Chapter 18

Chapter 18

“Zoe.”

I paused in pulling on the dress Azazel had gifted me for the occasion—a luminous dream of intricate, red lacework across the sheer bodice and long sleeves, ending in a whirl of diaphanous fabric for the ankle-length skirt, the color of which segued from cream to blood red at the very bottom. The dress was see-through again in most places, with high slits among the skirt to give teasing glimpses of my legs up to my upper thigh when I walked.

I’d never in my life worn something so exquisite and fragile and absolutely stunning.

Turning to Azazel, who stood in front of the windows to the balcony outside his bedroom, I raised a brow in question. The look on his face gave me pause.

Eyes shuttered, he came closer, moved around me and worked the buttons on my back. “When we go to his court tonight,” he began, his voice holding a rough edge, “I will have to be…different.”

I frowned, but before I could interject with a question, he continued.

“As will you. The deal we made when Zaquiel came to visit…it still stands.”

I opened my mouth, closed it. Something heavy sank into my bones, chilling me. “I’ll be your pet.” I swallowed, nodded. “Of course.”

His hand paused on the last button. A gentle, tender caress of his finger over my nape, then his touch fell away. A second later, he reached around me with both hands, the sparkling object he was holding drawing my gaze.

In the mirror, I watched as he laid the choker necklace in place. Adorned with rubies and diamonds, the band fit snugly around my throat.

My chest constricted. Funny, wasn’t it, that the first piece of jewelry he gave me was a collar…and not a ring.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. The churning in my stomach told me whatever it was, though, it didn’t chime with what I got.

Foolish, I berated myself. Don’t be foolish. After all, this was never meant to be real.

Right?

His gaze held storms as I met his eyes in the mirror.

“Let’s play,” I said with a smile.

And because I’d practiced my shielding in the past two weeks, he caught none of the thoughts flitting through my mind, none of the wondering how—despite my better senses—that pain in my heart felt real enough.

* * *

We flewover the heavily patrolled border to Lucifer’s territory, the sentries letting us pass only after checking Azazel’s invitation. The same dreary, barren landscape shrouded in everlasting twilight gloom spread out beneath us, lit here and there by random fires. Howls and screeches rang in the air, and every now and then the haunting wails of the tortured souls reached over the rushing of the wind and the other horrifying sounds.

I shivered despite the searing heat of Hell.

Next to us flew Azmodea and Mammon. Azazel’s nephew had casually strolled in at one of our last planning sessions, and when I asked Mammon whether he was joining our little soul heist, he said, “Oh no. I’m not suicidal. I’m just tagging along for the drama.” A rap on the back of his head delivered by a scowling Azmodea had him throw up his hands. “Just kidding, just kidding! Of course I’ll help.”

As we now neared a cluster of lights in the distance, more and more shapes emerged from the semi-darkness around us. Demons, on their way to the festival, like us. I’d never get used to seeing winged humanoid beings just matter-of-factly populating the sky.

We touched down in what appeared to be a courtyard as wide as a football field, flames reflecting off the pristine white stone of the ground and buildings. I glanced down as my feet hit the floor—not a speck of ash on the smooth-as-glass stone. I briefly wondered at what kind of army of servants it must cost to keep the courtyard this clean. A show of wealth, of course. The ruler of Hell sure had to flaunt it.

Azmodea landed next to us and adjusted the glittery monstrosity of a dress she was wearing. An enormous petticoat flared the skirt out to a distance that would make it hard for anyone to even shake her hand, reminiscent of the fashion extremes of centuries past. Layers and layers of ruffled fabric bunched along and over the buffed-up skirt, glinting and sparkling pink in the light of the torches. The bodice was as tight as the skirt was loose, no doubt cinched with a corset around her waist. Embroidery adorned the fabric above the skirt, with sequins catching the firelight much as the glitter below did.

Not for the first time, I wondered if she wore this fashion abomination in the attempt to get a rise out of Lucifer. Or at least cause him eye strain. I know I couldn’t look at her for more than five seconds without getting a headache.

When I asked her why in Hell she’d chosen this dress, she just smiled and winked.

It probably wasn’t to hide any weapons because we all carried some openly. Azazel had two swords strapped to his back, Mammon sported daggers in sheaths on his thighs, Azmodea had what looked like miniature crossbows fastened to her arms, and even I was allowed a weapon—the dagger Azazel had gifted me dangled from a decorative, thin belt at my waist.

