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Eventually, Lauren?iu looks back at Paimon, who regards him evenly. In this moment, they almost feel like equals. “Normally, I seal it with a kiss.”
Lauren?iu stares. “Ahh.”
A kiss.
At this point in time, he can think of a thousand worse things than kissing attractive demon royalty to get a chance to kill Anthony. They could all line up for all he cares, even Leviathan and his tentacles.
Paimon extends a hand. “But I can make an exception. Careful, though, these things can sting.”
Though they are close, everything feels far away as Lauren?iu contemplates the possible pitfalls of binding himself to Paimon’s word.
To Paimon himself.
Then again...
If I can’t have a crown, revenge is a fine substitute.
For how long? that little voice asks. Until you’re frustrated and withdrawn again?He tries to tell himself it's good to have a reprieve from Hell, with its monsters and lost souls.
It’ll be good to have a direct purpose again rather than idling around different courts and looking pretty, though admittedly, he does both well.
A shock goes through him when he realizes that he’ll miss Hell while they’re gone. It shouldn’t be possible for a place of the damned to be like home. Full of arrogant fallen angels and demons and sorrow and repetition.
If you’ll miss it, then what do you have to lose? You’ll have here to come back to.
The same routine. Which isboringas Paimon puts it, but there’s a comfort that it’s there. That Hell will never stop being, well, Hell. The Devil you know and all that.
What if I go back to Earth, and I love it too much?
Impossible, when you think about it. He hadn’t felt love in a long time. If anything, his life of damnation had been a stark improvement, and that was before the world above fell apart. He didn’t miss anyone on Earth, and no one missed him. Ideal. That means he can focus on what he wants most.
Revenge.
What else do I have?
He blinks, and only then does he notice that the room is warm. Before, the fire felt far away.
Lauren?iu shoots out his hand and wraps it around Paimon’s. The King of Hell gives pause, as if not anticipating the enthusiasm, but then he laughs. His skin is warm, and he smells of spicy-sweet alcohol and brimstone.
They shake on it, and there’s a burst of golden light that hurts, like placing his palm on a hot stove eye.
Crisscrossing gold threads spiderweb along both their hands. The pain narrows to a bee sting, or a cat scratch, and the gold patterns, like double helixes, remain on their hands. A reminder of their new bond. A promise.
Lauren?iu jerks his hand back with a wince. “That does sting.”
“I told you.”
“I thought you were being figurative.”
Next, they plan, and Paimon is happy, no,giddy. He even gets dressed in a black vest, matching slacks, and a blood-red shirt. But before that, he claps his hands in excitement. It’s almost admirable; Lauren?iu can’t remember the last time he’s been that thrilled, even at the prospect of murdering a man who deserves to die and bathing in his blood.
With a deep laugh, Paimon explains, “Scheming is so fun. Much better than listening to woes for an eternity.” He flips his hair over his shoulder. “No matter how sexy I look in a crown.” He looks over Lauren?iu, who still sits contemplatively. A frown. More of a pout. “Aren’t you excited to murder the man who wronged you?”
Calmly, Lauren?iu replies, “I’m not sure what I feel. I must do it.”
“Because it’s what’s right?”
Right. As if either of them know what that is, or care. “Maybe I felt that way once. That I was righting the wrongs against me. Now, I want to enjoy it. Savor it.”
