Chapter 3
T he two brothers rolled around on the damp earth, grunting as they hit each other with enough force to cause an earthquake. Shouted curses echoed around them as they fought. After a brief wrestle and some quick moves, Azazel pinned his brother to the ground with his hands around his throat. He glared down at him, spitting in rabid fury at the implications those two little words would now cause.
“I don’t want my fucking demi-soul. It’s all a damn lie anyway. A stupid urban myth made up by Lucifer to keep idiots like you hanging on to nothing. Change it,” he yelled, his green eyes nothing but black holes of hatred. “Change it now.”
Balthazar chuckled and shook his head. He couldn’t resist the fact his demi-soul, the other half of him that would make him feel whole for the first time ever, was just a few steps away through a magickal portal. He knew Azazel wanted the same thing, deep down, it was merely a matter of making him accept it.
A roar of frustration left Azazel. He’d wanted to travel to a remote village in China, spice life up a little for the locals and give them some tales of demons to spin for the next few centuries. He couldn’t alter the doorway himself—meddling with another demon’s magick was as lethal as poking around with biological warfare.
The option to go somewhere on his own didn’t exist. Their deal with Lucifer, for their three months of freedom per year, was on the condition they took their ‘vacation’ together. If they didn’t, no time off. Simple.
‘Amor aeternus’ rattled around in Azazel’s mind, it’s meaning of eternal love on repeat in his brain. His head whirled in a thousand different directions. An unfamiliar tightness gripped his heart. He loosened his hold on Balthazar enough for his brother to overthrow him.
Eager to arrive in this year’s twelve-week temporary home, Balthazar stood up and stepped inside the black hole gaping before them. He glanced back at Azazel and shrugged his shoulders. “Shut up and get in.”
Azazel glared at him. “Whatever happens from here on out is your fault. You get that?”
“Shut up and get in.”
For the first time this century, Azazel had no words. He loved having the last say, always the one to end an argument, but now he was helpless. And he didn’t like it.
Sulking like a petulant child, he stumbled to his feet and shuffled in next to his brother. The deep frown creasing his forehead made his displeasure obvious and the shadows still lurking beneath his skin told of his underlying rage.
The split in the air sealed behind them like a set of elevator doors. It closed with a definitive smack that rumbled like thunder through the empty night. As it reached its crescendo, their destination appeared before them, and the portal opened once more to allow their exit.
Balthazar hopped out, smiling as he inhaled the fresh, earthy scent surrounding him. He closed his eyes, and for a brief second, revelled in the smallest feeling of peace flowering inside him.
“For fucks sake,” Azazel said, wrinkling his nose up in disgust.
Still stood inside the magickal doorway, he showed no signs of stepping out any time soon. Balthazar shot him a steely stare. Leaves, twigs, a discarded plastic bag, and someone’s clean bedsheets were in a tornado around them. But not a hair on their heads moved.
“Get out,” Balthazar said, all but growling. “Before you draw attention to us.”
Azazel snorted. “From who?” He opened his arms, gesturing at the quiet village they were in. Not a soul could be seen or heard in the sleepy place. “There’s no-one around if you hadn’t noticed. What is this—a retirement village?”
Sighing in exasperation, Balthazar clapped his hands together once. The whirlpool of energy harbouring his brother changed shape into a small circle. The edges squeezed around Azazel’s muscled body, trying to push him out. Folding his arms over his chest, Azazel glared at his brother and stuck it out until the bitter end when the powerful energy forced him out like a cork from a bottle.
“Exactly where are we staying, genius? Just to clarify—I’m not feeling the older woman, granny thing this year, so we may need to move.”
Balthazar walked away. Focusing on nothing but where the worldly energies were guiding him, it didn’t take long for him to put some distance between them both.
Reading energies happened to be one of the more fun things for a demon to do. It took Azazel a while to master the art due to his impatience and jovial nature, but Balthazar caught on quickly. The necessity to stop and empty the mind for a few seconds proved almost impossible for Azazel. A constant merry-go-round of sex, food, torture, and more sex kept his mind constantly active.
However, for Balthazar, the need to imagine his hands turning into long, twisty vines, reaching out and touching physical objects made sense. Everything past, present, and future, only existed, or would exist, because of energy. In order to feel it, and read it, he had to believe he was a part of it.
Azazel only relished in the ability to see human’s dirty little secrets, observe their past, gather information that could be useful to use against them, and of course, get a front row seat to any sexual encounters.
Distance didn’t affect how far their mindful tentacles could go. Only their own mental limitations inhibited their capabilities. Azazel’s main interest focused mostly on areas that burned with a bright red aura—the tell-tale sign of residual sexual energy.
The quaint setting of Grimsthorpe, nestled away in the east of England, held a serene beauty shrouded in a time capsule. Class divide from a century ago seemed still so obvious here—old houses, grossly large but stunning sat within their own grounds and away from the other smaller houses all clustered together in terraced rows. However, the cobbled, sandy bricks and promises of cosy mystery erased the dislike for such close neighbours.
