Chapter 2
Tucked in a shadowed corner in the chambers of the Guard of the Righteous, Honor covered her mouth with a hand to muffle a horrified gasp. She listened in horror as the Archangel Michael, laid out his plans to fight, capture, and banish the four Horsemen.
Her very first assignment as a Watcher, and Honor already felt overwhelmed and frightened. She wished more than anything she could make herself visible, cry out, and warn the stern-looking, yet strikingly handsome Archangel warrior, of the foolishness of his endeavor. She ached to beg the male to abandon this futile mission so as not to endanger himself and the other angelen and sancten of the Guard.
But Honor could do naught but stand back and allow the events to unfurl as the Fates intended.
It was what it meant to be a Watcher. What she accepted when she agreed. Never to be seen or heard whilst going about her duties. Sent from the Hereafter with a singular purpose… to Watch. The only immortal classification with the gift of invisibility without a spell, Honor remained unseen as her insides twisted in abject fear, whilst the Guard grew increasingly boisterous and enthusiastic as they rallied around the Archangel’s ludicrous proposal. Honor received this task mere hours ago, and already she longed for Gabriel to chose another. She most definitely did not want to bear witness to the destruction of these brave and honorable immortals.
Before Gabriel sent Honor back to the Earthly plane as a Watcher, she spent what seemed like days, weeks even—though she knew in the Hereafter, time did not pass as it did on the Earthly plane—under the tutelage of other angels. They taught her what she need know; what it meant to be immortal and the various factions, both righteous and deceitful, and received extensive knowledge on both Michael Caelum, the Archangel of Protection, and the four Horsemen—Death, Pestilence, War, and Famine.
What she learnt in her studies shook Honor to the core. The sinister daemon brothers were frighteningly ruthless and bloodthirsty, determined to bring Judgment Day at any cost, opening seal after seal until the Earth, and everyone on it, succumbed to their destruction.
As her mentor explained it, the vast portal that lies directly beneath the heavily populated village of Eastlake Falls would open, permanently, allowing every wicked daemon and sin-laden immortal of the Underworld to escape. Most would gleefully kill, maim, and torture humans and immortals alike until the Earthly plane became a literal hell on earth. That Michael possessed the sheer arrogance—Or is it bravery?—to believe he could capture and banish the four, as of now, unstoppable Horsemen, left Honor trembling.
How was she to stand idly by and Watch as the virtuous Archangel was mayhap struck down? Or gravely injured? Just the image of Michael’s spilt blood, dark red fluid soaking the ground beneath his slain form, turned her stomach.
Honor’s attention was wrenched from her gruesome thoughts when the angels and saints stood and began to exit the hall, still eagerly discussing the different means they would utilize to capture each of the Horsemen. Their optimism was honorable, yet it saddened Honor.
She lingered in her corner until Michael remained alone in the open chamber. Honor had to admit he was a sight to behold. No doubt Michael’s face was stern and wholly unapproachable, all sharp angles with a strong jaw, remarkably blue eyes as cold as stone. But Honor saw the unfriendly exterior for what it was, armor. Armor which hid Michael’s true emotions, the angel only displaying power and confidence, the likes of which inspired the Guard to loyally follow his every command.
Her gaze left Michael’s callous yet beautiful face, greedy to take in more. And Fates, was there ever more. Even through his loose hanging clothes, she knew him to be broad in the shoulders, with bulging arms and tree trunk thighs. In truth, every inch of the Archangel projected tremendous strength of both body and mind. The flickering flames dancing in the fireplace as tall as she, cast shadows along Michael’s angular muscles. The orange glow merely enhanced his raw masculinity and made it that much harder to tear her gaze away.
Without the distraction of the Guard, Honor succumbed to temptation and further studied the handsome and imposing Protector. She was there to Watch, after all.
But angels and saints above, this male was completely unlike any immortal she had encountered thus far, not that there had been many. In truth, the only immortals Honor interacted with were Aaron, Gabriel, and the mentors who provided training in the Hereafter. And in her opinion, not a single one held a flicker of a candle’s flame to Michael Caelum. The mentor explained Michael’s chosen surname translated to “heaven”, which was quite fitting as the male was indeed a heavenly vision.
With his large stature, Honor suspected Michael towered over not only nearly every human, but most immortals as well. Inexplicably enthralled, Honor absorbed even the smallest of details, committing each to memory. She began her exploration at the top of Michael’s thick mane of golden hair. Wavy and silky, the tips brushed Michael’s shoulders in a way that made Honor shiver. Her perusal continued down an impressive chest, and she found herself fascinated by the way his body narrowed to slender hips, tapered like the tip of an arrow. On the way down that glorious torso, Honor noted leather straps which crisscrossed over Michael’s chest.
