Chapter Two
DEVLIN
One might assume it’s hard—no pun intended—to have a lousy time at an orgy. Especially at one of my orgies. Perched on an overlook high in the Santa Monica Mountains, my Hollywood Hills mansion is the place to see and be seen, offering a veritable buffet of adult entertainment options under one very expensive, very exclusive roof. My nightly fetes have become infamous—a badge of honor, I’m told, for those who meet the criteria for an invitation.
Namely, being rich and famous and ridiculously good-looking.
Trust me—life as an immortal is far too long to spend it in the company of the dull and ill-favored. Especially when said company is naked.
Lest I be accused of superficiality, there’s one more criterion—most important of all. Before stepping a single manicured toe over my property line, aspiring guests must accept the iron-clad terms of service specifying the price of admission:
Their souls.
All signatures are made in person—none of this modern digital nonsense—and require a drop of blood to bind them.
Just a little prick, my bouncers tell them, their Hell-forged demon blades gleaming as brightly as their smiles, and your dalliance with the Devil may begin…
The humans laugh and sign the paperwork and dutifully hold out their finger for the nick of the blade, thinking it’s all just part of the spectacle, the exclusivity, the eccentric enigma that is Mr. Devlin Pierce.
Cruel? Perhaps. Deceitful? No. I’ve never lied to them. It’s all in the terms, clear as the night is long. If only they read the fine print.
But they’re far more interested in getting in the door, hobnobbing with the cream of the California crop: actors, models, singers and rappers, professional athletes, the occasional tech billionaire. Not to mention the latest strain of nouveau riche—the influencers.
I’m still not exactly sure how they make their millions, but they seem to believe I’m one of them—beautiful, entertaining, ostentatious, attention-seeking.
The ruse has worked out well for me. Far better than the previous century’s attempts to infiltrate the close-knit circles of the morally bankrupt: politicians, mafia henchmen, clergy.
Not my style, friends. Look at this face—the face of a prince. Social media stardom is a much better fit. The wild parties? Just an added perk. Icing on the Devil's food cake, so to speak. And normally, I’m the first one in line for a bite.
Not so tonight.
I’d only just slipped into my arseless leather party attire—and before you judge, this is bespoke Italian craftsmanship, not some redneck knockoff—when I felt it. No, not the tantalizing sting of a riding crop kissing my exposed backside—as much as I do on occasion enjoy that particular sensation.
I’m talking about that ice-cold whisper between the shoulder blades, the invisible touch of something that lurks beyond the veil, just outside the realm of perception.
I haven’t been able to shake it. Something is just… off. Has been off, if I’m being honest. And it’s not just the bad mojo, either.
I never thought I’d say this, but the task of filling Hell’s bottomless coffers has become as unfulfilling as smiting demons for sport. Tonight, not even the promise of debasing the illustrious Hollywood elite can sweeten my sour mood.
The very thought of posing for another selfie with my drunken revelers, of devising one more outlandish poolside stunt to keep the insipid bubbleheads coming back for more, of awakening face-down on my alpaca rug beneath one more nameless pile of naked, sweat-glistened humans with little recollection of how they came to join me…
Demon’s balls, it’s enough to turn my blood to lead.
Most people would literally sell off a body part to score an invitation—and have tried, if the internet rumors are anything to go by—yet here I am, wandering the master suite in my fine leathers, proverbial dick in proverbial hand, bored out of my bloody skull. If I could actually die, I’d smash that skull into the wall repeatedly until the job was done, grateful for a change from the stale routine.
Alas, I’m cursed as an immortal. Any head-bashing would be an exercise in futility. Not unlike arseless leather pants (though I’m told I wear them well).
An explosion of laughter downstairs shatters my rumination, reminding me I’ve still got a role to play. A job to do. Expectations to meet, night after night, if I’m to sing over enough souls to satisfy the terms of my banishment, return home to Hell, and reclaim my rightful throne.
You didn’t think I was doing this for fun, did you?
Readying myself for the myriad phones and drones that await, I head out with every intention of donning the glittering smile, the mask of the unflappable rake they love to hate and hate to love. But the moment I step onto the gleaming marble staircase and spot the gyrating, inebriated throngs below, my feet stop working.
