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Being King of Hell is a pretty good deal. Out of the billions of souls and entities across the universe, how many getthat?Sure, he’d hope to rule Heaven, but all circumstances considered, with Earth on fire and ravaged by a “reanimated persons” outbreak, he’s just fine drinking wine down here, thank you.
The virus is much like rabies: encephalitis; delirium; paranoia; fainting; vomiting; always ends in death. Instead of permanent death, of course, they come back.
The issue then became whether people who are paranoid are infected, and then people being suspicious of the suspicious ones, or even the unsuspicious if they had other symptoms like insomnia, anxiety, excessive drooling, or a refusal to drink water.
Especially because whereas rabies symptoms develop in months, the reanimation virus enters its final stages in about one to three weeks from contact, making people think they had the flu, a stomach bug, or just general malaise from the state of the world before they faint and perish in agony.
Yes. Paimon prefers getting his dick sucked.
Lucifer did him a favor giving him this position in the Ninth Circle of Hell; Paimon had loved Lucifer when he first set eyes—quite a lot of eyes in his true form—on the most exquisite angel he’d ever seen, and would ever see.
Everything is perfect.
Yet.
Paimon needs someone to stay with him. If not for the night, then to stay for an hour, maybe two.
He thinks about his delectable options. He even considers going to the center of Judecca where Lucifer’s massive palace of frozen roses and lilies looms. Only once, he’ll kneel as those elegant fingers caress his hair. And then, in his cool tenor, Lucifer will tell him to take charge, as if he were avenging; as if he were God or the Archangel Michael themselves.
He combs through the day, and two chilled blue eyes cut into his head.
Lauren?iu.
Ah, his cherished little vampire. He has many human souls and demons, but only one vampire.
Thirty years, was it? Time never quite aligned the same with Earth. Still, just a drop in the bucket. Feels like yesterday he’d first looked into the solemn eyes that, nevertheless, burned.
Yearned.
Resented.
I sat in a perfect garden of a hundred lilies, and I felt that inferno. I felt it in me, in my thousands of companions. So, I fought. I hated. I was never the strongest or most adored angel, but my hate wasn’t much different from my love for my king.
At times, he hadn’t been sure which was love and which was hate.
Fires like that must be cultivated. Kept and left to grow potent, like good wine; Paimon’s favorites always had that hint of tartness, bitterness, like a pomegranate seed.
Besides, revenge is fun. Paimon doesn’t know who Lauren?iu hates, and he’s never asked because it’s like the last truffle chocolate you wait to eat until the perfect day, when you can savor it.
The washroom he strolls into is a parade of peacock colors, the shimmering tiles teal and sapphire-blue. The large bath is grooved into the floor. Before he gets the water steaming, he calls for someone in his retinue to summon Lauren?iu. While he waits, he takes some fragrant oils out of a porcelain goose.
As always, Lauren?iu arrives promptly and politely, stopping in front of the bedroom door and knocking. This has always fascinated Paimon to no end. They’re in Hell, with lakes of fire and monsters who swoop down and chew on souls. Decorum isn’t a top priority outside of the glittering spires where they pantomime their lost virtue, and Lauren?iuknockson doors out of respect. Most demons don’t; they came from the essence of earth itself, which doesn’t have doors or “please” and “thank you.”
Maybe it’s a vampire thing, the whole “have to be invited in once” rule, which he thought was a myth, but he’s always figured there’s something else to it. After all, it’s not as if Lauren?iu hasn’t attended to him before.
“Come in,” Paimon calls from the washroom.
Lauren?iu obeys; if Paimon didn’t have an angel’s hearing, he might not be able to hear the vampire at all.
Expertly, Lauren?iu kneels, knuckles, knees, and form-flattering silk brushing the tiles. “My king.”
Breezily, Paimon tells him, “Oh, get up. I would like you to attend to me.” He admires Lauren?iu’s ability to kneel but not necessarily feel as if he’s submitting.
Standing, Lauren?iu replies automatically, looking up, “Of course. If it pleases you, I would like that, too.” His tone is neutral.
Paimon suppresses a sigh. Always so formal. He almost prefers the rowdiness and unpolished edges of the demons, who are born of the chaotic energies of Earth and Hell.
Almost. There’s something to be said for someone who suppresses themselves; that usually means that there’s something explosive beneath. He holds out his arm, which has crisscrossed, tied golden threads at the cuff.
