Chapter Twenty-Three
“How’d you sleep, Marmar?” Azrames was cursedly shirtless as I emerged from the bedroom. It was an act of cruelty and violence that someone with such an impeccable body would walk around his own apartment with sex-mussed hair in only boxers. Of fucking course the hot man was covered in tattoos stretching from a single pectoral to his shoulder as the piece snaked down his arm. What a cliché.
My gaze had initially begun in ongoing shock that his skin was truly shades of iron and steel, as if watching a movie from the fifties, or staring at someone who’s stepped out of a turn-of-the-century photograph but living in a fully saturated world. Somewhere between the line of demarcation in his abdominals and the thick tree trunks he had for legs, I’d forgotten what I was doing and neglected to look away.
“Ow!” I gasped, jerking to see what had accosted me.
Fauna had pinched my ass while walking by. She grinned as she pranced, barefoot, into the kitchen. “Wanna borrow him?”
These two were going to be the death of me.
There was no pride to salvage. I covered my face with my hands and shook my head before joining them in the kitchen. “Do I smell coffee?”
“How do you take it?” he asked.
“She likes her coffee like she likes her men,” Fauna responded, hopping up backward onto the counter and letting her legs dangle off the ledge. “Hot.”
He chuckled as he slid a tall, black cup of coffee on a tray that included a tiny, bronze cup of cream, a little pot of sugar cubes, and the fanciest, littlest spoon I’d ever seen. It wasn’t honey, but I could make do. I looked around the apartment, if only to take my eyes off the demon. I hoped she’d never bring up my question about Hell and darkness, particularly the beauty of the morning light as it streamed in through the windows. It caught on the coppers and metals that accented his apartment, offering a shimmering quality to the entire space.
“So, working with Betty pays well?” I mused, remembering what Betty had said about converting malevolence the same way a hydro plant turned water into electricity. If that was the case, Azrames must have been the Hoover Dam.
He slipped a hand behind Fauna and sipped on his own coffee while nodding. “Centuries of smiting assholes has proven lucrative.”
Fauna kissed him proudly atop his head from her countertop perch but had no smartass remark to add. I recognized the twinkle of admiration in her eye and was once again struck with how easy he would be to love. Not only did he adore her, but she clearly respected him. He’d dedicated hundreds of years to ridding the mortal world of abusers and setting women free. If I had to sleep in a demon’s house, this seemed like the place to be.
“Ask him about his tattoo,” she said.
He’d begun to protest, but I took the bait. The scalding packaging had made it easy to forget how formidable he was, the shadow in the dark, the last thing a violent man saw before he died. I’d taken it for a cohesive piece, but my eyes lingered on it long enough to spy the way the dark tendrils were separated. Given the context of her remark, I thought of teardrop tattoos as I looked at him. “Your ink? Is each section from a kill?”
He lifted his arm as if remembering the piece was there. “These? No, the kills are not worth remembering. I make sure they deserve it, and I never look back. These aren’t for deaths, they’re for lives, Marmar. Every mark represents someone who was set free. It helps me remember why I do what I do.”
“The income doesn’t hurt either,” Fauna added.
For fuck’s sake, this man. Maybe I did want to borrow him. How was I supposed to function in the human realm after this? I was pretty sure I’d never find joy topside again.
Breaking my pre-caffeinated existential spiral, Fauna asked, “Az, would you be a peach and see how we can get word to the palace that we’re here seeking an audience with the King?”
Azrames nodded as he sipped. “Way ahead of you. I don’t run in royal circles, but I phoned a friend of a friend. I don’t think it’s going to be hard to get Marlow in front of the King once he knows she’s here. The challenging part is getting the news to him.”
“Can I ask a question?”
They both perked, but my attention was on Fauna. “This isn’t your kingdom. Why do you call them the Prince and the King? Don’t the Nordes have a royal family? Wouldn’t they be your princes and kings?”
“Can I ask you a question?” she responded. “Did you print your diploma off from a shady website, or did they actually let you graduate?”
Maybe if they hadn’t kept me awake for hours with their screaming, I wouldn’t have been so cranky. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re such a goddamn bully.”
