite himself, he choked with a fear he'd been pushing back to the far edge of his consciousness for the past thirteen years.

Lucifer was waiting. For answers. Answers that Peregrin did not want to give.

He had done everything he could to keep his eldest child suppressed. He'd terrorised the whelp with an iron fist and heavy threats. He'd made sure that Anar had no other options available to him and a career in the Underworld was the only choice open. He'd secured his stupid job in administration that was embarrassing and beneath him but was what he had wanted. Peregrin had handed over the keys to the gated residence on the Rise above the river Styx - des res for a demon - he'd even secretly signed off all the required forms for that bloody Ferrari that his son was so proud of. The one Mortimer had happily handed over to the boy because he liked him so fucking much. Then, as a last inspired motion, he had pulled the metaphorical chains tighter by extending Anar's work contract to twenty years. He'd have made it more if he could. He'd have him bound here forever.

All of that hard work had been for nothing.

The return of the Ferrari could only mean one thing.

Anar had escaped his contract.

His son. A director's son. Had escaped Hell. Had done the impossible. Not only that, he had used his natural magic while doing so.

Peregrin may be able to protect his child from the wrath of Hell for a temporary time. It just might be possible.

But the Council of Sorcerer's? That was a whole different story.