Bonus Epilogue
LUCIFER, THE HIGH KING OF HELL, THE MORNINGSTAR, his Unholiness—whatever you wanted to call him—stared into the orange glow of the hellfire burning in his hearth. His jaw flexed as he ground his molars, and his fingers drummed a restless rhythm on his thigh.
He could feel the diminishment of his strength. He’d had his soul-prison power source for so long, the force he’d gained from it had become part of him. And now he was without.
Crippled. Disadvantaged. Humiliated.
Fury danced under his skin, barely leashed.
He wanted retribution. He wanted to strike hard and fast and mercilessly.
He wanted to kill, to destroy, to wreak havoc and spill blood.
He wanted to remind every ungrateful being in Hell why he was High King, why no one had successfully challenged him for the title throughout history, why none dared cross him lest they face his terrible wrath.
Because, evidently, demons like Murmur had forgotten. Demons like Murmur thought they could plot against him and get away with it.
The Necromancer had the gall to continue lurking in Paimon’s former lair after what he’d done.
He hadn’t even bothered to flee in some vain hope of survival.
Did he somehow believe himself untouchable?
How could a demon reputed to be so skilled at complex magic be so foolish as to think he would not face retribution for his treachery?
Murmur would die. Murmur would die begging for mercy.
But … not yet.
Lucifer rose from his perch on the edge of the sofa and began to pace back and forth across the lush, patterned rug before the fireplace.
His rage was crawling beneath his skin, begging to be unleashed, yes, but in this instance, he forced himself to contain it.
Because he had to be smart about this. He had to be clever and scheming.
He had to outwit his foes who believed they now had an advantage over him.
And most importantly, he had to remember who his true enemy was.
Murmur may have created the portal into the heart of his territory, but he was not the one who had stepped into it. He was not the one who had opened the door and liberated the souls. He was not the one who had been trying for millennia to undermine Lucifer’s rule and claim Hell for himself.
Belial was.
Murmur was just an underling, another slavering fool who’d been sucked into Belial’s false promises of power and greatness. Murmur was a puppet, and Belial was behind the curtain, pulling his strings.
If Lucifer were truly to neutralize this ploy against him, he needed to go straight to its source. He could kill one ally of Belial’s after the next, but they would keep cropping up like weeds until he eradicated the source.
So Murmur would die, yes, but not just yet.
First, Lucifer needed a better plan. A more subtle plan. A plan that no one would suspect, which meant it would be a plan that there was no defense against.
His pacing picked up in speed as his mind whirled with sudden inspiration.
There was a certain type of weapon. An exceptionally rare, angelic weapon that he needed to acquire in order to eliminate his nemesis once and for all.
He’d known this for a very long time, but normally, such a weapon was impossible to procure, and it was for that reason Lucifer had given up on his plans to destroy Belial many times before.
But right now, it just so happened that he knew the location of one such weapon, because it was in the hands of Belial himself. And he was quite certain that Belial had no idea what it was truly capable of.
When he’d first heard of its location, he had only briefly considered acquiring it before abandoning the idea. The risk was too great, and it would have involved breaking Heaven’s rules and angering the Tribunal.
But now, Belial was conspiring against him, and Lucifer could not afford to be complacent.
He had to act, rules be damned. He knew how to handle the Tribunal anyway.
A bit of careful fearmongering, and the council of out-of-touch, obstinate angels would fall in line.
He had manipulated them many times in the past, and this would be no different.
Yes, that was it. A plan was beginning to form, the pieces falling rapidly into place.
Lucifer would get possession of the weapon. He would do it subtly, stealthily, so Belial would have no idea what he was planning and thus would make no effort to protect the prize. And then, once Lucifer had it, he would strike, and Belial wouldn’t stand a chance.
To retrieve that weapon, he needed an infiltrator.
But who?
His pacing stopped abruptly. He stroked his chin and his brow furrowed as he searched his mind for a solution.
It would need to be someone who Belial trusted, or at least tolerated, whose presence was familiar.
Someone who could walk in the front door of Belial’s Earth lair and take something from under his nose without him realizing it until too late.
It would need to be someone with whom Belial had had close dealings in the past.
He dropped his hand suddenly, and his eyes widened. Of course.
He knew the perfect candidate for this role, and he already knew how to assure their cooperation—and thus, his ultimate success.
Belial had become something soft and manipulatable. Every bond he formed with another person was a new way to strike at him. A way to penetrate straight to his weakened core. And that was precisely what Lucifer would do.
He would attack from the inside, cripple him from within the circle of his false sense of security. He would allow him to think he maintained the upper hand, and then, when he least expected it, Lucifer would take him down once and for all.
And so it would be as it was always meant to be.
Belial would finally be destroyed, and the High King would enjoy his rule unimpeded by threats, his greatest enemy vanquished at last. The underworld would crumble beneath his wrath, and any who had dared to plot against him in the past would be wiped from existence.
And when Hell was conquered anew, he would set his sights on Earth. He would remind the humans who had forgotten to fear him what monsters truly looked like.
He, Lucifer, would be at the center of it all, the greatest, most powerful being to ever exist.
The High King stopped in front of the fireplace and looked deeply into the flames. His reflection in the marble tile behind it stared back at him. And when he smiled, the hellfire danced across his wicked features with deadly grace.