Chapter 14
Fourteen
Mercy
The man before me is not what I expect from a Demon Prince of Lust.
He’s not the Horseman of War.
Not even terrifying.
Asmodeus is a tortured wreck. He’s in tattered clothes, a dirty hooded blanket, and has dark circles beneath his eyes. By the size of his empty bottle pile and cigarette butts, he’s been down here for a while. Probably stewing in the misery of having a soul.
My fingers tighten around the sword, but it only gives me an embarrassing splutter, a sizzle of smoke, and a single spark that fizzles out before it hits anything.
His eyes drop to it, and his lips slowly curve on one side. “Having a little performance issue, are we, sweetheart?”
My blade is at his throat before he finishes his question. “It cuts well enough.”
Tiny hairs lift on my skin when he chuckles. It’s such a confident, smug, and foolish thing to do when I’m pressing a holy blade to his neck, and Cisco is . . .
My thought trails off when I realize Cisco hasn’t said a thing. My pulse quickens, and I’m too afraid to look.
Why hasn’t he spoken? Or moved? Oh God, is he not breathing? I can’t hear it.
Slowly, painfully, I turn in Cisco’s direction and gasp.
He’s frozen, petrified as if time has stopped only for him. Wholly black, demonic eyes glower at Asmodeus, and his snarl is locked in place. Even the shadow ribbons curling from beneath his tattoos are petrified, suspended midair.
“What have you done to him?” I whisper, horrified.
“Don’t worry, he’s just taking a nap. It’s completely harmless.
” Asmodeus flicks his cigarette butt away and yawns.
“Honestly, wish I could join him. Just looking at you two makes me tired.” He scrubs his face, exasperated.
“The jealousy, the denial, the sheer, staggering volume of your constipated emotional baggage . . . it’s giving me a migraine. ”
“Let him go,” I growl, pressing the blade against his throat. “Wake him up.”
“Not until one of you learns to project your agonizing sexual tension a little quieter. Some of us are trying to have a miserable existential crisis in peace, thank you very much.”
Asmodeus ignores the sword at his throat and yanks the hooded blanket off, revealing an open black tailored jacket with a simple black shirt beneath.
I could be wrong, but I swear he wore that same suit after he crawled out of Prue’s mouth. I remember because Dominic was wearing one just like it. Only, this version has a bullet hole in the T-shirt . . . right over his heart, where Leila shot him with the Helwing gun.
He fumbles around the mess beside him for another cigarette, finds a squashed packet, and tips it upside down. Nothing comes out. He pouts, then continues searching for another.
Have I walked into an alternate dimension? What the fuck is happening?
Snap out of it.
I move the sword to his chest and press the tip until I feel threads fray.
He stills.
Lustrous, dark lashes lift until our eyes clash. “Darling, at least wait until I find another smoke.”
“This is an archangel’s blade,” I warn. “Can’t you feel the divine power purring against you?” I scoff. “What am I saying? Of course you do. It probably hurts, doesn’t it? Imagine how much it will hurt going through your insides, which is exactly what I’ll do if you don’t release Cisco.”
“Oh, please do. I’m begging you.” He deadpans and taps the bullet hole with a black, clawed finger. “Just aim a little to your—”
“Chirp.”
Something moves inside Asmodeus’s jacket, and his face goes pale.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“What’s what?” he replies, eyes bulging.
“In your pocket.” I use the sword tip to peel open his jacket on one side.
A fuzzy, malformed white head pokes out of the inner pocket. It has four eyes: two large, liquid ones and two small ones. Black antennae unfurl and stick up like fox ears. Its head swivels to me, and it stares.
“Chirp,” it snaps from a mammalian mouth.
That felt like a warning. Something like, Back off, lady.
I watch, dumbfounded, as the fist-sized creature crawls out of the pocket on six clawed paws.
A puffy tail swishes beneath tattered and asymmetrical wings as it skitters up the fabric, heading straight for Asmodeus’s throat.
The demon himself sits frozen, as if this will all be forgotten if no one says a word.
As if a tiny white fluff ball isn’t scaling his jaw and aggressively nuzzling his cheek, purring like a broken dirt bike engine.
Asmodeus closes his eyes and exhales, the absolute picture of exhaustion. He groans, “Not now, you wretched lint ball. I am trying to be intimidating.”
He swats it away, but it flies off, does a clumsy loop-de-loop, and lands directly on his head, paws digging into the silken black hair. It blinks at me with big, dumb, empty eyes.
Asmodeus huffs through his nose, grabs a bottle of sacramental wine from a crate behind him, and twists the cap off.
“Now, where were we?” He takes a swig and grimaces as holy meets the profane. Smoke leaks from his nose. He burps and tries to thump his chest, but his knuckles whack my blade. “Oh, right. That.” He glances down. “Go ahead. Kill me. Just aim a little more to the right.”