Her gaze traced the belts around Michael’s ribcage to his back, where a mighty sword hung between his shoulder blades, suspended in an elaborate sheath, hilt up, blade down. Honor studied the worn grip and gilded pommel, inhaling a sharp breath when she recognized the weapon.
By the very Fates!
The legendary Sword of Light. The divine weapon of the Protector. Honor mulled over whether it appropriate to genuflect in its presence.
She decided to remain standing, but stared at the blade for many minutes before finally managing to pull her attention from the sacred sword. Looking for somewhere else to place her focus, Honor’s eyes dropped below Michael’s waist. He chose that exact moment to shift and her cheeks burst into flames. Now angled away from Honor, she found herself staring directly at Michael’s perfectly rounded backside.
Mayhap his trousers aren’t as loose as his tunic.
Skin from the tips of Honor’s ears all the way to her collarbone flushed and tingled as a jolt of electricity crackled along her nerve endings.
Prithee I don’t burn to ash, she thought as she voraciously took in Michael’s outstanding rear end. A deep-seated hunger, unlike anything Honor had known, unfurled low in her abdomen, smoldering with heat and desire and an unfamiliar ache that made her feel empty.
Her mind wandered and Honor wondered how firm the curved muscles of Michael’s buttocks might feel beneath her hands should she slide them over his tight waistcoat and trousers. Oh my! Honor all but burst into flames at the indecency of her thoughts and the prickly discomfort of her shame extinguished the burgeoning desire. Humiliated, Honor forced her gaze away from the visual delights of Michael Caelum’s assets.
A moment of rebellion and Honor snuck one last peek at Michael, knowing it was wrong but unable to stop herself. Halfway done mapping every angle and line of Michael’s mouthwatering body, the Archangel suddenly froze, the only movement the rising and falling of his chest. He tilted his head as if straining to listen for… something.
Honor held her breath and made not a single sound, though she knew she was being ridiculous. According to both Aaron and her mentors, immortals could neither see nor hear a Watcher when he or she masked their presence. Yet Honor quickly discovered Michael’s actions defied what she knew. Her pulse raced as the Archangel deliberately scanned the room.
Ever so slowly, Michael turned in a tight circle, his intelligent eyes scrutinizing every nook and cranny. When his sharp gaze came to rest upon the very spot where Honor stood, she panicked. Heart pounding and hands trembling, she struggled to remain absolutely still as if the slightest of movements would give her away. Michael fixed his stare upon Honor’s, and at that moment she would swear to the Fates he could truly see her.
Only… that was impossible. Was it not?
Confused and a bit frightened, Honor thought to dematerialize, but found she couldn’t pull out of the trance Archangel held over her. With a surge of bravery—or mayhap madness—she straightened her spine and met those bright blue eyes.
Out of nowhere, arousal slammed into Honor like a battering ram, punching the air from her lungs. Fear and worry forgotten, the sparks in her belly caught and burst into a roaring inferno, her body engulfed by the flames until Honor swore she was near to burning up. It was as if glowing hot coals consumed every part of her from the inside out, leaving naught but a pile of ash.
Michael took a step closer and his scent reached her nose. Honor swooned. Merciful Fates, it was intoxicating, earthy with a hint of sandalwood. So many sensations assaulted her at once, Honor swore she felt Michael’s life force literally pressing against her, demanding entrance. It was as if Michael’s own hands caressed Honor’s bare skin. She shivered as invisible thick and rough fingers skimmed across sensitized nerves, felt every callus and scrape of nails.
The glowing lilac sphere buried in Honor’s chest—explained to her as the representation of an immortal’s life force, their very soul—grew brighter. Her soul pulsated and flared and without warning, an electrified current shot down her arms and legs, traveling all the way to her fingertips and toes. Like a rush of liquid heat, the sensation was so decadent, so pleasurable, a wanton moan left her parted lips.
Michael’s eyes narrowed, as if he were attempting to focus on that which he sensed but could not see. Overwhelmed and dizzy with lust, Honor could not concentrate hard enough to know what to make of Michael’s odd reaction—or her own for that matter. According to everything she learnt in the Hereafter, it was impossible for the Archangel to detect her presence, yet, despite the teachings, in truth it appeared Michael—or mayhap his instinct—was quite aware something else was in the room.
A deep frown marring his handsome face, Michael took another wary step in Honor’s direction. She choked down a cry as her lilac life force flared even brighter. This time, the storm of arousal that tormented her body left her breathless and immobile. The rush was so powerful Honor drowned in immodest thoughts along with the intense need to press her body against the Archangel’s.
