Getting sloshed worked so much better when Chris had beer. He peered blearily into his fridge. No matter how he squinted, though, not a single brown bottle could be seen. Not even a can.

Woe is me.

He waggled his fingers and shouted, “Shazam!”

Beer did not magically appear.

“I command thee, minions of darkness, to fetch me a brew!” He stated it in his most regal voice. So what if he slurred a bit. Minions should always obey.

Except he didn’t have any minions because he wasn’t a king.

“Fuck.” More and more, the world, life, everything sucked. His mom wasn’t his mom. His future as the Antichrist might have been overstated. He’d imagined a sister and then kicked her into Hell. And he didn’t get the girl.

Not even a blowjob.

What was the point of living?

I’m a loser. Useless. A waste of space and breath.

Why bother trying? No one gave a shit about him. The only thing great about him was his full head of hair, and even that could end up falling out in a few years.

I’m nobody.

His fingers curled around the hilt of a knife, and he drew it level with his chest. Pointed it inward. It wouldn’t take much effort to end it all.

Do it, a voice seemed to whisper to him. Spill your blood. Open up your heart. Let me in.

The kitchen light refracted off the blade, and he blinked.

Blinked again and stared at the knife.

How had that gotten there? What the fuck had gotten into him? Since when did he get so maudlin?

“I’m not a whiny little bitch.” Nor was he suicidal. He must have really gotten himself fucked up to even think of it. The empty bag on the counter indicated that he’d perhaps eaten a few more ’shrooms than was wise.

Moving away from the sink, he decided fresh air was in order, and to those who might question his idea of fresh air wandering through a cemetery? To them, he said, “Fuck off.” A little death and decay helped clear the lungs.

Stepping outside, he shoved his hands into his pockets, his hooded sweater cutting off most of the evening chill. Night had long fallen. His hallucination of his sister had long departed. Each deep lungful of air cleared the fog in his head a little more.

The strange despair he’d just suffered faded, and his usual brash self came back in bits and pieces.

I am great.

But even he had to admit greatness could be lonely, especially since his hand wasn’t speaking to his dick. A certain set of fingers was jealous that he preferred a girl.

Not just any girl.

Isobel.

The woman who didn’t want him.

Without even thinking of it, he made his way to the gravesite where he’d first met Isobel. A woman who’d changed his perspective of the world in so my ways.

For one, she believed in the Devil, even claimed her grandfather knew him.

Knew the man who was supposed to be his father.

He wanted to call them all liars, except there was no denying Isobel and her family weren’t normal folks. They had magic—real, tangible magic. Not the fake kind done by magicians on television.

Since meeting her, Chris had discovered magic within himself. He couldn’t yet control it; however, it existed inside him. Waiting for him to learn some control.

You know what that means? I am special.

Perhaps he couldn’t yet claim who his father was with any sort of certainty. However, here was what he did know. Whoever his real mother was, she actively searched for him, and she didn’t do it by normal means because, last he’d heard, taking over the bodies of others wasn’t normal. Actually, it was messed up.

Almost as messed up as his imaginary sister being back, stepping out of a dark rift several yards away. She’d brought a guy with her, a tall fellow dressed in a strange uniform, blue and white, with gold braid and buttons. The older gent, whose dark hair held hints of silver at the temples, wore the outfit with style, and despite having never met him, Chris couldn’t help but find him kind of familiar. Perhaps they’d done a stint together in the mental hospital. People who liked to dress up like centuries-old war generals tended to visit asylums quite often, especially when they fired off cannons.

People who thought they were the Antichrist often spent time in padded rooms, too. Chris had become quite good at creating pornographic art with crayons.

Whatever he thought he saw now wasn’t real. The ’shrooms he’d chowed down on earlier proved most tenacious. Despite the weird things he’d seen in his life, even he knew people did not step out of nowhere.

And I am not going back to the asylum.

He inhaled the crisp air of the cemetery and closed his eyes. A few deep breaths would clear his head and erase the mirage. Now, if only he could shut out their voices.

“This is the boy you brought me to see? Not very impressive.”

At the brusque grumble, Chris peeled open one eyelid and noted the pair standing close to him, so close he could see the man with tanned skin had no pores. A faint hint of something sulfuric wafted past his nose.

Damned pond stinking the place up again.

Chris closed his eyes and kept breathing, hands shoved into his pockets as he waited for sanity to prevail.

“Why is he ignoring me? People never ignore me. It’s unheard of. It’s disrespectful.”

At that, Chris felt he had to answer. “I know. You’re welcome.”

“Impertinent little bastard. I’ll teach you to diss the king of dissing.”

Chris’s feet suddenly left the ground, and he opened his eyes to see himself flying backwards, arms and legs akimbo.

Wham.

His flight came to an abrupt end when he hit his house.

Ow.

Since when did his hallucinations hurt?

The dude in the Napoleon suit came striding toward him, Bambi tripping at his side in her high heels that kept wanting to dig into the soft earth.

The man’s eyes flashed orange, a pinprick that made it seem like they held a flame.

Chris had seen that very thing before.

In his own mirror.

Could it be? Had he finally hallucinated his version of his father?

“I thought he’d be taller,” he muttered aloud. He wiggled his toes and wondered if he was asleep on the couch. If he thrashed too hard, would he end up on the floor?