“Are we not going to talk about the white thing in your hair?”
“Nope.” He taps his bullet hole. “Stab here, darling. Penetrate me good and hard, just how you like it.”
“Are you insane?”
“Insane?” He snorts. “Tired more like it. Do you have any idea how exhausting this soul thing is?”
“Um. Probably.”
“I don’t think you do,” he cries. “I felt guilt this morning. Guilt! From stealing a croissant! I used to bathe in the blood of the innocent, and now I’m worried about my cholesterol and whether the barista thinks I’m rude. It’s a fucking nightmare.”
He grabs the blade and adjusts my aim, so it’s centered over his heart—the bullet hole. “All right, I’m ready. Do your worst.”
I hesitate, but then think, this demon killed Prudence. He killed a lot of people. Was probably sitting there right now, watching Cisco and me while having a drink. If I kill him, maybe the spell, or whatever he’s done to Cisco, will break.
The instant my intention solidifies and I press on the blade, the moth creature launches off Asmodeus’s head with a pint-sized snarl.
It flies directly at me, but I dodge. It zooms straight past my face and bonks harmlessly off Cisco’s frozen pectoral, then falls in a drunken swirl until it lands on the chalky floor with a squeak.
It’s not dead, though. It pushes up on its six, furry legs and shakes its head, dazed.
Asmodeus slaps his face with his palm and mumbles through his fingers, “Terrifying. Truly. Get back in my pocket before I feed you to a ghoul.”
He reaches for it, and something lurches inside my chest. “Don’t you dare feed him to a ghoul!”
I drop the sword and pick it up, cradling it to my chest. It’s so fluffy. So tiny. Poor thing.
“I don’t even know what a ghoul is,” I growl, “but you scared it. Look, it’s shaking. Poor little guy only wanted to protect you.”
“Oh, puh-lease. That’s how he gets you.” Asmodeus rolls his eyes. “One minute he’s all bitey and enormously fierce, the next he’s giving you those little puppy dog eyes and pretending he’s lost and can’t find the way to purgatory even though that’s his actual job and he’s been doing it for eons.”
That’s . . . oddly specific.
“He?” I tickle under its furry chin and smile when it does that dirt bike engine purr, nuzzling into me. “What kind of creature is he?”
“He’s a celestial defect who forgot how to fall properly. He follows me around because he’s too stupid to realize I’m not home anymore.”
But even as he insults the creature, Asmodeus gently scoops it from my hands and tucks it safely into his pocket, close to his newly beating heart.
He sees me staring at him, a wry smile on my face.
“Well, he’s a stray, isn’t he?” he says. “Like us. That’s why I’m letting him tag along.”
“Mm-hm.” I pick up my sword.
“I feel sorry for him, that’s all.”
“And you call him . . . ?”
“Noctis Mothieu Daemos.”
I clear my throat. “Creative name.”
Asmodeus gives me a flat look, knowing exactly what he’s just done. You only name a pet if you intend to keep it.
“Shut up.” He scowls and swipes his bottle of communion wine. Gulps a few mouthfuls down. Burps smoke. “Just let me die in peace.”
“If you really wanted to die, you wouldn’t have frozen Cisco.”
Noctis chirps in agreement, but doesn’t come out of the pocket. Asmodeus adjusts his body’s angle ever so slightly so the pocket is farther away from Cisco.
“Wait a minute.” I point at the priest. “You froze him not because he was about to attack you, but because your pet would have been collateral damage. Oh my God, Leila said, you couldn’t hurt her now that you have a soul. But this . . . you really have gone soft.”
“He is not my pet. He’s a psychopomp. And if I can’t off myself, then he’s my only chance at finding the way back home.”
“To Hell.”
“You’re on fire today.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He looks me dead in the eyes, manifests a new cigarette between his lips, and then snaps his fingers before it.
Embers light up at the end, and his lips curve around the filter.
He holds it steady with two fingers and inhales smoke, cheeks hollowing.
But as he pulls it out of his mouth and exhales, the fuzzy little white gremlin lets out an alarmed chirp and zooms out of the pocket to snatch the cigarette from his fingers.
It flies off to land out of arm’s reach on the limestone retaining wall and starts gnawing at it with relish.
Meanwhile, Asmodeus is staring at the space between his fingers in absolute, broken defeat.
“I hate everything.” He flops onto his back with a dramatic thud and a groan. “I hate this soul. I hate this catacomb. And I hate this defective lint ball.”
I can’t stop smiling. “Wait until the others hear about this.”
A single arm raises and points at me. “You talk, and I’ll flay the skin from your body and bathe in your blood.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t think so.”
“Fine. Then I won’t tell you what I know about this guy.”