Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The waiting room outside Senior Soul Acquisition Manager Beelzebrock's office hadn't changed in the last century. Same uncomfortable stone benches. Same lava fall cascading down the wall. Same sense of creeping dread.
Mal’s tail twitched as he smoothed down his tie for the hundredth time. The fabric smoldered under his fingers—it was so hard not to incinerate things when he was nervous. At least his horns were polished. That had to count for something.
Another demon strutted past, their containment vessel glowing with a freshly harvested soul. Mal's eyes narrowed. He used to have a vessel like that. Back when he’d still been allowed topside.
He could have one again, if he only managed to convince his boss.
"Malphas!" Beelzebrock's voice boomed through the heavy door. "Get in here."
Mal stumbled to his feet, straightened his smoking tie one last time, and pushed through the door.
Beelzebrock sat behind a massive desk carved from brimstone. The senior demon's six eyes fixed on him with the kind of weary resignation usually reserved for tax audits. The desk groaned under the weight of scrolls. Mal's incident reports, probably.
"Sir, thank you for seeing me," Mal said, trying to sound confident. "I know my past record isn't perfect?—"
"Perfect?" Beelzebub snorted flames. He grabbed a scroll at random. "Let’s review. 1478: Assigned to corrupt Father Giovanni De Luca. Instead of damning his soul, you..." He squinted at the parchment. "Helped him build an orphanage?"
"The children were starving! And technically, pride is a sin, so if he got too proud of his good works?—"
"1843: Target, Elisabeth Blackwood. Mission: Tempt her to betray her family for riches." Beelzebrock’s eyes scanned the text. "You facilitated a tearful reconciliation at Christmas."
"Love is a sort of currency if you look at it from a certain angle. She walked away from that very rich!"
His boss shot him a glare and his voice dropped to a growl. "1923. James Morrison. Gambling addict. Should have been an easy soul to claim. You were supposed to push him over the edge. Instead?"
Mal stared at his shoes, which had started to melt. "I may have... helped him join a support group."
"Which didn't even exist until you invented it!" All six eyes blazed. "Do you know how much paperwork that caused?"
"But sir, I've learned from my mistakes! I've spent the last century in the Dark Archives filing ominous prophecies. I'm ready for field work again. I only need another chance!"
"You're the worst demon in the history of Hell." Beelzebrock massaged his temples. "The actual worst. I have the metrics to prove it." He gestured at the scrolls. "You know what your problem is, Malphas? You care. It's embarrassing."
"I don't care!" Mal protested. His tie burst into flames. He patted it out. "I mean, I do care. About collecting souls! Which I would be excellent at if?—"
"No. Absolutely not. You are staying right here in Hell where you can't cause any more damage. Now get out of my office. Those prophecies won't file themselves."
Mal slunk toward the door, shoulders hunched. "What if I promised to be really, really evil this time?"
"OUT!"
The heavy door slammed behind him. Mal trudged back toward the Dark Archives, leaving smoking footprints in his wake. Another demon passed by on their way to another soul collection job, a smug expression on her face.
Mal envied her.
One more chance. That was all he needed. Just one opportunity to prove he could be as ruthless and heartless as any other demon.
Was that really so much to ask?