Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

Sartre once famously said, “Hell is other people.”

Having lived in Hell for almost a year—albeit not as a damned soul—I could now decidedly say that he was on to something with that statement.

And not in the often misunderstood way his words have been interpreted. That is, with a kind of misanthropic lens, seeing other people as inherently bad, and therefore it would be best to avoid them altogether.

Although, to be fair, as a socially awkward introvert, I could probably get on board with that idea.

But I digress. Sartre’s original meaning of hell was more like that we are all defined by the judgment of others, and our perception of how others see us traps us in a way that is torture all on its own. That was terrifyingly correct.

As I stood in Azazel’s entrance hall, ready to play hostess alongside my demon husband, that judgment of others already pressed down on me before our honored guests even arrived. I took a deep breath that did nothing to ease the weight on my chest. My fingers fidgeted with the skirt of my elegant evening dress, a gorgeous thing of sapphire blue dappled with jewels that sparkled in the light of the chandeliers and torches.

In my previous life on Earth—I hadn’t actually died, but I liked to think of my life cut into a before and an after, the dividing factor being that fateful night when Azazel had come to make good on our deal and brought me down here to Hell—I’d never worn anything so finely tailored, so exquisite and probably worth more than I’d made in a year in my last job on Earth.

And yet, since coming to live here, I’d worn dresses like this more times than I could count, and never the same one twice. All given to me by Azazel, of course, gifts not only meant as a loving gesture by my devoted husband, but also to dress the part for the gatherings he held as a high-ranking demon. And there were so many of them. Whoo, boy. These demons liked to meet up way more often than anyone had the right to throw parties. And of course, they all showed up decked out to the nines.

The gowns I wore were an armor of sorts, I understood that much.

Unfortunately, the condescension leveled at me still managed to pierce it.

Azazel, dressed in a black tunic suit with stylized elements of fighting gear, subtly turned to me, his eyes of lightning not missing a thing. “You’re absolutely stunning,” he murmured.

I gave him a small smile, grateful for his attempt to soothe me, yet knowing it wouldn’t help dissolve my anxiety. My mind already played through all the things awaiting me in the next few hours.

His expression becoming solemn, he fully turned to me, framing my face with both hands. The light of the torches glinted off his sable hair as he leaned a bit down to bring himself onto eye level with me. As always, his ethereal beauty struck me hard, his features so so perfectly sculpted, looking at him both arrested my breath and hushed my thoughts with awe.

“Zoe,” he said, his thumbs stroking over my cheeks. “Before Inachiel and his entourage arrive, there’s something you need to know.”

A thread of worry coiled in my stomach. Oh, God. What now?

“Inachiel,” he said quietly, his voice deathly serious, “likes to sleep among a pile of stuffed animals.”

I choked on my own laughter. “What the what?”

He faced the massive doors in front of us again, a smirk playing about his mouth. “Now you know.”

“Right,” I said through barely suppressed giggles. “But how do you know?”

“I have my sources.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Have you been to his bedroom?”

Given that Azazel was a good two thousand five hundred years old, I had a veritable army of his exes to contend with, quite a few of which I’d met during the past couple of months. And yes, I knew they all happened before my time, the past was the past, water under the bridge, no reason for me to be jealous, yada yada yada.

I just liked to know ahead of time if I would encounter one of them, because it was a special kind of feeling shitty when you ran into an ex of your man—demon, whatever—and they knew while you didn’t, and then they let you know.

“No,” Azazel said in answer to my question. “Never was my type.”

“Then how do you know about his stuffies?”

A glint in his eyes. “Mephistopheles.”

I flailed my arms. “And how would he possibly know that?”

“Hellcats are quite resourceful.” He winked at me. “Which makes them excellent spies.”

My eyes widened. “Are you telling me we could be spied on by sneaky felines hiding in the shadows at any time?” I glanced around the murky corners and gloomy ceiling of the entrance hall as if I’d spot a pair of glowing cat eyes right that moment.

“That is why,” he drawled, “I have several hellcats of my own. The more there are, the lower the risk of someone else’s cat sneaking in. They are quite territorial.”

I pursed my lips, a new appreciation for Mephisto’s presence sparking in my mind. I made a mental note to give him some extra loving the next time I saw him. Over the course of the past year, the surly hellcat had gradually allowed me to pet him here and there, and let me tell ya, scratching a winged feline the size of a large bobcat behind his bat ears was quite the experience.

When he purred, the floor vibrated.

A trumpet sounded from outside, and with a start, I turned toward the giant double door just as it opened with a deep groan.

I took a steadying breath, finding my nerves not as wired as they were before.

Bumping my shoulder softly against Azazel’s arm, I sent him a message on the mental pathway we often used to communicate silently. Thank you.

With his masterfully delivered insight about Inachiel’s sleeping habits, he’d effectively dismantled some of my anxiety. Knowing a no doubt embarrassing secret about one of the high-profile guests who would more than likely look down their noses at me—again—would make it easier to hold up my chin in the face of their patronizing attitudes.

Remember, Azazel replied silkily just as our guests began entering through the open door. Stuffies.

I bit my lip to keep from snickering.

Not that I’d fault anyone for indulging in harmless coping mechanisms like wanting to cuddle with stuffed animals. Hell, my go-to comfort habit was to rewatch Disney movies and sing along—torturously out of tune—to the songs. But given the haughty, holier-than-thou way a lot of these demons treated those they considered inferior to them—and that included yours truly—it helped take them down a peg, even if only in my own mind, when I knew they were hiding things that would make them the laughingstock among their peers.

No one was perfect, least of all those snooty jerks.

“Inachiel,” Azazel said as he stepped forward to greet the demon at the front of the group. “I bid you welcome to my home.”

Inachiel shared the good looks of all his brethren, his face a vision of masculine beauty that drew the eye, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, and piercing eyes of emerald green. Long hair of warm brown that would be the envy of many a woman completed the look. Dressed in a decadently embroidered suit reminiscent of Jedi garments—if the Jedi ever indulged in colors other than muted earth tones, that is—he moved with the fluid grace of a large feline, all leashed power and unchallenged confidence.

Honestly, it wasn’t fair. Every single demon I’d met looked like they’d stepped right out of a magazine listing the most stunning models of all time, ramped up by tens. I kept searching for physical flaws every time I encountered one of them, but I had yet to find any. They were impossibly, unearthly beautiful, the entire fucking lot of them.

That alone was enough to make a girl feel out of place.

Just yesterday, I’d discovered a pimple on my face. A pimple! I was almost twenty-six years old, and here I was, breaking out like a damn teenager.

That was particularly hard to contend with when surrounded by flawlessly beautiful demons who looked like they’d been photoshopped.

Azazel and Inachiel were just finishing up their greeting, which meant it was my turn now. Eeek.

You’d think a year of playing high-society lady welcoming all sorts of hoity-toity, gravely important guests would have given me the practice necessary to ace this ish.

Alas.

Enter my socially awkward clumsiness.

As Inachiel turned from Azazel to me, I repeated the phrase over and over in my head. Welcome, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome, it’s a pleasure to—

“And you must be Zoe,” Inachiel said, inclining his head.

“It’s welcome to pleasure you.”

Oh, no.