Chapter One

Vale

T he waitress at Lucky Magic Diner won’t stop undressing me with her eyes. Her gaze burns hotter than fire as it roams over my body, lingering on my face before rising to my horns.

"Ready to order, sweetie?" she purrs, leaning forward on the table, her cleavage popping out of her low-cut uniform.

I fidget in the booth like an idiot, my hand flying to my pathetic excuse for horns before I can stop it. It's a stupid habit I picked up in social situations to try to hide them, but of course, it just makes people stare even more. I drop my hand and fidget with my collar instead, trying to ignore how the thick cable knit sweater suddenly feels suffocating in the stuffy diner, before the waitress mentions how ‘cutesy’ my horns are. Calling a demon ‘cutesy’ is not the compliment humans think it is .

“Not yet, thank you. I’m still waiting for my friend.”

“You’ve been waiting a while. Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” She leans closer, her breasts almost spilling onto the table–food is not the only thing on the menu today.

I force a polite smile, one of the many looks my PR team spent weeks perfecting. “I said I’m fine.” There’s a slight edge to my voice, but that’s not entirely the busty waitress’s fault. The journalist I’m supposed to be meeting with is almost an hour late. Is this what being stood up on a date felt like? I don’t know. I was lucky–or unlucky?–enough to skip that coming-of-age milestone. No one started paying attention to me until after Erin’s team got their hands on me and turned me from zero to hero. By the time operation ‘glow-up’ was complete and women started taking interest in me, I was too busy auditioning for roles to go on any dates.

The waitress pouts but doesn't leave. Instead, she taps the tip of her pen against her lips. "You're not from around here, are you? I'd remember a face like yours."

If only she knew. I resist the urge to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

“Actually, I grew up here,” I say, my eyes darting to the diner's entrance. Where’s that damn journalist? I don’t care if she works for Fae she's efficient. She gets the job done while saving you a few extra minutes in the process.

“Erin, where the hell is this journalist? She’s late.”

“Vale, baby,” Erin's voice oozes through the phone like warm honey, sickeningly sweet. It's her ‘my client is having a hissy fit, and I need to deescalate before he embarrasses me’ voice. I've never had it used on me before, and I don't like it.

“She's an hour late, Erin,” I growl, eyeing the entrance. “Can we reschedule and just do this in LA?”

"Relax. She'll be there soon. I thought you were excited to be back home?"

“I was, until I remembered how suffocating this town is." I tug at my sweater's itchy collar. It’s a piece I borrowed from Erin’s design team and costs more than a month of my rent. Something this expensive should not be this uncomfortable.

The waitress wiggles her fingers at me as she passes, and I lower my voice. “This feels like a waste of time.”

“Valefor.” Erin's tone sharpens.

I sit up straight.

“The next three months will make or break your career. You need to nail this press tour or else.”

“I know, but I was thinking—if we reschedule this in LA, then you and I could finally meet with that screenwriter and read his script for the Quantum Renegade spin-off. He’s got a lot of great ideas for Thraxxius . . .”

“Not this again,” she grumbles. “Vale, we've talked about this. Quantum Renegade is too niche, too nerdy. It was canceled for a reason. And most importantly, it doesn't fit your new image. We need to focus on making you mainstream. Easily digestible to the general public.”

I swallow my disappointment. "Right, of course."

“Remember Griff Castile? No? Exactly. No one does. He was a former client of mine who didn’t take his press tour seriously. He half-assed his way through promotion for what was supposed to be a franchise-launching movie, and guess what? When it premiered, no one cared about him or his stupid superhero movie because no one knew who he was. He screwed up his one shot at stardom. Do you want to know what he does now? He’s the barista at the new Mystic Bean down the street from my office. My assistant picked up my order from him this morning.”

“No half-assing. Only whole-assing,” I mutter.

“Good. Be charming, be sexy, be wholesome. Fuckable, but someone you can still bring home to meet grandma. Got it?”

“Got it. ”

“Nail this, and you're set. Screw it up, and . . . well, I hear they’re hiring at Mystic Bean.”

The line cuts off. I groan, thumping my forehead on the table. My horns clack against the laminate.

“Hey.”

I jerk up to see a slender fae woman, her iridescent wings neatly tucked behind her back, furiously typing on her phone. Her all-black outfit, severe microbangs, and face full of piercings scream ‘not from around here.’

Shit. How much of that did she hear?

I stand, banging my knee on the table. Smooth, Vale. "Hi! You must be Rebecca from Fae & Famous ?" I flash my most popular smile, The Scorcher, and extend my hand. Out of all the looks my PR team tested, this was the one the focus group deemed ‘totally swoony’. We coined it The Scorcher after most of the women ended up using their surveys to fan themselves.

She ignores my smile and eyes my hand like shaking is a new custom she doesn’t understand. “It’s Beck, and I'm not here to interview you for the magazine.”

My smile falters. "You’re . . . not?"

"Nope." She pops the ‘p’. "I’m here to interview you for Fae & Famous’s Nymphstagram page. Don’t you know modern journalism is dead?” She gives me a sardonic smile.