“Who did you think would be taller, imposter?” The man stood below him, and then he was in front of him, hovering above the earth, glaring at Chris.

Still not impressed, Chris replied, “If you’re going to fly like a certain guy in tights, then shouldn’t you wear a cape?”

The man scowled. “I knew I should have gone with my Vader outfit. That French prick never did get the respect he deserved.” The man shot a disgusted look down at his outfit. “Remind me to draw and quarter my tailor when I get back to the castle.”

“Who are you?” Chris asked, although, given it was his dream, he could guess.

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“Let’s see, since Bambi claims she’s my sister”—she waggled her fingers at him and smiled, and he waggled back—“then you’re supposed to be my dad.”

“Doubtful. Any son of mine would be much better-looking. Stronger, too.”

“Says the guy who probably has to shower twice a day to keep the old-man smell away.”

“I’m not old. I’m distinguished,” retorted the fellow.

“And who says I’m not strong? Maybe I just don’t like beating up on senior citizens.”

It amused Chris to see smoke actually begin to seep from the supposed Devil’s ears. His imagination proved most vivid. He actually began to enjoy himself.

“Daddy, put him down this instant. Is that any way to treat my brother?” a feminine voice harangued as she approached, her stride long, her eyes flashing with fire.

“I thought I left you in Hell,” the man huffed, whirling around in mid-air to face the newcomer.

“You also thought I cheated on my exam when I got that A. Guess you’re not all-knowing after all.”

“This is why I don’t bring you with me, Muri. You cannot make me look bad in front of my minions.”

“He’s not your minion. He’s…” The girl with long dark hair cocked her head and looked at Chris. “Who are you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” he retorted instead.

With a flourish, she announced, “I’m Satana Muriel Baphomet.”

How dare she steal his last name? “No, you’re not. Because I’m Christopher Lucius Baphomet, the first.” The only Baphomet. He never asked to have sisters.

Apparently, the girl hadn’t gotten the memo. She clapped her hands. “How exciting. We share the same last name. You’re the first of my siblings to do so.”

“The name means nothing,” grumbled the old guy. “The last pretender I killed also tried to use it.”

“Who are you?” Christopher asked, even if he had an inkling of the answer. It was, after all, his fucked-up dream.

“Lucifer. The one, the only, the biggest, baddest Dark Lord Hell has ever known.”

“Um, you’re the only lord Hell has ever had,” Muriel pointed out.

The so-called Devil, who looked rather mundane in his costume, flung up his hands. “See what I mean? Always undermining me. You’re not too old for me to ground you.”

“Try it and see if you get anything for Christmas,” she yelled with her hands planted on her hips.

“Why can’t you be more evil like your sister Bambi?” he hollered back.

“Because being a virgin is more fun. It’s the one thing that makes that vein in your forehead pop.”

It also made smoke pour from Lucifer’s nose.

Enjoying his vivid dream, Christopher felt the need to add, “I’m not a virgin. As a matter of fact, I’ve probably slept with more women than you have, old man.”

“Silence! I wasn’t talking to you.” Lucifer swept a hand in his direction, and Chris’s mouth slammed shut.

Hold on a second. This was Chris’s dream, and he didn’t like the way it kept treating him. Time for him to exert some control—even if he possibly fell off the couch when he woke.

He strained a little bit and brought his hands together and then pushed them down. He also spat out some weird word that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a hiss. He couldn’t have said why he did it, but a moment later, he hit the ground with a thump.

“How did you do that?” Lucifer asked, floating down to join him. “Who taught you that word of power?”

“No one. And while this make-believe meeting has been fascinating, I’m really not interested in my subconscious rendering of a family.”

“You don’t think we’re real?” Muriel smiled at him. “Oh, this is going to be funny.”

“You would deny my existence,” bellowed Lucifer.

“I deny all your existences. I mean, seriously, Lucifer in a costume from Napoleon times and two sisters? When we all know, according to prophecy, that the Devil only has one child. A son. Me. And I will add that, while I am the Antichrist, I’m not that interested in having a dad. I also never asked for one sister, let alone two. So why don’t you all do me a favor and go back to Hell or my subconscious or wherever you supposedly came from?” He waved his hand.

Everyone kind of stared.

Then they laughed.

That seemed to happen a lot to him lately, and it was getting kind of tiresome.

“I said, go!” The word of power flowed from him, and while it sent Bambi skating backwards as if on ice, Muriel only staggered before catching herself, and the Lucifer fellow didn’t budge at all.

“Well, that was unexpected. Who are you, boy? Who is your mother?”

He sighed. “You already know that I don’t know, and let me guess, if I ask you—because you’re imaginary—you won’t know either, so this whole conversation is redundant.” Was anyone else as confused as he?

“Daddy, perhaps it’s time you made him realize this is real.”

Chris sure as hell hoped it wasn’t real, given he’d soundly insulted the Devil.

Lucifer looked pensive. “There is something odd about this boy. There are spells covering him, spells the likes of which I’ve not seen since—”

Whatever he meant to say got lost in the sudden noise of wings, massive wings fluttering overhead. Chris’s jaw dropped, almost hit the ground actually, as a trio of angels, bearing shiny weapons, swooped from the sky.