She didn’t just roll her eyes but flopped her entire head backward dramatically. “Remember that hot pop singer who divorced the leader of France—Nicholas something or other? What’s the leader called there?”
“Oh, Carla Bruni!”
“You’re a nerd for knowing that.”
I clicked my tongue. “You’re a nerd for asking. Yeah, she was married to the president of France.”
Fauna slurped her syrupy coffee loudly, blinking at me with her large, mockingly innocent doe eyes before saying, “Are you sure you don’t want to say she was married to a president? He wasn’t your president.”
I hmmphed. She wasn’t the gentlest teacher I’d ever had, but she did get her points across. “Fine. I get it.” I looked around the apartment, admiring its lavishness in the morning light. “So, what does a day in Hell look like?”
Azrames unraveled himself from where he’d remained connected to Fauna. He planted his large hands on the island and leaned forward. I wished he hadn’t. It was deeply inappropriate to lust after your friend’s wealthy, muscled, powerful, kinky lover.
Probably.
He raised a brow as he said, “You mean, between the torture and dismembering?”
“Oh,” Fauna chimed from over his shoulder. “Should we do a tour of the Lake of Sulfur?”
“Go fuck yourselves,” I muttered.
He chuckled. “There actually is a lake of sulfur. Well, that’s what it’s named, anyway. It’s a mineral hot spring and a great tourist attraction. If you’re looking for a spa day, you could certainly tell your friends that you boiled in the Lake of Sulfur.”
“Lisbeth would love that,” Fauna said. Then to Azrames, she explained, “Az, her mom is a hardcore fan of the other side. Doesn’t her name mean something extreme like ‘God’s oath’? No beating around the bush with that one. Anyway, Az: Mama Marlow’s fae blood has given her way too much free time to chat with angels. She’s putting her psychic abilities to obnoxious use. A real stick up her ass, that one.”
“Speaking of talking to the fae.” Azrames’s voice quieted as he reached across the island for me. I froze as he gently straightened my arm, lifting it from the elbow so he could look at the sigil I’d had tattooed. He lifted his eyes to mine, marvel in his voice as he asked, “Look who has some ink of her own. How did you find this?”
I exhaled slowly at the decompression of fingers against my forearm. I kept my eyes on the ink as I said, “It was above my door. I didn’t see it for a long time. Not until after Silas was in my apartment. It was the last night I saw Caliban.”
“Caliban?” He repeated the name, sliding a thumb over the still-healing tattoo to feel the scab. As his touch passed, so did what remained of the wound. Only perfect ink was left in its place.
My heart ached at the memory of that horrible night and how he’d kissed my hand, healing the cut I’d acquired in my scramble to survive. I bet Richard was the sort of man Az would have loved to have killed, and I wondered how different my life would have been if he’d been the one to respond to Richard’s mark. Maybe if they stopped making fun of me for my questions, I would ask how a human was marked and how another might respond to its call. Instead, my thoughts were focused on Caliban.
“The Prince,” I said, answering his question.
“I like it,” Fauna added. “It fits him, don’t you think?”
Az considered it before asking, “Did you give it to him?”
I nodded, recalling the way Caliban had smiled at the name all those years ago.
“Speaking of Caliban,” I said, “if he’s not in Hell, why do we think the King will know where to find him? Or why he’ll help?”
The pair exchanged a meaningful look. Az said, “Trust me, he’ll want to help you. As for how they’ll be able to find him: call us legion, for we are many.”
“The parasite said the same thing,” I mused.
“I know,” he said. There was no amusement in his voice. “It’s their line to start with. But since it was accredited to demons, we don’t mind the catchphrase. We’ve got manpower, we’re well connected, we’re everywhere.”
“Like the KGB,” Fauna added. Then, “Because of the Cold War demons and angels—you know what, never mind. My magnificent references are underappreciated.”
Between his interesting piece of information and Fauna’s chatter, I’d been too distracted to realize Azrames was still holding on to my arm until his phone—or, what I could only describe as a phone—rang. He released it to pick up the device. Much as in the mortal realm, it was a glassy, black rectangle. It didn’t appear to have buttons, a screen, or any harsh, white glow. He lifted it to his ear and stepped away, heading to his room as he began to speak quietly into the shape. He disappeared around the corner.