My stomach drops. "Erin told me this was for a feature article. "

Beck snorts. "Yeah, well, you’re not the only one who’s been deceived. I didn’t get my journalism degree at Columbia to run some magazine’s social media account, but here we are.” She pockets her phone. Her wings flutter expectantly behind her. "Ready to go?"

"Go . . . where?"

She looks like she wants to roll her eyes but stops herself. A true professional. "I don’t know. Somewhere with better lighting? I’m supposed to take a couple pictures of you around your old stomping grounds, but let’s make it quick. I want to get out of here as soon as possible–I've got Pilates in LA tomorrow."

As I watch her leave, I take a deep, steadying breath. I only agreed to do this interview in Winter Bliss under the condition we would stay hidden in the back of a restaurant, where the chances of running into a familiar face would be slim to none.

I’ve only been home for a couple of hours, but it feels like I’ve already regressed fifteen years. How am I supposed to be sexy, wholesome, and fuckable if I revert to the anxious, stuttering mess I once was?

But then I remember why I fell in love with theater in the first place–I love pretending to be someone I’m not.

Vale might not be able to do this, but Khastor Duskfyre, the smalltown hunk I’ve been playing for the last year, most certainly can .

I close my eyes and take three sharp inhales through my nose, punctuating each breath by thumping my fist against my chest. As my eyes snap open, I snap my fingers, conjuring twin flames at the tip of my index fingers. With a single, focused breath, I blow out the fire like candles on a birthday cake, completing my ritual to help get me into character.

The couple in the other booth gawks at me. But their judgmental stares slide off me like water off a duck's back as I reach into my wallet and drop a twenty on the table for the waitress. I couldn't care less what they think because Vale—the insecure, awkward demon from Winter Bliss—is on break. Khastor, the smooth-talking, country heartthrob, is running the show now.

I stroll across the restaurant towards Beck waiting impatiently for me outside, I make a mental note to keep her far away from my old school, Infernus Academy. It doesn’t matter how prepared Khastor is, even he can’t edit out that painful scene from my past.

S eeing Winter Bliss after all these years is . . . interesting. Not good, not bad—just a disorienting mix of familiar and foreign.

As I guide Beck down Main Street, the town unfolds before us like a postcard come to life. Quaint brownstone buildings, weathered by centuries, stand proudly against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. The early October air carries a crisp chill, hinting at the harsh winter to come.

There's an undeniable charm to the place I can’t ignore. Not even the million-dollar movie set I spent the last year on could capture this authenticity. Cobblestone streets, lamplights glowing with faerie lights, volcanoes rumbling in the distance–it’s a nostalgia sucker-punch. There's a raw energy here, an undercurrent of ancient power that no amount of Hollywood magic can replicate.

I roll my eyes at the vintage signs plastered across shop windows, obviously marketed towards tourists visiting a demon-rich culture for the first time: "Bargain-worthy pastries–one bite, and you'll be indebted to us forever!" It's cheesy, sure, but I'd be lying if I said those baked goods weren't worth a small life debt.

Beck openly gapes as we pass a demon shopkeeper and a human haggling on the sidewalk, their voices rising over the hustle and bustle of the busy street. I can't help but smirk—you definitely don't see that in LA.

“What’s it like being back home?” Beck asks, pulling out a mini spiral notebook and pen from her purse. “You must be excited to be back now that you’re famous.”

I arch an eyebrow at the pad. I thought this wasn’t an interview? I decide not to ask–social media is something I still struggle with. I have a social media manager who does most of the posting on my account, which I’m grateful for, because sharing personal details of my life online goes against my demon sensibilities. The only online presence I willingly maintain is through a demon-developed app, encrypted with security measures no other being could crack, that lets me keep in touch with close friends. At least there I can be myself without worrying about the whole world watching.

I chuckle, shaking my head at her question. “I’m not famous yet. Let’s wait until the movie comes out before answering that question.” Knowing my history, it’s going to take a lot more than a romantic holiday movie to erase Winter Bliss’s memory of me.

Beck glances up from the notebook. “What about your role in Quantum Renegade? There have to be some Sci Fi fans here.”

I stop in my tracks and angle myself towards her. “How do you know about Quantum?” That’s when I was working under a stage name, where my face and voice were masked by the helmet and body armor I wore on screen. I thought Erin had any connection between Quantum and me scrubbed off the internet, much to my disappointment. As hard as it was to let Thraxxius go, it was non-negotiable in Erin’s contract.

But I know once Erin reads the script and hears what the director has to say, she’ll regret erasing my connection to Quantum.

“I never reveal my sources.” Beck's slow smile sends a chill down my spine. I push forward, leading her towards the heart of Main Street—where you can see the volcano peak from the top step of the library. The perfect place to snap a few pictures and end this nightmare.

