Chapter Sixty
Never trust a King of Hell.
Tabitha Wysteria
Mal dropped into the next ring without the shock or struggle that had accompanied her last arrival. She turned just in time to see Wren landing beside her, and in that single moment the worries that had weighed upon her for months seemed to lift from her shoulders.
Mal remembered the long black table shrouded in souls—hunched over, slurping and gulping down food, their hands shaking with the need to consume. She immediately unsheathed her sword at the sight of the king of Hell. Beelzebub sat at the far end, his small beady black eyes focused solely on her.
‘You return,’ he said, licking his oily lips as if eager to snatch Mal back into his ring.
Mal grabbed Wren’s arm and walked calmly down the long room, stopping at Beelzebub’s height. She pointed the tip of her sword at his face, his expression growing weary. His large form overflowed, the black robe he wore so tight it seemed to vanish between the rolls of his body.
‘Ah, but you return different this time.’ He sniffed the air, then his eyes widened. ‘What have you done? What have you become?’
‘I am the God-Killer now.’
Beelzebub remained silent for a moment, before bursting out laughing. Mal had not expected such a reaction from the king, and almost stepped back.
‘What is so funny?’
‘Your father found a way.’ The king seemed to find it difficult to laugh and speak at the same time, wheezing in large gulps of air. ‘Have you come to destroy us all?’
Mal shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ She let go of Wren, snatched the apple on the table and bit into it. Swallowed. She smiled at the king of Hell, his eyes wide with fear.
She turned to leave, but Beelzebub’s words gave her pause.
‘Careful, little God-Killer,’ he said. ‘The one you seek likes to play games. Why don’t you stay here?’
Mal ignored the king of Hell. She took Wren’s hand once again, slapping a pear that Wren had picked out of her pale fingers. Mal reached the end of the room, and slammed the doors open with the heel of her boot.
They had entered what appeared to be a brothel.
Mal recognised the place at once from her previous visit.
The walls were painted a deep, luxurious green, and the sofas were upholstered in velvety red.
To the right, a pool of steaming water shimmered invitingly, beckoning the souls trapped in this ring to sink into its warmth and surrender themselves to indulgence.
Around the room others lounged at tables, gambling loudly as laughter and the hazy scent of smoke curled through the air. Cups of drink passed from hand to hand as though eternity itself were little more than an endless celebration.
‘Don’t touch that,’ Mal warned, swatting Wren’s hand away just as she reached to examine the long blue feather woven into a soul’s hair.
Here the inhabitants dressed as they pleased, some wandering naked without the slightest shame, others draped in extravagant fabrics and jewels that glittered in the dim light.
Mal’s attention swept across the room as she searched for the king of this ring, remembering all too clearly the threats that had greeted her the last time she had stood here.
One of the souls approached and casually twisted a strand of Mal’s black hair between his fingers.
Mal turned her head slowly and offered him a wicked smile. ‘Keep touching my hair like that,’ she said sweetly, ‘and I’ll bite that finger right off.’
The soul recoiled at once and retreated.
Mal stepped towards one of the nearby tables where several souls were deep in a game of cards. She drew her sword and placed the sharp tip lightly against one player’s forehead.
Every single one of them froze.
‘Where’s the king of this ring?’
Without hesitation, every hand at the table pointed towards the back of the room.
Mal left the sword in her grip. She had a feeling she might need it. As she moved forward, she glanced around, suddenly realising Wren was no longer beside her.
For a moment her stomach dropped, dread clawing its way into her chest, until she reminded herself that Wren was already, technically, dead. Still, that did not mean she couldn’t become trapped here.
Yet Mal doubted that would happen.
Wren, she suspected, was one of those rare souls that Hell itself could never quite manage to claim.
Mal found Wren seated at one of the tables, laughing brightly as she shuffled a deck of cards and dealt them out with surprising confidence.
‘Am I interrupting?’ Mal asked.
‘Do ya want to play?’ Wren replied with a grin.
‘Stay there.’ Mal pointed firmly at the table. ‘Until I’ve finished.’
Wren merely waved her away, already far too absorbed in the game to care. Mal gave her friend one last lingering glance before turning and striding towards the far end of the room.