A traditional butchers, greengrocer, and milkman all still thrived in the village, making the feeling of stepping back in time that little bit more realistic. A newsagent tagged onto the end of an old barn, right at the edge of the main street, giving away the only push into modern day customs. Even family from the workers who had worked at the nearby beautiful castle still lived here, stories of ghosts and other strange happenings being passed down from generation to generation.
Whilst the castle itself belonged to The National Trust, the surrounding land and remaining estate attached to it—including the former workmen’s quarters—were left untouched, a taste of days gone by to whoever passed through.
“Doesn’t anyone have sex around here?” Azazel said, wrinkling his nose up in disgust. “Balthazar, I’m serious. I’m not staying here.”
“Shut up moaning, Azazel.”
Scanning his eyes over the fields behind him, Azazel let out a growl of frustration. “I’m not moaning, Balthazar. I’m pointing out a key survival factor here.”
“I’ve never heard of a human dying from a lack of sex, so I think the chances of us doing so are nil. Now, get a move on and follow me.”
Balthazar crossed the empty road, eyeing up the local pub as he walked past it. Lights were on, and a horrible screech sounded over a microphone as someone tried to sing. He ignored it, more interested in following the narrow gravel lined track running alongside it. A thick privet hedge, neatly trimmed at head height, provided a good amount of privacy for whoever ventured down the small lane.
After a few hundred yards, the track opened out into a magnificent carriageway style driveway. An ornate, grey stone fountain sat in the middle, the once stunning equine feature now covered in patches of algae, bird faeces, and years of dirt. The water in the large base around it resembled nothing but a green slime topped with layers of dead leaves.
When Balthazar set eyes on the house, a warm smile warmed his handsome face. Now, this feels like a home , he thought.
Dark red bricks and brown timber window frames gave away the age of the house. Two sides, both sprawling across the extensive grounds, joined together by an awe-inspiring archway entrance porch. The brickwork above the porch had once been white but now held a yellow, aged tinge.
For the first time in years, Balthazar felt the small buzz of excitement deep inside his gut. Even without his magickal abilities, he would have known that this time would be different. This time would be the time for him. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, immersing himself in the reality of this moment.
A long, low whistle cut through his peaceful moment. “Now, this is a house for a party. You done good, little bro.” Azazel clamped his hands down on Balthazar’s shoulders and shook him with excitement. “And we each get a wing to ourselves. An entire wing full of women...I really can’t think of anything better.”
Balthazar shook off his brother’s grip and stalked towards the front door. Trying to hide his irritation failed when he motioned a hand at the solid wooden door, sending it flying backwards on its squeaky hinges like it weighed nothing.
Consumed once again by ill feelings towards his brother, Balthazar missed the friendly, sky-blue energy trying to connect with him. It wasn’t until he stomped his first footstep on the thick wooden floor that the energy materialised in front of him.
“Welcome to the Worthington house. I’m Mildred. I will be your maid during your stay. How can I help you?”
Balthazar stopped dead, his anger notching up a level as yet again, his brother put him off something that could have been vitally important. He stared at the sweet old woman stood in front of him. Boasting the smile of a loving grandmother but wearing the black and white uniform of a maid, she bowed before him.
“Oh, there’s two of you. How lovely. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Peering over his younger brother’s shoulder, Azazel looked at the sight before him. The tight bun on her head pulled her grey hair back off her face. Even edged with wrinkles, her eyes still shone a brilliant blue. Her skin appeared smooth, plump, and full of life.
“Well, hello, Mildred,” Azazel said. “And what might you be hanging around for?”
A sly smile passed over her pale lips. “I am ‘hanging around’ in my home, dear boy.”
“Boy? Really?” He snorted in disgust. “Have you any idea—”
“I know full well what and who you are, Azazel. To be quite frank, if you wish to stay under my roof, you will abide by my rules. I’m afraid that extends to an entire wing of female company, of which I’m sure you won’t be surprised by my forbidding it.” A glassy stare hardened over her eyes. “This is not a brothel, and I shall not have a lady of the night tainting my house under any circumstances. Do I make myself clear?”
Azazel grinned. “Yes, you’re making yourself very clear. Your manifestation is quite remarkable. I’ve never seen one of you in such detail. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were live and kickin’.”
Mildred smiled. In one swift, fluid movement, she reached up to her neck, slipping her aged fingers beneath her high frilled collar.
“You know,” Azazel said, pointing his index finger at her and grinning. “I can tell you’re the kind of old bird who was a fine piece of ass in her day.”
In response, Mildred pulled her hand back from beneath her clothes. A gold chain fell down on her chest, its centre point settling between her breasts.
Azazel fell silent when he saw the intricate detail of a pentagram nestled inside a hexagram. “Ah,” he said, scratching his head.
Clasping her hands in front of her once more, Mildred nodded. “I believe we have an understanding?”
Azazel nodded, a sheepish look sweeping across his features.
“Good boy. Now, how about that tea?”