"Your new movie, Bedeviled Under the Mistletoe, is set in a town like this, right?" Beck asks, struggling to keep up. "How did growing up here influence your portrayal of Khastor—"

Her voice fades as something catches her eye. My heart sinks as I follow her gaze to the bronze monstrosity in the center of the square: Alaric Infernus, town founder and namesake of my personal hell, Infernus Academy.

"Wait," I start, but Beck's already halfway across the street. Swallowing hard, I follow. The bronze statue looms over us, its smug smirk eerily lifelike. I swear its eyes follow me as I approach.

"Fascinating," Beck murmurs, reading the plaque. She straightens and snaps a few photos with her camera, setting my teeth on edge. I thought she was supposed to take pictures of me?

"The view from the library steps is way better," I say, desperation creeping into my voice. "You can see the volcanic peak and—"

"Watch where you're going!" a stern voice snaps as I back into someone. I spin around, and my blood runs cold.

"Valefor Embergrave," Ambrose Infernus says, his thin lips curling into what I think is supposed to be a smile. "What an . . . unexpected pleasure. "

Though I’ve packed on the muscle since I last saw him, Ambrose still manages to tower over me like a skyscraper with his wiry frame. His long, elegant horns curving from his temples are as intimidating as I remember them. The only thing that’s different is the skin around his eyes, wrinkled and weathered, making his crimson skin look like overripe cherries.

I open my mouth, but my tongue feels like lead.

“Oh, you know each other?” Beck's pen hovers eagerly over her notepad.

“This is m-m-my . . .” I stammer, cursing internally. Years of speech therapy crumbling in an instant.

“Former principal,” Ambrose smoothly interjects. "Ambrose Infernus, at your service."

Beck's eyes light up. “Infernus! Any relation to . . . ?” She gestures at the statue.

“A distant relative,” Ambrose says with false modesty. “Though we try not to make a fuss.”

As they chat, the world around me blurs. The chatter of tourists fades, replaced by echoes of taunting laughter and my own choked sobs. I smell smoke—my lunchbox on fire again, courtesy of the class bullies. Ambrose never stooped to burning my lunch or mocking my stutter himself. No, he was worse. He’d stand by with that smug thin-lipped sneer, watching as the other kids tormented me. ‘Character building’ is what he’d call it when I’d show up in his office, clothes singed and eyes red. “A little adversity will make you a proper demon, Valefor.”

My fists clench, heat building in my palms. Some of his lessons did stick with me, just not the ones he intended.

“Vale was quite the storyteller in his youth,” Ambrose's voice cuts through the fog. “I heard you work in Hollywood now, is that correct?” Beck answers for me with a nod. “I suppose that quality serves him well in his . . . acting career.”

“Really?” Beck leans in. "Do you have any specific memories of him as a kid?”

Ambrose's dark eyes gleam. "Well, there was one time young Valefor wrote a slanderous essay on Alaric here, claiming fiction as fact. When we tried to check his sources, the books you had cited just disappeared into thin air, didn’t they? He’s lucky I didn’t kick him out of the academy.”

“Really,” Beck murmurs, scribbling furiously. I barely register the sound of her pen over the pounding in my ears. “Vale, care to comment?”

I force a practiced smile. “That’s not how I remember it,” I say lightly, but my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.

“See what I mean? Always twisting the truth.”

“Why are you writing this down? Nymphastagram isn’t going to care about this.” I lean towards Beck, watching her scribble away. I squint at the page, but she angles the pad away before I can read. “I thought we were going to snap some photos and be done?”

“This is so much bigger than Nymphastagram. My editor is going to eat this up. Maybe you’ll get your magazine spread after all.” She elbows me playfully with a wink.

“I heard your old friend Ramonarex is back in town. Has he summoned you and Ignatia back to complete the band of misfits? A troublemakers reunion.” Ambrose interjects with a snort.

My fake smile falters. Iggy and Rex? Here? A mix of longing and panic washes over me, but I know it’s not true. Ambrose is just playing mind games with me, just like he used to when I was a student. Iggy and Rex were the only ones who protected me at school, and standing in Ambrose’s presence without them makes me feel like the stuttering crybaby I once was.

“Don't,” I growl, surprising myself with the venom in my voice.

Ambrose raises an eyebrow. “My, still so defensive. Though I suppose some things never change.” His eyes flick to my horns. "Well, almost never. Glad to see you finally hit your growth spurt. It’s a shame your horns missed the memo.”

The heat in my palms intensifies. I smell smoke, stronger now.

“Vale?” Beck prompts. “Any response to—” She yelps, cutting herself off. “My notebook!”

Flames lick at the edges of her notepad. As she frantically pats them out, I turn and walk away, my legs moving of their own accord.

“Vale! Wait!” Beck calls after me.

As I round the corner, I catch one last glimpse of Beck, frantically stomping out the smoldering remains of her precious notebook, while Ambrose stands there, watching me closely with a satisfied smirk.

Once a troublemaker, always a troublemaker.

As I walk down the path, not caring where I’m headed as long as there’s a never-ending river of liquor, my carefully constructed image crumbles with each step. As Winter Bliss falls away behind me, one thought echoes in my mind: I don’t belong here anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.