As she walked, several souls drifted into her path, their movements languid and enticing.
They tried to draw her in with whispered promises and wandering hands, hoping to pull her into the endless temptations of this ring.
But Mal brushed them aside without hesitation, pushing past them as though they were nothing more than smoke.
She was no longer prey to these circles.
She was the God-Killer.
And she would not be lured so easily again.
‘I see you’ve changed your face,’ Mal said when she reached the long crimson sofa.
At least a dozen bodies were sprawled across it in a tangle of limbs, touching and kissing, their hands roaming freely over one another as laughter and soft murmurs filled the air.
At the centre of the decadent chaos sat a man.
He wore nothing but a thin red robe that hung open across his chest. His black hair was cropped short, and when his red eyes lifted to meet Mal’s, they held a deliberate, measuring interest.
Mal arched a brow.
The last time she had encountered the king of this ring, he had worn a very different face.
‘You again,’ Asmodeus said, his smile spreading wide.
Mal caught the faint glint of a fang and felt an instinctive urge to bare her own in return. She ignored the woman kneeling before him, whose mouth was busily occupied while Asmodeus’ large hand rested firmly on the back of her head, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.
‘So you do recognise me,’ Mal said.
‘I warned you not to return.’
‘And yet here I am.’
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, the leather creaking softly beneath her grip as she prepared herself for the possibility of separating Asmodeus’ head from his shoulders if necessary.
‘Strange,’ she added, her voice edged with quiet mockery. ‘Considering you didn’t recognise me the last time.’
‘And why might that be?’
‘I am Melinoe,’ she said, her voice steady and clear. ‘Daughter of Hades and Hecate.’
Something flashed across Asmodeus’ face. Mal could not quite tell whether the change came from the weight of her revelation or from the woman still working eagerly on his cock.
‘You do not wear the same face you did then,’ he said at last, his lips curling with amusement. ‘Though, perhaps, your temper should have been enough of a clue.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Did you truly believe you had always worn this mortal body, even back then?’
Mal tried not to let her embarrassment show.
She had never known any other body, so yes, some foolish part of her had always assumed she had looked exactly as she did now.
But of course that could not have been true.
She would have worn another form back then, another face entirely.
The thought stirred a strange curiosity within her, and she found herself wondering what she might once have looked like, what her true form had been before this one.
‘Why are you here?’ Asmodeus asked.
‘For personal reasons.’
Mal glanced down at her nails with feigned boredom. But the moment Asmodeus leaned forward, tugging the girl’s head away from him, Mal raised her arm and pointed the tip of her sword directly at his chest.
The girl who had been kneeling between his legs wiped her mouth quickly and scrambled away, vanishing into the shadows with obvious relief.
Mal watched her retreat before turning her attention back to the sofa.
Two other souls immediately slid closer, their eager hands reaching towards the king of Hell.
Asmodeus glanced lazily at the sword aimed at him and laughed, clearly entertained. Then he leaned forward and ran his tongue slowly along the edge of the blade.
Mal tilted her head slightly. ‘Not wearing six arms this time?’
‘Don’t need them when I have this.’
Asmodeus reached down, and Mal’s eyes widened at the sight. She had not realised before because the girl had been busy at work, but the king of this ring possessed three arousals at once, all unmistakably his.
‘Would you like to try me?’ the king of Hell purred, his hand sliding lazily over himself.
‘No, she wouldn’t,’ a voice said from behind.
Mal spun sharply, lifting her weapon and pressing the edge of her sword firmly against the newcomer’s throat.
She froze when she saw who it was.
Thanatos merely arched an eyebrow.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mal asked, irritation flashing across her face. ‘Are you following me?’
Thanatos snorted and casually pushed the sword aside.
‘Silly question, woman.’
He stepped forward, his attention shifting to the king of Hell lounging on the sofa.
‘Put that thing away before you give my wife an eyesore.’
Asmodeus snarled at the remark, though his irritation quickly faded into lazy amusement. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestured towards the exit.
‘Leave,’ he said. ‘Before I change my mind.’
Mal was just about to drive her sword forward and skewer the king of Hell where he lounged, but Thanatos caught her arm and tugged her away.
‘Put that away before you go poking someone with it.’