Chapter 1
ONE
LEVIATHAN
TWENTY YEARS LATER
There’s a buzzing in the air.
It’s not unusual for a sick and twisted tension to follow me wherever I go, especially when I’m with my brothers. We carry the authority, the fear, the knowledge that at any moment we might snap, some of us more easily than others.
As we march down the wide sidewalk, flanking each other, everyone drops their head in a gesture of respect. Respect or fear, it’s irrelevant to me. I don’t crave their submission or revel in their terror. They’re simply here. Sometimes for our amusement and sometimes to our detriment.
We’re the Princes of Hell. The demons that lurk in the shadows of the prissy and high end community we reside in. The monsters, ready to be unleashed at any moment on the people of this rich Alaskan island. Along with everyone else, we bend to the will of our master, his loyal weapons.
Master has done an excellent job at curating the very best of his demons. What started off as an aimless group of lost and wicked children has now turned into so much more. He brought us together—each at a different point in our lives—to be his willing soldiers.
As the oldest and the first of his found children, Mammon leads us, contains us, and keeps our darkest desires at bay, even though we all know he himself carries the dreams of his worst nightmares. He walks ahead of us, the sea of members parting for him, because they know with a snap of his wrist, and at his command, we can be released from our chains.
Asmodeus walks beside him, head hung down as he doodles in his sketchbook, oblivious to the way the women moon at him as he passes. He’s the most beautiful, ethereal in his looks, but far too deadly to be anywhere near. He might be quiet, he might be reserved, but he revels in shedding blood and hearing the screams of his innocent victims.
“Think he’s ever fucked anyone?” Beelzebub asks me, not giving a shit that the women have heard him and flush at his crass words. He acts before he thinks, led only by his sexual deviancies which he indulges any chance he gets.
Belphegor snorts beside him. “Are you interested, Bel? Want some hot Asi dick?”
Bel licks his lips and eyes Gore as if they haven’t just fucked twenty minutes ago. “Wanna get on your knees for me, baby?”
Gore flushes but rolls his eyes, looking at me. “Well, Levi? What do you think?”
“I think it’s none of your fucking business,” Asi mumbles under his breath, continuing away with his drawing. “Only in your nightmares, Bel.”
I sigh. Sex has never interested me. It so… burdensome. I’ve had it, just to say I have, but it’s never been anything special. My proclivities don’t gravitate toward sexual pleasure—or sexual torture.
I just like the feel of blood on my hands. The sweet metallic tang that fills the air.
I live for it.
We all enter our home, the largest mansion in the complex, and even though there’s plenty of cookie cutter homes in this gated community for us to have our own place, we like to stay together. All of us are paranoid for one reason or another—a touch co-dependent as well—so the security of staying within the pack matters more than our personal space.
Looking in from the outside, our mansion looks like a typical upper-middle class dwelling. There’s stupid art on the walls that don’t mean shit, a plant in the corner that none of us take care of, and furniture that’s boring as fuck. But we need to keep up appearances. To the rest of this island, we’re just rich fucks that are selective about who lives in this gated community that’s too exclusive for the average person. In reality, it’s a breeding ground for Master’s followers, a place he can control us without prying eyes.
He likes to work in the shadows; that’s how he establishes control, and the politicians, judges, and other influential fucks cave to his wishes.
“Do we have anything to eat?” Gore asks, groaning dramatically as he plops down by the dining table. “Is Gerald here?”
“Gerald is otherwise occupied…” Asi mumbles, sitting beside him. He’s humming under his breath which is rare, a sign that he’s in a particularly good mood, and that can only mean one thing.
Gerald is going to be… indisposed for a while.
“What did he do?” Bel asks, rifling through our fridge. “Why the fuck do we have asparagus? I don’t want my piss to smell rancid.”
Mammon snatches the asparagus from his hands. “Does Master need a reason?”
No, he doesn’t. If Gerald, our housekeeper, did anything to fall into his bad graces then that’s something we have to respect. I’m sure what he did was only the smallest of slights, but Master needs to reinforce his control. I wouldn’t be surprised if at the stroke of midnight, Gerald is paraded around to show just what happens when you fall out of line.
“I can take care of dinner,” Mammon says, reaching for a baking pan.
I smirk, ever the mother hen, even if he hates to admit it. He’s the oldest of us—only older than me by five years—so he was charged in raising us to Master’s specifications. He made sure Gore never quite got a grasp on reality, assured that Bel developed his dark sexual fetishes, turned Asi into a torture-loving fuck, and secured my position as a blood-thirsty killer.
Not that I mind. I’m on a short leash, and that’s good, because I don’t think I’d ever be able to be myself without burning the world down.
Because I want to see the putrid and the golden suffer.
Mammon raises a brow at me as he starts preparing the chicken. “Good?”
I nod, even though I itch beneath my skin. “Always.”
Give me another one. Give me a soul. Give me someone’s demise.
I feel that swell of indulgent horror washing over me, unstoppable in its quest to wholly consume me. I rise, not bothering with any pleasantries, and head to my room, only stopping to nod when Mammon tells me dinner will be ready soon.
In my room, I find my escape. Unlike the rest of the house, our rooms are where we let our most secret compulsions run free. Bel’s room is a fucking BDSM torture chamber, Gore’s barely in his since he spends so much time with Bel, and I’ve never been into Mammon or Asi’s rooms, but I’m sure it showcases how fucked up they really are, despite the fact that they’re the best at hiding it.
I sigh deeply, rolling my forehead against my wall of pain, eyes darting between all the photographs here. I always keep souvenirs, mementos of my favorite kills. The mutilation, the blood, the way their eyes are dark with death. Life snuffed out. A skull in the corner, a few fingers here and there, and I’m in what can be as close to my happy place as possible.
Do I even feel happiness?
I don’t know. I have emotions… I think. I don’t pay attention to them if I do. Fear, hatred, joy, pleasure, it’s all wrapped up in a twisted sick bow dripping with the venom in my black heart. I have no need for any of those, not when my primal desires drive my existence.
But the urge to feel something sometimes rises. Doubts I feel about who I am and the monster I was bred to be. I lift my sleeves and finger the scars that litter my arms, moaning in the closest thing to erotic pleasure I feel. Even my own blood satisfies my cravings but only to a certain extent.
Master, give me another one .
No, he chooses. He decides. No unnecessary killing because that would draw attention to us.
I groan in defeat, knocking my fists against the wall until they’re bloodied, drawing my tongue up the cracked skin once I’m done. Shuddering breaths leave me as I stagger back onto my bed. I take a joint from my nightstand, lighting up. It normally calms me down, tames me, and I need it right now. Need to remember that there are rules and that I’m not in control of when I’m allowed to come out and play.
I smoke and I imagine.
Blood raining down. The smooth silk of tattered skin under my palm.
Death.