“He’s dreamy,” I said, complimenting Fauna as our eyes trailed his shadow-like wake. “Are you going to explain what that exchange was about? Is there some reason the King will want to see me that I should know? Or is this all…” I hesitated before spitting out what felt like the most ridiculous end to the sentence. “Apocalypse talk.”
“Well sure; now that you’re involved we’ve all got the end of the world on the brain. But more importantly: of course Az is dreamy. I have impeccable taste,” she agreed. “But sometimes I just do things for the plot. So, you know, you gotta fuck a centaur for the party anecdote.”
I didn’t have time to ask if she was serious before he returned. To both my relief and dismay, he’d slipped into a pair of black pants and a white tee. “Company is on its way. Fauna, did you ever meet Ianna?”
Fauna’s prolonged whine told me that she did not like the individual in question.
I missed the days when I had answers to things. Instead, I sighed as I asked what felt like yet another in an endless string of questions. “Who’s Ianna?”
Fauna grimaced. “She a lillith.”
A bolt of lightning shot through me. “Lillith is coming to your apartment?”
“Not the Lillith. A lillith. More of a miscellaneous femme fatale. It means shriek owl or night monster depending on the text,” Fauna said, correcting me before answering his question. “Yes, she was at that party we went to in 1360. She was an absolute bitch. Call someone else.”
He made an apologetic face. “She still is. And I’m afraid there’s no calling anyone else this time, Fauns. She’s already on her way, and she’s my only in.”
Fauna hopped down from the counter and began to riffle through his cabinets, frowning at the lack of food. She settled on a box of cookies and addressed me with a crumbly mouthful of what looked like sugar-crusted cookies with caramel chunks.
I raised a finger. “Can I go back to a lillith?”
Fauna waved one hand while tearing through the box with the other. “It’s a thing. Nymph, vampire, valkyrie, angel, lillith. Throw a dart at the board: it’s all real. Google the specifics on your own time. Just—”
Azrames interrupted her long enough to give her a chance to chew. “Listen, Faun, I know you don’t like her, but she can pull strings, and she owes me a favor. She’ll be here in twenty.”
Fauna sucked her teeth. “A favor favor?”
“Indeed,” he confirmed. The word seemed to have some deeper meaning, but neither of them offered to elaborate.
She sighed while riffling through the box. “In that case, thanks for wasting your favor on us. I’ll keep what I think of her to myself. Probably.” She then offered me a cookie, and I took one. “She’s a stylist for the royal court. It isn’t exactly a royal title, but she comes and goes from the palace and can definitely get us an audience.” She ended her explanation by extending the box to Azrames.
He shook his head. “I hate those things.”
My mouth opened, the uneaten cookie falling onto the plate where I’d left the dredges of my coffee. It had been abhorrently sweet. I shoved it away as I asked, “Then why do you buy them?”
“In case my little sugar goblin stops by,” he said, ruffling her hair as he passed in a return to his room.
She smiled happily as she popped another cookie into her mouth.
My heart squeezed painfully as I looked at the place where he’d been only moments before. Twenty years. He’d kept the pantry stocked for twenty years, just in case she paid a visit. Just as I was about to scold Fauna for not appreciating his love, I thought of something she’d said to me in the car when I asked why Caliban had stayed with me.
If you waste this lifetime, he loves you enough to try again in the next. And the next. And the next.
And because I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with half of what I was going through, I did what I did best: I compartmentalized. I shoved the pain into a little pocket and decided to distract myself.
I kept myself busy by poking around the apartment while we waited for the arrival of a lillith. While most of the home was beautiful in its simplicity, he did have a number of antiquities that made the mythology enthusiast in me drool. A row of interesting candles had metallic threads where a wick should have been. An intricately carved dagger with a passage written in ornate Latin rested behind a glass enclosure, propped up on display. A black book with writing that may have been Sanskrit sat upon what could only be described as a small pulpit, opened to a single passage. There was a piece of pottery with, if I wasn’t mistaken, his form, arms outstretched as men knelt, presumably pleading for their lives.
The sound that rang through the apartment to signal someone’s arrival wasn’t the familiar, robotic buzz of a delivery man. Instead, an ominous, haunting note slithered through the building.