I can’t do it. Can’t take another step.
Can’t pretend, even for one more night.
Still unseen by the crowd, I slip back into my suite and take the hidden staircase down to the kitchen, blissfully ignored by the demon caterers and bartenders on my staff.
I dart out the back and down another hallway, my private sanctuary so close I can almost hear the fire crackling in the hearth. Almost taste the bourbon I’m soon to pour. Almost relax enough to—
A glass shatters. An idiot curses.
Then he stumbles out of the billiards room and right into my arms.
Dreadful heathen.
Also, a highly overpaid professional quarterback. Dressed in nothing but a pale blue ballerina skirt—a jarring contrast to the uniform he dons every Sunday. He stares up at me with the glassy, vacant eyes of a man who’s just gone a few rounds with the designer-drug candy bowl.
“Heyyyy,” he slurs. “I know you!”
“And I you.” I set him on his feet, propping him against the wall for support. “If you’ll excuse me, I—”
He lifts a finger, as if to put me on pause, and fishes his phone out of… well, I’m quite sure I don’t want to know. His skirt doesn’t appear to have pockets.
Before I can beg off, he’s throwing an arm around me, pressing his cheek to mine and holding up the phone for a few selfies.
Fine, fine. All part of the play. A fake smile here, a thumbs-up there.
He exchanges the phone for a Sharpie.
Again, no idea where that exchange happened.
Again, trying not to think about it too hard. Especially when he asks for an autograph.
On his arse.
Well, Devlin Pierce is nothing if not accommodating. Also, prepared. Retrieving my own Sharpie from an actual pocket designed for just that purpose, I flip up the skirt and do the deed on his left cheek, finishing it with a smiley face to let him know just how bloody ecstatic I am to make his acquaintance.
I also draw a dick, because who wouldn’t? A genuine grin graces my lips as I think about how long Sharpie takes to wash off, and how he’ll forget this entire interaction until game day this weekend, when his football mates spot my artwork in the locker room.
“Enjoy your evening, QB One.” A quick smack on the arse, and I send him on his way.
Coast clear, I return to the shadows, slinking past door after door—the game room, the sauna, the home theater, the home film studio—each room brimming with the sounds of laughter and revelry and the unmistakably wet slap of flesh on flesh.
Also, the occasional bleating of a goat, and… is that a monkey?
Good grief, I hope he signed the consent form.
It’s a full twenty minutes before I reach my destination, ducking and weaving to avoid my guests, stopping when avoidance just isn’t an option: another selfie, this time with an upstart congressman. A shot of something pink and overly sweet with a woman matching that very description. The autographing of a bare breast—singer, I think.
And then, just when I’m ready to light myself on fire to avoid another run-in, I reach the elusive door, press my eye to the retinal scanner, and…
I’m in.
The breath leaves me in a rush.
Undisturbed by my demonic staff and magically hidden from human perception, the study is my private oasis when the rest of my home feels like anything but.
In here, there’s no pretense. No deejays and flashing neon lights. No crystal bowls filled with pills. No scantily clad beauties vying for attention, no fellow influencers begging for collaboration opps to boost the so-called algorithms.
Just the stodgy leather furniture and built-in shelves of rich mahogany set against butter-yellow walls. A few portraits painted by men long since dead. The stone hearth and a fire that jumps to life at the snap of my fingers.
My black velvet smoking jacket hangs on the wrought iron coat rack inside, untouched since my last visit, and I slip it over my shoulders before sinking into a chair before the hearth.
Ah, but there’s nothing quite like a fall fire. Staring into the flames, I feel the tension leaving my tired muscles, the knot of worry in my gut loosening.
In the quiet of my inner sanctum, it’s easy to believe I’m not an infamous entertainer. For a moment, I might even pretend I’m not the Devil, either. Just a man enjoying a roaring fire, nowhere else to be, no one around to judge his worthiness and find it utterly lacking.
“So sorry,” comes the grating interruption. “Is all this drama and debauchery boring you tonight, Highness?”