4. GODRIC

Wrestling with the urge to pelt him with Heavenly fire, I flash my wings away dozens of feet off the ground.

My landing is enough to rock the cliffside and knock his arms down. I’d let gravity do the work, not like when I touch down in front of her …

Stop it.

Stop. It.

Forcibly dragging my thoughts back to the current imp, I incline my head at him. “Azz.”

His lips spread wider as he laughs, a sound of pure delight.

Of course. I used the nickname he tells those he’s about to fuck, or fuck over, to call him by.

He places a manicured hand over his black-silk-clad chest. “Be still my unbeating heart. Oh, how long I waited for you to call me that.” He gives me a sly wink. “But I’m not calling you God.”

“You know full well I’d rather you didn’t call me at all, Asmodeus. But the age of miracles is past.”

“It certainly isn’t, when our every meeting is one.”

I know he’s hankering for an eye-roll. I level him with a steady gaze instead.

He gives a melodramatic sigh. “I didn’t get the chance to say anything at all to you when we last met.”

“Which was a miracle in and of itself. You’re never one to be silent, or to let others commandeer the conversation.”

He nods, slipping into a more lyrical, old-world accent. “I wasn’t feeling my best at the time.”

I stare back at him, painting my face, my very vibe with blankness. I’m not asking what was wrong with him. On one hand, I can’t care less. On the other, I’m not letting him drag me into a heart-to-heart.

We both know neither of us possesses any.

But he doesn’t elaborate, seems to be staring through me and into whatever turmoil he’d been experiencing at the time.

Unwilling to witness this chink in his facade, I break the awkward silence. “It was unexpected, seeing you there.”

His lashes flicker as he focuses back on me. “It served to cement our tantalizingly antagonistic, when-will-they charade.”

“I can assure you no one in Existence is asking that question.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively. “You underestimate the power of our scorching chemistry. If we are to ever be seen together in public, the internet would be abuzz with our smutty fanfics.”

I shrug. “The internet is abuzz with far more outlandish theories and disturbing fixations. But last I heard, you were not welcome in the Celestial Region. It seems you managed to get into their good—graces.”

He widens his eyes in exaggerated shock. “Is that a spicy innuendo? Is the Sword of Heaven being naughty?”

The name feels like a spray of acid over exposed nerves.

Forcing myself not to grit my teeth, I shrug again. “Next time you want to stage an intervention, do it somewhere else. And don’t come with those arseholes.”

This time, he gifts me with a mock-scandalized gasp. “Arseholes? Your people? Your kin?’” He snickers, his accent slipping back into that indeterminate American accent he has adopted as his preferred method of speech. “And here I thought you liked all Angelbloods.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“You just admitted you would have rather I came alone.” He closes the distance between us like a male model prowling down the runway, and throws a heavy arm around my shoulders. “You like me.”

He’s almost as big as I am. But size really doesn’t matter in our world. Only power does. It’s that he’s almost as powerful, and that the nature of his powers is as useful as it is problematic, which matters to me.

He gives me a prodding squeeze. “Admit it, already. C’mon, just once. I promise, it won’t hurt. Not too much.”

I swipe him a sideways glance as I expand my natuq, what she calls my forcefield, knocking his offending arm off. The way I feel now, there’s nothing I’d like more than to tear it off and shove it up his arse.

As the original pervert, he’d probably love that. I settle for grinding down on the urge.

His grin widens as he reads my newfound aggression, feeding off of it, the chaos leech.

Refusing to give him a snack, along with my time, I rein in my response.

He gives me a pout I’m certain has melted the knickers right off countless females, and brought as many males to their knees begging for mercy. Or for the cock he’s so proud of, as if none other exists. Or for both.

As the Prince Demon of Lust, I hear he’s the one who coined the phrase “resistance is futile.”

Not that many beings throughout history tried to resist him, let alone succeeded. It’s almost unheard of for anyone to even want to. It’s why, since the first time we met, it amazed him that I’m not in the least tempted—by him, or by anything else he offers.

My novelty soon became a challenge, and has been stuck at that stage since I once made the mistake of explaining that I am not made of the materials he exists to manipulate. It was too late when I realized that I made myself one of his biggest diversions.

At least one useful thing came out of his irksome interest. It was the reason he found it more palatable to join my “camp.” And I do prefer him on my side.

All his staged silliness aside, he is a formidable demon, one of the most powerful in Existence. In his own person, and in his influence within this world. Deep into human history, Asmodeus has always been there, with his appetites and vision, as one of its main driving forces.

