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“Your Highness, Prince Lucifer of Hell, Leader of the King’s Armies, Victor of the—”
“Yes, you recognize me,” I bite out, cutting him off. Those honorifics can go on for hours if I allow it.
He backs away a step, bobbing in repetitive bows. “What might a humble steward do to serve you, my liege?”
“Take me to my father.”
“Right away, right away, right this way.” He backs away, still bowing. He’s going to fall into a fountain doing things that way.
“For fuck’s sake. Will you stand up?” I demand.
“Yes sire, yes, right away sire.” He stands and finally turns around. Two other stewards scramble to join him, one of them holding a black, curved ram’s horn. He blows it like a trumpet.
“Make way for Prince Lucifer, Leader of the King’s Armies, Victor of the Great Battles, First Among Generals…”
This goes on for a while. I tune it out and examine the trophies of war instead. Each pillar in the entry hall contains a sealed display case in which various items stolen from the battlefield are kept. I obtained many of them myself. Angelic weapons, locks of hair, golden sandals. A skull, a hand, a golden gauntlet. Bits and pieces, and none of it terribly impressive. Even less impressive when compared to the centerpiece of the collection, held in the final pillar before the staircase, facing the front doors as a testament to the abilities of Hell’s army.
It’s the golden armor of an archangel. Even after an eternity in Hell, watching over the blatant sin happening all around it, the armor still gleams with a fierce purity. The scalloped shoulders are sharp as blades. The ornate layers of the curved breastplate show a twisted, mocking reflection of the room, as though the armor itself is unimpressed by the offense given here. The whole of it, from the hawk-head helmet to the reinforced boots, gives the impression that it’s only passing time in Hell. Unmarred, even by the blood of the felled archangel who wore it, the armor sits in striking and uncomfortable contrast to the room around it.
The party’s grotesque displays of reckless abandon and debauchery continue up the stairs, bodies sprawled on the steps themselves and against the banister. Although the stewards are more thickly congregated here, the smears and splashes of vice-driven mess decorate the staircase. The next level is slightly cleaner, although no less occupied, and in the throne room, the event takes on a more sinister air. This is where indulgence and ambition come to copulate and produce their heirs.
Cephalus has clearly heard the news of my arrival. He doesn’t make a habit of sitting on his throne without an audience, and the other occupants of the room are otherwise engaged, rutting against walls and whispering sinful words to one another.
As the steward leads me into the room, my father smirks at me from his place on the throne.
“My son.” His voice rings through the large space, capturing the attention of everyone around us. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the grandfather of lies,” I say dryly, gesturing at my father. “We can do this here, Cephalus, but your reputation might never recover.”
Wide, terrified glances flash from me to Cephalus. Rumors and theories run in murmurs around the room, becoming more fantastic with every pass.
Cephalus’s smirk widens. “My reputation will stand as it always has. Yours, however, might not survive another blow.” He rises, slowly and majestically, putting on a show. “I would be loath to cause such a disastrous blemish against my own son. Come. We will speak in my chambers.”
Loath indeed.
He’ll eagerly cause his sons pain, heartache, even death, but he draws the line at a marred reputation. My hatred for him burns under my skin. Fenriz walks just behind me as we follow Cephalus through the door set into the wall behind the throne. The narrow hallway leads past deep-set alcoves cast in shadow, where unspeakable defenses lie in wait. We round a corner, and the sounds of the party cut off so suddenly that silence rings loudly in my ears.
I expect him to take us to the room where the majority of his negotiations and confrontations occur. A formal, cold room that holds a smaller throne and nothing else, where he forces his opponents to stand below him in discomfort while he negotiates from a place of power. Instead, he leads us to his personal lounge, a comfortable room dressed in deep natural shades, full of books and maps and soft furniture. A fire burns in the huge fireplace, and three glasses are already set out on the table along with a decanter of wine.
Cephalus gestures to two of the large, overstuffed chairs on one side of the table. He settles himself in the other. Fenriz and I share a look and remain standing. My father raises his eyebrows, appearing amused.
“I have to say, Lucifer,” he begins as he takes the top off the decanter. “I didn’t think you would come. I find it difficult to believe you have become so attached to a little human.”
He glances at me, searching for a reaction. I don’t give him the satisfaction. He silently offers us wine but doesn’t wait for a response before filling all three glasses.
“I can’t say I blame you,” he continues. His gaze takes on an unfocused look, as if he’s remembering something. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
I’m going to rip his fucking head off.
Fenriz’s hand is on my arm before that thought can become action. He doesn’t look at me, but the warning in his gesture is clear. Not here. Not now. Play the long game.
“Oh, sit down,” Cephalus says impatiently. “You aren’t going to kill me here. I’m not going to kill you either, unless you leave me no other option. Sit down, have a drink, act like a civilized demon.”
Fenriz and I both make a point of checking the chairs thoroughly for traps, spikes, or poisons before taking our seats. Cephalus smirks, but I can see his patience wearing thin. We accept our drinks, and Fenriz sips from his glass, then waits. Most of the poisons in Hell work rather abruptly, creatures perishing within moments of ingesting the evil concoctions. After a minute, he trades his glass for mine and sips that one too. When that passes the test, we each settle back with our drinks.
I had no true concerns about the wine. Poison isn’t Cephalus’s style. Fenriz’s actions, however, have had the desired effect. Cephalus is offended and impatient.
“I have something you want,” he says gruffly, getting right to the point. “For whatever reason, she’s important to you. My only question is, just how important is she?”
