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You’re on a roll, sad boy.
“Anyway, I have to go, Luce. Lots to do.”
“Okay,” she said, the note of concern creeping back into her tone. “But call me any time. Literally, any time.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you, Cole. I really do. And if you need anything—”
“Okay, thanks. Bye, Luce,” I said and hung up.
I tossed my phone aside. The quiet was oppressive and I suddenly felt untethered from everyone and everything. I’d never known my dad, and my mother took off when I was thirteen. My grandma, Margaret-Anne, had been my only family and now she was gone. Even Lucy, who lived in New York, may as well have been a million miles away.
I stared out into the cold gray light, the neighborhood buildings surrounding me. Boxing me in. No money. No place to live. No family. The paintings leaning against the wall were the only thing I had to show for an education at the Royal Academy of London. Not enough.
I’m not good enough.
My thoughts raced like this, on a loop of despair and self-doubt, spinning tighter and tighter until my heart began to pound like a hammer in my chest. In seconds, the beats became too fast to distinguish one from another. I clutched my shirt that was drenched in sweat.
“Fuck, not now.”
I lay back on my pillows and concentrated on the cracked ceiling. My racing pulse slowly calmed down, one breath at a time. I’d get a new place to liveanda new job. A better job. And Vaughn was going to come through for me. It was like he said—I was going through a rough patch. That’s all.
After what felt like hours, the panic attack subsided leaving me hollow and drained. It was only six in the evening, but I climbed under the covers to try to dive into the refuge of sleep that had been eluding me for months too.
Tomorrow will be better. It will.
I held onto that thought as I mercifully drifted away—gripped it with both hands—while another seemed to smile snidely.
You sure about that?
two
“KNEEL, boy!”
I do as commanded and wince. The blood-spattered stone is unforgiving on my naked human flesh. But if I get out of this with only a few bruises, I’ll consider myself lucky.
Asmodai, archduke of hell, sits on a throne of bones, fires burning all around from nowhere and everywhere at once. He’s terrible to behold. Worse is being beheldbyhim. Three pairs of eyes from his three heads—ram, human, bull—are trained on me, each burning with barely-contained rage.
He seems fun.
“You know why you’re here,” Asmodai says with his middle human head.
He’s crawling around in my thoughts; I have to be careful.
“I have a guess, my lord.”
“Ashtaroth—your maker—is dead. Consigned to Oblivion.”
“Terrible shame. He was like a father to me.”
A father made of snakes and whose breath could kill small animals, but one couldn’t be too picky.
“Casziel, the Nightbringer and your direct superior, has escaped us.” He pins me with a stare. “You were close with him.”
It isn’t a question.
“I served Casziel for more than two hundred human years,” I say carefully. “Over that time, I developed a certain…fondness for him.”