I’d been visibly puzzled why Lucifer would permit the festival guests to come armed, thinking of the tight security an event like this would entail in most human societies. Demon mentality, it seemed, worked a bit different. According to Azazel, if Lucifer required visitors to come unarmed, it would be a sign of weakness on his part. As if he believed he wouldn’t be able to fight off an attack, either by his own power alone, or with the help of his loyal guard.

Apparently, such an attack happened every so often, the Fall Festival being a notorious opportunity for it, and each time Lucifer squashed the uprising with brutal efficiency. From Azazel and Azmodea’s accounts, it sounded like he took great pleasure in it too.

With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I followed Azazel and the others into the entrance hall. Each step took me further into Lucifer’s home, our upcoming meeting looming ahead of us like a storm front. My heart thundered in my chest, nerves making me jittery. I tried to slow my breathing and focused on my surroundings.

The huge entrance hall stretched out for what seemed like hundreds of yards, the high ceiling held up by pillars that rose out of the landscape of pools and fountains. When Mephistopheles mentioned Lucifer had a water garden of preposterous proportions, he hadn’t been kidding. This wasn’t just a garden, it was a water park.

Reflecting pools hewn from marble, waterfalls tumbling over jeweled rock formations, water spouting from exquisitely carved fountains in a mix of natural-seeming shapes and sophisticated architecture that should have looked incongruous but somehow made beautiful sense. Dozens of paths diverged from the main walkway.

Whoever wanted an audience with Lucifer had to come through this ostentatious show of wealth in Hell’s arid climate.

But the symbolism didn’t end there.

Where the water garden impressed with beauty and elegance and the explicit message of riches and resources, the hallway beyond served to cow and subjugate.

It took me a moment to realize the extent of it, because at first my gaze was inexorably drawn to the wings on the walls. I suffered a momentary flashback to Azazel’s own collection in his entrance hall, but if that one made my hindbrain wake up and take the wheel, Lucifer’s macabre menagerie of severed wings caused my entire brain to crash with screeching tires.

The hallway was as wide as Azazel’s entrance hall, its walls as high, only it stretched on and on ahead of us, and along the entire length—and up toward the ceiling—wings plastered the walls in such tight formation that the stone behind them wasn’t visible anymore. A gruesome, feathered wallpaper.

Movement on the floor made me tear my gaze away from the proof of the hundreds—thousands?—of foes Lucifer vanquished.

“Don’t look down,” Azazel murmured and reached out to lift my chin as I dipped my head.

Too late.

My steps faltered. Nausea exploded in my stomach. “Are those—”

Azazel laid a hand on my lower back, gently urged me onward. “Just block it out.”

Bile rose up to my throat. “But—what—”

“The most egregious offenses against his rule, Lucifer punishes with imprisonment here.”

“In the floor?” I squeaked.

“So all who wish to speak with him are reminded of the consequences of crossing him.”

As far as psychologically targeted cruelty went, this was impressive, if nauseating. The ones being punished had to watch, helplessly and in pain, as visitors walked along right over them, and the ones seeking audience with Lucifer got a vivid impression of why they should behave when they faced the lord of Hell.

“But—” I hyperventilated, flailed toward the ground without looking down again. “The rats?”

I covered my mouth with my hand, barely keeping the contents of my stomach from decorating the floor.

The glass floor, directly underneath which one demon after another lay chained to a subfloor—alive—to be snacked on by rodents vaguely reminiscent of rats. At least the glass was thick enough to muffle the screams.

“We are immortal, and many of us are jaded by time and near invincibility,” he said, the soothing tone of his voice at odds with his words. “For punishment to be effective, it has to be brutal and merciless. You know the Greek myth of Prometheus having his liver picked over and over by the eagle? Same principle.”

“It doesn’t seem to be effective, though,” I whispered. “As a deterrent, I mean. If it were, there wouldn’t be any attacks on Lucifer ever.”

Azazel considered that. “Who’s to say,” he eventually replied, “how many more attacks there’d be if he showed more leniency?”

I grimaced.

It took all my concentration not to look down again and to keep walking, knowing dozens of pairs of eyes followed my steps, no doubt imploring us to help. In front of us and behind us, more demons strolled down the hallway toward the throne room. In stark contrast to the weighted silence among our little group, the other revelers chatted and laughed, unaffected by the plight of the demons trapped beneath their feet. I wondered whether they truly didn’t care, or if maybe their nonchalant gaiety was a psychological coping mechanism.

