Chapter1
Calamity
Being the daughter of a demon lord had its perks.
For one,Calamitywasn’t afraid of him.Sure, he towered over her, his obsidian horns and knife-like talons glinting against the dusty landscape, but he needed her.Or, at least, he thought he did, and that was what mattered.Shewas his heir of chaos; not that she ever intended to cash in on all that entailed.
Second, she could actually hear him over the chaos ofPandemonium.Forany other creature, who would have been deafened by the wails and screams that echoed off every surface,Trulnurothwould have had to raise his horrible, croaky voice, driving even the sanest visitors to madness.But, as his daughter,Calamitywas protected.
Finally, and most importantly, was the fact that demon lords tended to be a bit more in-the-know about powerful dark magic than the average adventurer.Magicsuch as that sought and wielded byTheTwelve, a shadowy syndicate of would-be conquerors that had been snapping up all-too-powerfulartefactsacrossCalamity’shome world.Sheand her friends had been huntingTheTwelvefor years, but they’d only managed to take down two.Nowtheir leads had dried up, and she hadn’t known where else to go.
Her friends would have been horrified to know where she was.Theyknew she was of demon descent– one look at her purple skin, long tail, and gold-tipped horns told them that– but her true heritage remained a secret.Itwas frowned upon to even sayTrulnuroth’strue name out loud, much less claim any connection to him; he was more often referred to as thePrinceofPandemonium.Thisfear stemmed from an ancient prophecy that the demon lord would one day return from his exile and conquer the material plane, ringing in a new reality of chaos and carnage.Andthe part that concernedCalamity, and made all others too afraid to even utter his name?Hewould have help.Someonewould hand him the tools he needed to subdue the world.ThemomentCalamityhad been born, he’d decided it would be her, even naming her for the chaos she would supposedly help him unleash.
“It is good to see you, child,”Trulnurothsaid, his voice so deep that, even despite her protections, it shook the bedrock beneath her feet. “Whatbrings you to me?Haveyou the key to my ascension?”
According to the prophecy, a servant ofTrulnurothwould one day deliver a powerful key, which would enable his rise to power.Asfond asCalamitywas of a little chaos, she wasn’t actually keen to let this prophecy come to pass, and she had no intention of accidentally becoming that servant.Shecouldn’t risk something seemingly innocuous causing the ruinous end of everything she knew and loved, so she’d been careful to bring with her as little as possible– just the spell scroll she’d need to get home and her spellcasting focus, which was the broken tip of one of the obsidian black horns atop her father’s head.
If she’d had any other place to go for information, she would have.Butthere was no point protecting her world fromTrulnurothonly to let it fall toTheTwelve.
“My party andIare after a group calledTheTwelve,” she said, straight to business. “We’vedealt with two of them–LordArnaultandLadyNephrine– but if we’re right, then there are ten left, and we can’t find any more leads.”
Trulnuroth laughed– a menacing scratching noise that madeCalamity’sskin crawl.Sheopened her mouth to hurry him along– she didn’t have time for posturing or power trips– but he finally answered.
“I have heard rumblings,” he said, crouching down before her, drawing in the dust at his feet with one curved talon.Theimage quickly took shape: a perfect twelve-pointed star.Theemblem ofTheTwelve.Heswiped over two of the points with his huge hand, smudging them from the image– the two that had already been vanquished.
“Do you know who the others are?”
Trulnuroth considered her question for another long while.Hiseyes were completely white, all sclera, but she somehow knew he was holding her gaze.Judgingher resolve.Shesteeled herself, doing her best to project confidence.Determination.Single-mindedness.
Was it just her, or did the feared demon lord’s face soften slightly?
Calamity grew impatient as her father seemingly weighed up whether to help her.Shewould not make any deals; any promises.Shewould leave empty-handed if she had to.Shewould not bend to him.Butshe really, really didn’t want to return to her friends with nothing.Ithad been risky to come here, and she didn’t want it to have been in vain.
She saw the resolve set in his gaze; he seemed to have finished assessing her.Shesucked in a nervous breath and held it as he stood, unfolding to his full, terrible glory.
“I know who they are,” he rumbled.
“And you’ll tell me?”
Trulnuroth nodded slowly, andCalamityheaved out a sigh of relief.
Thank god,she thought.Or,Isuppose, thankDad.
Chapter2
Chloe
My tits had never been stickier, though, as a gold-star lesbian, that wasn’t saying much.
I grinned like an absolute fool, honey mead dripping down my cleavage and pooling against the fabric of my yellow corset.Istumbled away from the bar, half because of the several meadsI’dconsumed, half in gay panic, and another half for good measure because my black lace-up boots were a size too big.
The naughty wenches had been everythingI’ddreamt they would be and more.We’dcome all the way from theUKtoSouthernCaliforniafor this specificRenaissanceFaire.I’dconvinced my friends by telling them it was the best one, and theSoCalclimate was so nice in winter, blah blah blah, but really it was because they had the infamous wenches who uttered filthy nothings whilst pouring mead directly down your throat.
It had been worth every penny of the plane ticket.Theblonde busty wench had told meIhad “the most delectable little mouth” she’d seen all day, andIknewI’dbe riding that high all weekend.Sure, most of the mead had ended up on my chest rather than in said delectable mouth, but that was half the fun, wasn’t it?
And god, the mead was delicious.I’donce tried my hand at making my own, but it had turned out so badlyIwas afraidI’dpoisoned my friends.No, it was much better leaving the mead-making to the pros, and the mead distribution to the wenches.
I grabbed one of the fabric scraps that made up my handmade skirt and dabbed at the sticky mess between my breasts, trying to salvage some sort of dignity beforeIfound my friends.Theskirt had been a labour of love– or of desperation, at least– sewn together from dozens of different yellow and black fabric scrapsI’dpilfered fromPhil’scollection for my bee outfit.Onceour overworked costume manager, he’d finally put his foot down last year and made us all source our own outfits instead of leaning on him to craft them.ButonceI’dproven myineptitudeat choosing appropriate materials, he’d had mercy on me and let me raid his scrap stash for my skirt, showing me how to stitch them together onto a makeshift waistband.Itwasn’t perfect, but it sufficiently read “honeybee”– or an anthropomorphised version of one, at least.Combinedwith my favourite yellow corset top and a pair of wingsI’dbought online,Ilooked like a slightly dishevelled but enthusiastic hive member.