My heart caught in my throat as I nearly knocked over the priceless antiquity I’d been gingerly fingering. It had to be the lillith. The night creature. The royal stylist. The bitch from 1360.
I scrambled to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup just so I’d have something to do with my trembling hands when she entered. I pressed my back against the furthest cabinet and braced myself for gnashing teeth, for Cheshire smiles, for whatever talons might grant someone the title of shriek owl.
Azrames opened the door, and my eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Given Fauna’s description of the woman, I’d readied myself for one of two extremes: either a shriveled monster or a towering figure in a golden, drapey gown. I thought I’d meet the ancient Sumerian Morticia Addams in black and lace or the imposing reincarnation of Cleopatra. Instead, a bored-looking woman with horns that started at the crown of her skull and curved around her ears stepped into the room. She wore pointed stilettos and tailored, high-waisted black pants with a semi-sheer black bustier tucked into her pants. She removed enormous, angular black sunglasses and folded them in half, tucking them so they dangled between her breasts. She looked like she’d come straight from a private jet after a fashion week in Milan. She pursed nude-painted lips as she gave me a once-over.
“This is the girl?” she asked, crossing her arms. She dangled one hand in my direction, manicured nails pointing at me.
“It is indeed,” Azrames confirmed. Then to me, he asked, “Would you like to introduce yourself?”
All three looked at me expectantly as I clutched my coffee cup.
“Merit,” I said. I didn’t think I was imagining the way Azrames visibly relaxed. Fauna’s proud grin from the far side of the room was unmistakable.
“And you can call me Ianna,” she said.
I didn’t miss the careful wording. I was curious who, if anyone, knew her real name. I idly wondered how the fae-like-creatures in the room had chosen the names they gave freely, before asking the same question of myself. I was a woman of three names in a single lifetime. Maribelle had earned me an ocean of money, and then Merit had outshined her ten to one. But I hadn’t come to Hell seeking riches. My aliases had done well, but hopefully Marlow would be the one who found herself a prince.
Azrames shut the door behind her, politely offering coffee.
“Don’t be dull,” she said, perching delicately on his black leather chair. “Offer me a real drink.”
“Sky’s the limit, and I only carry top shelf,” he replied, no hesitation at the hour. “What would you like?”
She asked Az to make her a martini, which I found utterly fascinating.
“Onion or olive?” he asked.
“Bitters,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s breakfast.”
Gin and vermouth made for a quick cocktail. He procured the citrus and peeler seemingly from nowhere and finished in a flourish.
“Ianna, you remember Fauna?” he asked, handing her the glass carefully garnished with a fresh curl of lemon. Ianna made a dismissive gesture, to which Fauna rolled her eyes.
Watching this woman—this demon—tuck her hair behind her curling horn as she elegantly sipped gin at nine the morning was a stranger fiction than anything I could have dared to imagine for the mythological world within the Pantheon series. The morning light refracted on the glass, breaking the sunbeams into tiny rainbows on his furniture.
“Merit,” she said with the sort of clipped authority that I expected from a CEO, “why are you standing in the kitchen? I didn’t come across the city for you to shrink like a mouse. Assert yourself.”
I swallowed and hurried obediently to the couch opposite her. The others watched with mixed curiosity and amusement from where they loitered. Fauna stayed near the island while Azrames leaned against the wall.
“I’m looking for the Prince,” I said, deciding against giving her the name I’d ascribed to him. “And in order to do that, I’m told I need to speak to the King.”
She looked from me to Azrames, then back to me. “You’re lucky I didn’t have the option to say no. There’s no use asking why, just as it’s fruitless to understand why neon was ever on the runway or why the mortal realms keep trying to make salmon mousse palatable. It’s a fish, for fuck’s sake. You can’t force taste.” She sighed. “That said, Merit the Neon Salmon Mousse, you’re our Prince’s human. I wanted to see you with my own eyes before I made any calls, and now that I have…” she tsked, then looked to Fauna. “Do you have anything in your closet worthy of the royal family?”
I didn’t miss the loathing in Fauna’s eyes or the apology in Azrames’s as she stalked into the hallway. She reemerged with two gowns.