Finally, we emerged into a grand lobby of sorts, with curving staircases on the sides leading to the upper levels of the palace, and a set of giant double doors in the opposite wall—thrown open to reveal the throne room beyond. More demons milled about here in the lobby, standing in groups and talking, all of them clad in either impressively posh combat gear—more ceremonial than practical, I guessed—or elegant party attire in all sorts of different styles. In addition to western outfits like pants/shirts combo and dresses, I recognized several traditional clothes from cultures all over the world—saris, kaftans, cheongsams, kimonos… The garments were as diverse as the demons wearing them.

Music drifted out of the open doors to the throne room, and what I could see over the heads of the demons in the lobby hinted at yet another huge hall. So far, everything in Lucifer’s palace was of epic proportions… It spoke to my dire state of mind that I didn’t feel like making a joke about how someone sure seemed in need of compensating.

As we passed the groups of demons on our way to the throne room, whispers followed us, my skin prickling with the awareness of dozens of pairs of eyes riveting on us. When I dared a glance at some of the onlookers, the sneers on too many of their faces tightened my stomach. Not for myself, but because the contempt and derision was clearly leveled at Azazel.

These were the ones who’d been there, thousands of years ago, when Azazel was a boy who’d just lost his father and his mother in short succession and found himself friendless and bullied at this very court. They’d hurt him then, gouged wounds into his psyche that cut deep, still bled today.

Outwardly, Azazel looked as coldly calm as a wintry mountain lake, his stride confident. His energy, too, wove around him in almost bored nonchalance, and if it weren’t for the faint touch of the bond between us, I’d have believed his facade.

As it was, I felt the tight coil of his power as an echo inside me. It vibrated with tension, a bite of feral aggression to it.

I’d felt that kind of energy before. When I was fourteen, my mom and I had gone to the animal shelter to get a cat. I’d begged to have one for years, and after the divorce, even though money was tight, my mom granted me my wish, probably hoping for some emotional support animal effect.

On the way to the cat cages, we passed the dog kennels, and there was this one pit bull wedged into the farthest corner of his kennel, currently snarling with bared fangs at the volunteer who tried to socialize him. I stopped and stared, and the lady escorting us to the cats explained that the pittie had been used as bait in illegal fighting, his muzzle taped shut so he wouldn’t be able to defend himself. He didn’t do well with other dogs, and his trust in humans had been beaten out of him as well.

And as ferocious as he now seemed, with his cropped ears flattened on his head, his teeth flashing and saliva dropping from his muzzle as he loosed growl after growl that raised the hairs on my neck, he was scared and hurt more than anything, the lady explained.

What I’d felt that day from the pit bull, it tasted painfully similar to the buzzing echo of Azazel’s energy now. Yet again, it drove home how much it must cost him to come here.

Ire rose inside my veins as I watched those coldly contemptuous faces. They’d taunted and jeered at a boy already broken by tragedy, a child, and looking at them now, I knew they’d do the same all over again. Thousands of years, and they hadn’t developed a scrap of empathy, it seemed.

I get it now, I mentally pushed to Azazel.

What?

How tearing wings off a body might be very satisfactory indeed.

The tiniest twitch upward at the corners his mouth. Extremely.

We finally strode into the throne room, through those doors large enough for a jet to pass through. The cavernous hall beyond was hewn from glittering stone, upheld throughout by countless huge pillars, each with intricate carvings depicting scenes of battle and revelry. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting patterns of light and shadow over the crowd.

And what a crowd.

The room was teeming with demons, dancing in groups and single to the hypnotizing rhythm of the music. Bodies writhed and undulated, their movements as enthralling as the beat of the drums. I squinted, drew back and flushed with heat.

Um, yeah, they were doing a lot more than just dancing.

Azazel had been right when he’d laughed at my thinking the meeting with Zaquiel was an orgy. That had been tame.

There was nothing tame about this. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, moans rose above the notes of the music, and everywhere I looked I spotted at least one pair—or threesome, or foursome, or...—going at it right in the open. Roaming hands, exposed flesh, lips on skin, teeth skimming nipples, thrusting hips…

The onslaught of impressions left me reeling. I was surprised there wasn’t steam rising from my skin, what with how on fire I felt.

Azazel’s hand on my nape made me jump.

You okay?