Now it has become Afterworld, in the wake of that damn quasi-Apocalypse, the insidious chaos that aborted war has wrought, is eating at its roots. The rules have changed, and the battlegrounds and stakes are infinitely higher and larger.

It’s been making his role more significant by the day. He’s a vital part of both the vigor and rot that makes this Afterworld go round. Which made it only logical for me to require his alliance.

At least while our agendas happen to align.

As this war unfolds, priorities will no doubt change. I won’t be surprised if we eventually find ourselves on opposite sides.

If and when this happens, even if he pretends otherwise, he’s secure he can take me.

I let him keep the comforting belief.

Now I feel him trying to pummel through my barriers yet again. This time, I let him in, just to show him that it makes no difference. That he would never have an inch of sway over me.

It’s beyond me not to take satisfaction in watching his pupils glowing crimson in eyes as dark and deep as the Pit.

I let him digest the novel frustration of having his powers so effortlessly repulsed, before I exhale. “I have no idea why you’d want me to like you. Liking is overrated, not to mention insipid, and useless. Anyway, I don’t appreciate repeating myself. You begged for my validation before, and I already told you that I find you—not boring.”

He collects himself seamlessly, arching one perfectly-groomed eyebrow at me. “I don’t beg, my darling Sword of Heaven. I receive the pleas. I feed on them.”

“Yes, you’ve been glutting yourself for eons. They must be insubstantial sustenance, if you’re perpetually hungry for more.” I give him a taunting look. Not exactly a snack, but a tasty crumb. I do want to keep him engaged. “But with me, you do beg. Everything you do is begging for my attention, so you should treasure that I find you interesting. Obnoxiously so, but you know it’s far more than I think of almost everyone else.”

He laughs again. It comes easily to him. The ability to enjoy himself. Or he’s practiced it for so long, it looks genuine.

“I’ll take it. For now. It’s a step in the right direction. I’ll get you there, eventually. It’s one of the few bright spots in our dark eternities; looking forward to your eventual capitulation, O Sword of Heaven.”

Suddenly I see myself tearing his head off. He would survive it, but it would be the end of our alliance.

Since I can’t afford that just yet, instead of bathing in his blood and wading in his body parts, I settle for a threat. “Call me that again, and you won’t fly away today.”

He smacks his chest in mock horror. “You mean you don’t bask in your Heaven-given accolades? And you’d shred my wings and leave me in a bloody mess on this cliff, in agony until they heal?”

“Not your wings.”

His hands clap over his crotch in pretend-terror as he grins at me, flashing the too-sharp canines he never Glamors.

Even before the Apocalypse came to Earth, and all the Supernatural races revealed their existence, he never bothered hiding what he is. I wager he’s the one who prompted all the vampiric lore, before it in turn inspired him into spawning that race.

It’s not the first time he makes me wonder how it would feel. To be able to be as he is, free to be as ruthless and deviant as he pleased, without a care for consequences

He reaches out and pinches my chin between fingers that can drill holes in steel. “Such kinky cruelty. I knew you had it in you, my sweet.”

I flick his hand away, inflicting pain this time. Any other being would have had their whole arm along with half their torso hurtling across the ocean. As one of the foremost demons, he is one sturdy Hellspawn.

I hold up a thumb. “First, ‘my sweet’ is an equal offense.” “Second…” A middle finger. “Boundaries. I know you don’t have them, but I do.”

“So uptight, my precious.”

“That’s even worse.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me an appraising glance from my boots to my wind-blown hair.

Sheonce remarked on my father’s long hair, then looked at my cropped one, and sighed. A long, longing sigh.

I haven’t cut it since.

I’m cutting it as soon as this damn encounter is over.

As if he read my mind, Asmodeus shakes his head in pitying disapproval. “Don’t you ever get tired of all the rules you impose on yourself? That forcefield you’ve erected all around you, literally and figuratively?”

“No. I appreciate my rules and my forcefield. You should, too.”

His lips spread again, his eyes filling with Hellfire and lust. “See that? Any other being would launch into a monologue elaborating on how dangerous they would be without their self-enforced shackles. You paint pictures worth a thousand books within a phrase.” He clears his throat, then mimics me. “‘You won’t fly away today,’ ‘Not your wings,’ ‘You should, too.’”

When I refuse to react to his perfect imitation, he chuckles as he slinks around me—and treats me to the novel experience of being slapped soundly on the arse.