It mattered not how stridently Honor’s soul demanded she reveal her presence to Michael so that they might explore this… connection between them. Honor could not. She had been warned many times. She was never to allow her subject to become aware of her existence.
One side of her brain completely lust-addled and the other in a panicked frenzy, Honor did the only thing that came to her weak and muddled mind… she vanished.
* * *
Hand pressed over her heart, Honor gulped down air as she struggled to bring her mutinous life force to heel. The intense reaction to Michael’s close proximity still incinerated her insides, a hot, deep-seated desire that left her aching and needy. Her scalp prickled and her body burned in an unfamiliar way. One Honor understood in theory, but had never experienced. Certainly Henry, her betrothed, never made Honor feel so decadently indecent. But then, whilst Honor did not, and would not, choose Henry as her own, at that time she didn’t possess the strange, glowing sphere inside her chest. A sphere that gave her immortality. A source of power that, if Honor interpreted correctly, responded strongly to the Archangel.
The question is, why does it react as such?
Having lost track of time, it was minutes, or mayhap hours later, that Honor collected her scattered thoughts and took a look around. She immediately recognized the familiar and strangely comforting white, the lack of sensation in her body, and the perfect temperature surrounding her like a soft blanket.
The Hereafter.
Her mentors explained that while Honor retained her Earthly appearance, in the Hereafter her body was a mere figment. Only the shining life force existed on this plane. It was the reason one could not feel external stimuli, only emotions—the soul intact but the body non-existent
“Watcher, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
Honor squeaked with surprise and spun toward the voice. When she laid eyes on the source, she stiffened and immediately dropped her chin to her chest, dipping her head out of respect.
“Gabriel,” Honor whispered as she fought to smother her newly discovered desire, a tumultuous storm that somehow unleashed from within.
Honor knew if she were on the Earthly plane, her cheeks and neck would be blazing hot with shame. Just moments ago she had been swept up in a torrent of electrifying arousal. Now she faced her superior, the Archangel, Gabriel. She cringed, knowing that although mayhap her body was numb, every carnal thought and inappropriate desire felt as powerful here as they did on the Earthly plane, and in the midst of this inappropriate bout of lust, Honor found herself face to face with the powerful overseer of all Watchers.
Can he sense my impure cravings? My sinful desires?
The Archangel Gabriel serves as the Messenger. The one to whom all Watchers answer. Gabriel is the conduit between the Hereafter and the Fates, those who pass down all decisions in this mystical white world. While Honor wasn’t privy to most of what occurred in the Hereafter, she did know Gabriel received orders as to who and what was to be Watched. In turn, Gabriel passed the assignments to his Watchers, and the Watchers returned with their reports. Gabriel’s task was to relay the information to the Fates.
For what purpose? Honor couldn’t even guess.
“Relax, dear Watcher.”
Honor let out the breath she had been holding and dared steal a peek at Gabriel. To her relief, she was met with kind eyes. Despite Gabriel’s welcoming look, Honor lowered her gaze once more. She had not been instructed to bow or prostrate to Gabriel, yet for some reason, it felt proper to show deference to the Archangel.
Physically, Gabriel was the exact opposite of Michael, the large and intimidating warrior, though Gabriel’s presence was equally awe-inspiring. When she was near, Honor felt the power that poured off both Gabriel and Michael. She assumed close proximity to the other five Archangels would yield similar results should she ever meet them.
Though Gabriel and Michael’s power felt equal in potency that was where the similarities ended. Michael was rugged and unarguably masculine in stature, strong and intimidating. Even Honor could admit that Michael could be a tad overwhelming. Gabriel, on the other hand, was soft and youthful in appearance. Despite his boyish looks, Honor dare not take Gabriel’s sweet facade for granted. In truth, she was a newly made immortal with little experience, and as a human she was kept sheltered and naïve. But Honor was intelligent enough to know Gabriel was a force to be reckoned.
Apparently finished studying her as she squirmed under his scrutiny—no doubt in an attempt to ferret out her reasons for being there—Gabriel spoke. “My dear, have you completed your first assignment so soon?”
Gabriel raked his intelligent gaze over her once more, this time so slow and thorough Honor shivered. It was clear he was searching for answers, the questions to which Honor wouldn’t presume to know. As calm and kind as Gabriel appeared, Honor knew better than let her guard down. In truth, she felt distinctly uneasy. Even without physical sensation, it felt as if nerves twisted in her stomach. The unfairness of being unable to feel her body while suffering every single effect of the gut-wrenching anxiety made her bristle. She knew not the proper response to Gabriel’s question. She wasn’t privy to what was considered the normal timeframe to complete an assignment. How could she? One minute, Honor was human, concerned with trite tasks such as cooking and cleaning and her upcoming betrothal. The next, she awoke in the white room.