Sure, sure, yeah.If I could have mentally cleared my throat, I would have. So this is what you guys get up to on the weekends.

His mental voice held a hint of amusement. Hell is a shithole and immortality holds endless ennui. We take pleasure where we can find it.

Not judging,I replied. Just… I tilted my head as I studied one particularly enthusiastic couple. …taking notes.

He laughed under his breath, and the sound caused a flutter of warmth in my chest. I did that—made the tight coil inside him loosen for a moment, made him think of something else, something better than the strain of coming here, or the anxiety about what awaited us.

All too soon, however, that brief moment of levity evaporated. The crowd parted in front of us…to reveal a large dais with two lounge-like thrones on it, framed by a few settees on either side. Guards in black-and-gold livery surrounded the dais. Demons sprawled on those sofas, and on the two thrones sat…what I assumed must be Lucifer and Lilith. If the fact that her seat was of the same size as his was any indication, she really did rule as his equal then.

The echo of Azazel’s energy in me snapped taut, and I quickly studied the two figures as we approached before I’d have to lower my gaze. The most surprising aspect about Lucifer was probably that his hair was blond. I had to blink several times to make sure I saw right. For some reason, I’d always imagined him dark-haired, maybe due to how he was preferably pictured in popular media? In any case, despite my personal confusion, it did fit with the rest of his appearance.

Like the most exquisite masterpiece of one of the great sculptors, his features seemed so finely hewn as to appear otherworldly, skin like white marble with a silver sheen, his beauty so striking that it hurt to look at him directly, as if gazing into a small sun. I had to avert my eyes after a few seconds. The brightest star in Heaven, indeed.

He lounged on his throne with the careless arrogance of the god-kings of old, clad in a black tunic and pants embroidered with stylized golden stars along the seams. A dark crown sat upon his head, the light of the chandeliers glinting off the slate black metal.

My eyes tracked to Lilith on the throne next to him. Where Lucifer seemed ethereal, she was all earthen beauty, glowing with an inner fire that shone from her features, flared with every movement. The flickering candles painted her light brown skin in hues of gold and amber, kissed the curls of her loose, black hair with a warm shine and sparked off the golden headdress she wore like a crown. A necklace of emeralds draped down toward the deep cut of her dress, the green of the jewels echoed by the silken fabric. Several gold bracelets in varying thickness adorned her wrists, her elegant fingers decorated with rings.

Those few seconds of openly taking in the ruling couple of Hell was all I got before we’d reached the space in front of the dais, and I dutifully lowered my gaze in deference. I barely saw the furtive movement of Azmodea and Mammon vanishing in the crowd.

Kneel, Azazel spoke inside my head.

I swiftly knelt just as Azazel went down on one knee as well and bowed his head. The cold of the stone seeped into my knees and shins.

“Your Grace,” Azazel said in greeting.

While the music played on, and the sounds of the revelry continued to echo in the hall, the immediate crowd around us hushed.

“The prodigal grandson returns.” Lucifer’s voice held a melodious quality, enthralling in its purity and cadence. It wrapped around me like a soft caress. He tsked. “Rise.”

Not you, Azazel warned me. Stay on your knees, eyes down.

I obeyed, forcing my hands not to shake. I would not fuck this up for Azazel by blundering. For once in my life, I silently prayed, please, let my social awkwardness not trip me up.

“It’s good to see you again,” Lucifer said. “It has been far too long since you last graced my hall with your presence.”

I could only imagine the things Azazel would love to spit at him in response, but of course he bit his tongue, too smart to antagonize someone more powerful who was already out for his blood. Figuratively, I hoped. I didn’t want to contemplate the consequences if Lucifer decided to upgrade from emotional abuse to physical maiming.

“Thank you for your invitation, Your Grace,” was all that Azazel replied, with less hostility than I would have been able to muster.

“Hmm.”

It was hard to keep my gaze glued to the ground during the ensuing pause. I so wanted to watch Lucifer’s features for supplemental info about his mood and intentions, but to look directly at him would be an insult we couldn’t afford. So I took great care to study the gold veins in the black marble of the floor.

“And you brought such a nice surprise,” Lucifer continued. “Your lovely pet. I must admit I was struck by curiosity when I heard you had a human living in your home. Such an unusual arrangement. Most debts are paid postmortem. We reap souls, after all, not bodies.” His chuckle was echoed by the demons on the dais with him.