“Oh!” Ianna brows raised in surprise. “They’re shockingly not horrible. It’s hard to believe you own them. No offense, darling.”
“Everything about you offends me, but this isn’t my trip to Hell,” Fauna said, tossing the gowns onto the island.
“Yes, well.” She sipped her martini before saying, “As lovely as they are, you can’t go in black tie.” She procured a smooth rectangle like the one I’d seen Azrames use and lifted it to her ear. “Lyviane? Darling, how are you? It’s been an age. Yes, yes,” she cooed. “Listen, I’m going to need assistance. It’s for the royal family. Ha! Don’t I know it. Mhmm, mhmm. Yes, he called in an outstanding favor. Azrames. Yes, that’s the one. Tell me about it. We all go through it. Mhmm, yes. There’s three of them. Two feminine bodies, and one masculine. What do you have for me?” Her eyes went to me, then to Fauna. “The Norde might fit into sample sizes, but the human certainly won’t. That shouldn’t be an issue with your abilities. Yes, darling. Oh, you’re too good. I’ll see you in an hour. Yes, kisses.”
Ianna finished her martini and set the glass down on the side table.
“I have one more call to make, but before I do, tell me something?”
I frowned expectantly.
“How does a human girl lose the Prince of Hell?”
I’d felt like a dog on the way to the park as I remained glued to the window, gaping in excited awe at Downtown Hell. I’d seen the silhouetted edges of Gothic churches and sleek buildings but had no idea how ancient and modern a single city could be. Black, gray, stone, blue, and steel seemed to be recurrent themes, avoiding bright eyesores or the Global West’s architectural dark ages of distasteful, perfunctory buildings. Everything was visual candy, from the restaurants and businesses to the people and things strolling the streets.
Fauna had offered to sit in the back with me, though she made it clear to everyone in the car that she’d done it to keep me company, not to give Ianna preferential treatment.
“Your Norde is a real treat,” Ianna said, the backhanded compliment thick with judgment.
“She’s the whole cake,” Azrames agreed with a cool smile.
I looked at Fauna for a reaction but barely caught the upward tick at the corner of her lips as she remained carefully positioned to look out the window for our drive.
The walk from Az’s Bugatti to the designer boutique was just as distracting. I had an impossible time looking at any one thing, as every detail was more interesting, more marvelous, more engrossing than the last.
I had to put out my hands to stop from plowing into Fauna as I skidded to a stop, so lost to my marveling of the confusing amalgamation of historic decay and flashy modernity that I hadn’t realized we’d reached our destination. I planted a single hand between Fauna’s shoulder blades, whipping my head up just in time to see the door open, revealing the curious creature who had been on the receiving end of Ianna’s phone call.
I tried to tell myself that it would be just as abhorrently rude to stare in Hell as it would be to gape at a curiosity in the mortal realm, but I couldn’t help it.
Our host for the morning, Lyviane, was a rich, purplish mauve with ink-black hair.
It surprised me, only because I’d seen femme red and purple devils portrayed so often on tattooed sailors or tacky posters that no part of me imagined a demon might actually possess such features. In lieu of horns, she sported the same thin, pointed tail I’d noticed on the pool-playing patron at Shadow’s. When she spoke, I noticed the forked, serpentine flick of her tongue. Quintessentially demonic aesthetic choices aside, she was every bit the vision of a tasteful, frustratingly attractive woman in her early thirties with sleek, voluminous curls.
The gentle thrum of lyric-free electronica pulsed in the background as she beckoned us inward. I called on Maribelle, the part of me who knew how to handle foreign, posh social situations as I took in my surroundings.
The designer’s workshop had white walls, white ceilings, and white floors.
I knew enough to understand the statement made with white floors. It said: no speck of dust or filthy shoes will sully this upscale building, nor will anyone lowly enough to blot my pearly reputation cross this threshold.
I could be pearly. At least, Maribelle could.
I scanned the enormous studio for any further clues as to how I should act in this entirely alien realm. The only patches of color were the antiqued frames around the mirrors. which matched the same purplish shade of Lyviane’s skin. As if she’d selected candles to complement her coloration, soothing lilac filled the space in a calming, all-encompassing grip.
