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Prologue
Calvus
Why didI think we could do this?
Break into the North Pole of all places, one of the most protected communities in all of angel history? Why did I let them talk me into this?
Why? Why? Why?
I run a hand through my sandy-blond hair as I stand with my brothers at the very top of a large snowy hill. There appears to be a small town down below us, tiny houses with mushroom roofs poking through the skeletal tree branches blanketed with snow. Eight-foot tall candy canes designed as streetlamps dot the road. Red and green pathways, each one lit up with multi-colored Christmas lights strung on picket fences that peek out of the snow drifts. And finally, in the distance, a warehouse hewn of dark wood with a shiny red roof—Santa’s Workshop.
“If we do this, we’ll go down in history,” Demosthenes—Dem—says, rubbing his hands together with an eager glint in his eyes. He’s always been the most daring member of our demon murder. He thrives off the thrill, the chase, the hunt. It’s what makes him an excellent pickpocket and thief in Hell. Back when he was alive, centuries ago, he was considered one of the greatest thieves to ever live… Of course, he died shortly after they said that, the irony. Gunshot wound to the chest, because the dumbass got caught stealing from some noble lady after he fucked her.
And now, he’s enjoying Hell with the best of us.
He’s part of our murder, a group of demons banded together for strength in the endless fight against Heaven’s puritanical bullshit.
“It’s too cold,” Brynjarr whines, already sagging heavily against a glaring Zorgos. Zorgos—or Gus, as we call him—immediately shoves the sloth demon to the ground, his lips quirking in a semblance of a smile when Bryn’s immediately submerged in six feet of snow. “Fuck you.” Bryn’s voice is muffled, and I half wonder if he’s already asleep. That’s confirmed only a moment later when a loud snore erupts from the demon-shaped hole in the snow. Sloth demons. They can hardly stay awake long enough to insult you.
Gus just grins, his tongue tapping his lip ring as his eyes focus on our target. “Let’s fuck shit up.” He cracks his tattooed neck and pumps his black wings once. As a wrath demon, he’s always itching for a fight.
“I got ’em.” Nicomedes strolls forward with a cocky-ass grin, and I just barely contain my groan. As a frustration demon, Nico thrives on this shit—pissing every living thing the fuck off. And non-living things. I’m pretty sure he made a cup irritated once on a dare.
He was drunk. I was drunk. Don’t ask.
His fiery red hair flames around his face as he kneels beside the hole, his fucking red and green kilt pulling up to give me an unwanted view of his ass and the tip of his dick.
Motherfucker.
Before any of us can stop him, Nico jumps into the hole, balls first, and lands on Bryn’s face with a “Whoop!” Of course, his battle cry wakes Bryn up instantly…or it could be the hairy ballsack millimeters from the sloth demon’s mouth.
“Fer Scotland!” Nico cries, still attached to his homeland centuries after death and moving through the demon ranks.
“You fucker!” Bryn shouts as he gets tea-bagged.
As the two of them begin to tussle in the snow, disturbing the landscape and causing flurries to waft across my face, I turn towards Gus, who’s, unsurprisingly, still scowling. Wrath demons don’t often smile.
“We need a plan.” I use the pad of my middle finger to push my glasses back into place. As a demon, I don’t actually need glasses, but it’s a habit I’ve had since I was human. At least, I assume it was. Unlike Dem, who has brief flashes of being a world-renowned thief, I don’t have any memories of my human life. I just know that I have a desperate craving for chocolate twenty-four seven, I love my women kinky, and I like fiddling with my glasses.
“Easy!” Dem slings his arms over the two of us, a wide, shit-eating grin on his pretty boy face. “You go in,” he nods at me, “and talk Santa into giving us his kingdom with that silver tongue of yours.”
Ah. Yes. My power…or sin, as the case may be. White lies. It’s how I deceived my way up the ladder in Hell and became a powerful leader, one of the few murder teams that no one can go up against. Maybe Raz—the devil’s right-hand man—and his team could take us, but they’ve been a bit preoccupied lately on Earth.
“And if that doesn’t work?” Gus demands, hurling daggers with his eyes at an unrepentant Dem.
“Then I’ll steal it,” Dem answers smugly, holding out his hand and showing me my fucking watch. When did he take it from my wrist?!?
This is why I shouldn’t have allowed a kleptomaniac on my team. I resist the urge to swipe it back from him.
“We need an actual plan,” I insist, gazing far out onto the horizon. Demons everywhere are desperate to claim the North Pole as their own. To take down Santa and his army of cherubs in the Christmas realm. And if my murder were to get it…
I can already imagine the celebration waiting for us back in Hell. The food, the wine, the sexy female demons using their forked tongues to suck on my horns.
But that isn’t the only reason why I brought my team here. There’s another one…a silver cord propelling me forward and reaching towards—
I shake my head vehemently to clear the thought.
“You looked at the blueprints dozens of times. You canna tell me you’re second-guessing now,” Nico says as he and Bryn move to join us, both completely covered in a fine layer of snow. Nico turns towards me, his face red from the cold, and continues, “We stop at Santa’s house first. That’ll be a good craic, incapacitating the big man. Then move on to his workshop. The dafty cherubs in town will fall in line. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, eh?”