It spoke to Azazel’s prudence that he remained silent—because for all of Lucifer’s insinuations, he hadn’t actually asked a question. Why should Azazel defend himself without prompting?

“Let me see how well she is trained.”

Tension grabbed me like an iron fist. I studied the gold veins hard.

“Your Grace?”

“I want to take a good look at her. Tell her to come to me.”

I barely kept my face from showing my confusion. Why not just give me the order himself?

Azazel’s hand on my head, warm and gentle. “Stand,” he said quietly. “Go to His Grace.”

I was just flexing my thigh muscles to rise when Lucifer clucked his tongue.

“I didn’t say she could walk.”

Low laughter, followed by a beat of silence. My heart thundered so loud I could have sworn every demon in the hall must have heard it.

“Make her crawl,” Lucifer purred.

The ensuing pause dragged on long enough to cause me worry. Azazel’s fingers on my head twitched, the beacon of his energy inside me tasting acidic.

Zoe, he said in my mind, his mental voice rough. You don’t need—

It’s okay, I replied. I’ll do it.

He walked back into his nightmare for me. If my crawling across the floor would save his face, I’d fucking do it.

“Crawl,” he ordered, followed by a mentally whispered, I’m sorry.

Swallowing against the sting of my pride, I lowered my trembling hands to the floor, and crawled. The high slits in my dress allowed me to move my knees forward without tripping on the fabric. With the dais a good ten feet away, it took me maybe twenty seconds to cross the distance.

It felt like an hour.

The attention of the scores of demons present weighed heavily on me. Amused murmurs and sneering sounds followed my progress, the kind of sounds you’d make to call an animal.

A pet.

By the time I reached the steps of the dais, my entire upper body burned with embarrassment. Underneath that, however, boiled my notorious spite, so welcome now in this moment. Because it helped me not to show any of the mortification I felt when I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and inclined my head toward Lucifer. He wanted to embarrass me, hm? He wouldn’t get to see even an iota of my discomfort.

I bolstered my inner defenses with the grim pleasure of the knowledge that we’d soon be stealing a soul right out of his fucking palace with him none the wiser, so whatever sick entertainment he demanded before then didn’t matter. Getting my father out did. Robbing Lucifer in the process was icing on the cake.

“Come closer.”

I saw Lucifer beckon me out of the periphery of my eyes. Tentatively, I crawled up the stairs onto the dais, halting—on my knees still—right in front of his throne. His boots and lower legs filled my vision.

“Good girl,” Lucifer crooned.

I wanted to throat-punch him. I’m going to steal from you, I thought with smug satisfaction, making sure my mental shields were adamantine in strength.

“Now,” he went on, leaning forward and lifting my head with one finger under my chin, “let me look at you.”

I was smarter than to meet his gaze. Not just out of required deference, but for safety reasons too. Who knew what kind of power he’d have over me with direct eye contact?

I focused on his nose instead. Straight, aristocratic, a masterpiece of nasal form. As far as schnozzles went, his was beyond reproach, truly worthy of—

“Quite ordinary,” Lucifer said, rudely interrupting my anxious mental rambling.

Ordinary?Oh, that motherf—

“But maybe there’s some hidden charm?” he went on, blissfully unaware of the names I called him in the privacy of my mind. “Some quirk beyond your unremarkable appearance that would move Azazel to bring you here before your time?”

Unremarkable. I wanted to mark his face with my nails.

“Ah, but it would be remiss of me not to offer you refreshments first.” He scratched underneath my chin with his finger, and I suppressed a repulsive shudder. “Here, pet.”

A cup appeared in his other hand, and he brought it to my mouth. I recoiled at the golden liquid inside. Amrit.

No, no, no. Azazel had warned me about this. The memory of his meeting with Zaquiel flashed in my mind, the cautionary way he talked about amrit, how it did unpredictable things to humans.

I clamped my lips shut tight.

“Drink,” Lucifer ordered, his voice silk wrapped over steel.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. There was no polite way to refuse a direct order from the devil. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

“Your Grace,” Azazel quietly said from behind me, “she shouldn’t—”

“Do not,” Lucifer cut him off with soft menace, “spurn the hospitality of my hall.”

I could feel Azazel’s desperate frustration roll against my back like a wave crashing onto a cliff.

“Drink,” Lucifer said again, and set the cup against my lips.

To refuse would be an affront, and I’d sworn not to fuck this up.

Chest tight with foreboding, I opened my mouth and drank.