“N-no, um, Archangel, sir. I have not finished.”
“If it pleases, I prefer you address me as Gabriel.”
To mask her surprise Honor blinked and gaped at Gabriel’s youthful, kind—and dare she say innocent?—face. “As you wish… um, Gabriel. But as I said, I have yet to complete my assignment. I… I merely required a quick escape.” Again, a heavy knot of nerves sat in her non-existent belly.
Stupid soul and its stupid ability to feel all my stupid anxiety.
It was Gabriel’s turn to blink. “Escape? Whatever for, my dear? Did your mentors not teach you how to mask your presence before sending you to the Earthly plane?”
Honor bit the inside of her cheek and immediately released it, annoyed at the numbness. She was uncertain if she should confess to Gabriel how Michael seemed to sense her despite being masked.
“They did instruct me as such. I-I just panicked.” Her decision was made. Honor wasn’t sure why she thought it essential to keep the particulars of her encounter with Michael to herself. Instinct? Or mayhap embarrassment for her arousal?
Gabriel smiled and Honor gasped. Mayhap it was rude, but she could hardly help being taken aback. It was just that Gabriel threw her off balance. When he smiled, the ancient Archangel’s face transformed. He looked so young it was difficult to remember how old and powerful he was.
During her mentoring, Honor learned immortals stop physically aging at around twenty-three human years, yet Gabriel could easily pass for seventeen or eighteen. As it was, Honor herself was a mere nineteen when she… oh my, died. Dear Fates, it was so strange to think of oneself as deceased, yet it was the truth. She was well and truly dead. As a human, anyway.
“Why don’t you have a rest before returning to your work,” Gabriel said. “Spending time in the Hereafter now and then is good for your soul. Refreshing in a way.”
Indeed, Honor did notice the bizarre activity in her faintly glowing lilac center had ceased, as did any remaining traces of lust. She nodded in agreement and exited Gabriel’s office to do… whatever one did in the Hereafter. Honor took a deep breath and decided she was about to discover what, exactly, that might entail.
* * *
Michael slipped his arms out of the well-worn leather harness that lashed his sword to his back and placed it on an iron hook embedded in the rough stone wall of his modest dwelling. Filled with pride, Michael ran a hand down the pommel and hilt, his touch reverent. The Sword of Light was Michael’s gift from the Fates, one of seven immortal objects known as the Maledictus Arma. Unfortunately, the Daemon Kings had theirs as well, the Impuratous Arma, or Nefarious Weapons.
As with the Kings and their destructive versions, each Archangel possessed one of the sacred Maledictus Arma. As the Protector, Michael was bestowed a weapon of great importance and divine power. The Sword of Light has a very rare ability. When wielded by the “just and honorable”, its blade could strike down an immortal. Forever. They would not travel to the Underworld or the Hereafter. Fate had no mercy. The sword’s victims were to experience absolute nothingness for all of eternity.
Michael had yet to use the sword to kill, and hoped he never did, though every immortal in existence knew of the sword’s powers and gave it—and Michael—the proper respect, a large berth, or both. Under Michael’s gentle fingertips, the hilt began to radiate with a faint blue glow. Each immortal sent from the Hereafter possessed a soul, and that soul held its own tenor, a fingerprint of sorts. Michael’s own shone royal blue, and therefore, his weapon reflected the same color.
Michael turned from the sword, shed his clothing, and grabbed an empty basin. He filled the shallow bowl with water from a large wooden barrel set in a corner of his small abode. The angelen and sancten were humble. They required not the riches and comfort those from the Underworld sought out and desired. Using a clean scrap of cloth, Michael washed, scrubbing his face and body quickly as the cold water raised goose flesh down his arms and back. When satisfied he was clean as he could be without a proper bath, Michael dried off and dressed in fresh clothing. He was lacing up his boots when the fine hairs at his nape stood on end. The same strange awareness Michael noticed in the Guard’s chambers pricked at his senses.
It feels… almost as if I am not alone.
Without warning, the steady blue glow of his life force leapt into action, the sphere brightening and swirling, the rapidly expanding power pulsing behind his breastbone. He cried out as intense, red-hot desire, the likes of which he’d never known, penetrated his soul’s tough outer layer. In that instant, Michael’s insides went up like a pyre and his sex lengthened until it throbbed, the length harder than granite. Bewildered by the sudden arousal, Michael brought up a hand and scratched the skin over his pectoral muscles, as if he could reach through his body to touch the brilliant sphere and somehow force it to cease this unusual—and frankly, humiliating—response. Despite his very long existence, Michael never gave much thought to physical intimacy. With the portal to the Underworld in constant danger of opening, he was too busy to care, and to be honest, hardly took notice of the fairer sex but for very rare occasions.