“Ready?” Fauna gave my bicep a squeeze as she breathed the question into my ear.
I did little more than nod. I wasn’t sure I had any other choice.
An hour later, I smirked to myself as I looked in the full-length mirror of Lyviane’s studio. As it turned out, the devil did not, in fact, wear Prada. Prada was too pedestrian for an ancient, egotistical shriek owl. That said, she had not picked the flashy prints or statement pieces that would have made me blanche. She slipped us into Hell’s finest.
“Yes,” Ianna purred behind me. “True power is understated.”
I agreed wholeheartedly.
When I’d first begun escorting, my volcanic eruption from poverty to privilege loved the way attendants would scurry to my side when I walked down Rodeo Drive. They’d eye my shoes, my bag, my clean, expensive clothes, and offer me something that had been withheld for more than twenty years: respect. While raised with holes in my snowsuit, I’d slipped into the skin of someone who could breeze to the front of a line and have the velvet rope clipped to the side as my pieces spoke for me.
Raised in a state of hyper-awareness given the quickness of parental mood swings, I was extremely perceptive to every shift in energy, every micro-expression, every twitch of the eye or tightening of the mouth. Through trial and error, I learned both through meeting clients and from the appraising eyes of the hostesses that they felt one way about the golds, the prints, the brands and another way entirely about classic neutrals and clean lines. One look screamed new money, and the other whispered old.
Once the books had taken off, the dams had burst and the money had flowed, but the desire to be perceived did not keep up.
As delicious as it had been to taste fawning and gawking, it wasn’t what I’d wanted. No amount of thin, gold chains with tiny desirable logos on them had brought me joy. I certainly didn’t revel in uncomfortably tall heels with brightly colored bottoms. All I wanted was what I’d been denied—a life without worrying about bills, a life where I could stay in my pajamas and order sushi, where I could sleep peacefully, where I could breathe without debt sitting on my chest like the fabled sleep paralysis demon.
I looked at the demons in the room and silently amended my thought to sleep paralysis parasitic entity.
The entire room had undergone a glow-up.
Azrames somehow looked hotter every time I saw him. As if his white T-shirt hadn’t already destroyed any chance of platonic thoughts, Ianna had dressed him in the most well tailored gem-blue suit I’d ever seen, complementing his shades of black, gray, and white.
My eyes drifted to my friend. I’d been a petty bitch to assume that the lillith would do Fauna dirty. Somehow, Ianna had managed to capture Fauna’s style while upgrading it. The chaotic Norde was still permitted loose, flowing pants in a deep brown, though now the pleats were structured and intentional. Cream heels with ballet-like laces wrapped around her ankles, paired with a structured cream top. Lyviane’s face wrinkled in concentration as she manipulated fabric and clasps with the wave of her hand to fit Fauna. I would have referred to Fauna’s top as a bra, as it covered her tits, her sternum, and little else, but something told me that Ianna wouldn’t have been thrilled with my lack of fashionable vocabulary.
“And for the princess-in-waiting,” she’d said, smile on her lips.
I thought of Caliban’s diamond eyes and the hair so white it might have been woven from moonbeams as I stared at my reflection. Ianna and Lyviane had collaborated to fit me in a sleeveless, purely white jumpsuit. The top was cut in dramatic geometric shapes, collar plunging toward my belly button on one side while remaining just modest enough to earn my admittance into even the most political of functions. Around the center of my neck was a single, choking band of pearls.
I procured the silver s?lje from my pocket. It raised eyebrows from the demons but a gentle smile from Fauna. I looked to her as I asked, “Can I wear it?”
“You can, and you should,” Fauna said, voice quiet with pride. She crossed to my side as she helped me slip the family heirloom, the evidence of my blood, just above my breast. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to meet Ianna’s gaze, but much to my surprise, there was no disapproval in her eyes.
Perhaps broaches were in season.
After kissing me delicately on each cheek and making whatever empty promises for future brunch, Lyviane examined the three of us approvingly. “And now,” she purred into my ear, close enough that I could smell something that, to my shock, I recognized exclusively from the human realm. She leaned in near my face with the unmistakable perfume of Chanel No. 5, stroking down the length of my arms as she postured behind me, “You’re ready to meet your king.”