Michael glanced around the room to find nothing out of order. As there were no nooks or alcoves in which to conceal oneself, Michael knew without a doubt he was alone, yet the strange sense and tingling arousal persisted.
“Hello?” he called out.
Michael’s face instantly heated. Fates, he was acting a fool. He was alone. There was no one else in his home. Speaking to that which did not exist wouldn’t magically produce another—be they human, immortal, or otherwise. Michael shook his head and finished getting dressed. Just as he knotted the final lace of his boots, there was a knock at the door. He was thankful for the interruption, as the diversion quelled his life force, returning it to its typical calm and steady state. Michael wasn’t sure if he was glad the bizarre activity ceased, or if he missed the long dormant feelings it brought about, feelings Michael long since forgot existed.
“Enter,” Michael called, knowing full well who stood on the other side.
“Greetings,” Tony said as the saint strode into the room with easy confidence. With him Tony brought the mouthwatering scent of meat and bread. Michael’s stomach growled loudly in approval. “I have supper.” Tony raised a gunnysack and waved it under Michael’s nose, then proceeded to empty the contents upon a small table. Michael retrieved a jug of mead and the two sat to eat.
Tony was practically bouncing in his seat so eager was he to share whatever news had the male riled up. Michael was thankful Tony at least had the grace to wait until he finished chewing his last succulent bite before bringing up their earlier meeting.
“Pray tell, what you are thinking about taking down the Horsemen?”
Michael frowned. Did he not cover this during the meeting? “As I explained—”
“Aye, I remember,” Tony said. Michael despised being interrupted and forced back his irritation as the saint continued. “You honestly believe we can take down the Horsemen one at a time? That this ‘Master of Practitioners’ will produce accurate visions? How do we know the singled out Horseman’s brothers won’t come to the rescue when we attack? Surely we can’t take all four at once,” Tony went on, doubt furrowing his brow.
Michael kept his stony façade in place, leaned back in the sturdy timber chair, and studied his closest friend and ally. While he certainly was unhappy with Tony rudely interrupting him and angry at the male’s lack of faith, Michael was moved by the alarm in Tony’s expression. He sighed and deigned to address Tony’s concerns.
“What I think, amicus, is that we haven’t a choice. Is the plan dangerous? Aye. Anything involving the embodiment of evil is inherently dangerous. But I cannot allow the Horsemen to destroy this plane without at the very least, trying to stop them. In fact, for a while now I’ve believed I have let them get away with too much for too long.”
Michael shifted his gaze over Tony’s shoulder to his sword. Tony twisted his head to follow Michael’s line of sight. “You believe the Sword of Light will be enough.” Tony’s flat tone conveyed his doubt and he turned back to face Michael. “Will it? Be enough to take down a Horseman, that is? As far as immortals go, they are immensely powerful.”
Furious at his previous lack of action as the Horsemen carved their path of destruction, and now his inability thus far to capture any of them, Michael’s infamous temper finally made a long overdue appearance. With a loud bang, he slammed his huge fist on the table so hard bowls and cups rattled.
“It will have to be enough,” he hissed, his temples throbbing as he unleashed his frustration. “We have no other option. If the Horsemen are indeed opening seals, which all signs indicate they are, we are growing short on time. So far, we know they have opened only the sigillum luminare, the lesser seals. Once the Horsemen start on the seven sigillum magna… the real destruction will begin. When that occurs, the horrors that follow will make their recent trail of death and devastation seem as innocent as a babe playing with kittens.”
Michael struggled to pull in a steady breath, his chest near bursting with rage. It was his failure that allowed an evil sorcerer to open the portal so long ago, thereby setting the Horsemen free. It was also his lack of action in pursuing them that led to so many innocent souls being taken from this plane before their time. Michael refused to make any more mistakes when it came to the four brothers.
Tony mashed his lips in a tight line, obviously as frustrated with the Guard’s lack of progress as Michael. “The Horsemen were never meant to leave the Underworld,” Tony said. “This entire business with them is an infernal nightmare.”
“It is. And it is our nightmare to deal with and contain.”
“I know,” Tony conceded and pressed his fingers down on his forehead as if trying to smooth out the creases. “It appears we must decide when to approach this Master Sorcerer, and when we are to depart. Oh,” Tony added. His gaze narrowed and Michael noticed Tony’s shoulders tense up. “And which Horseman to track down first.”
Michael let out a dark chuckle, one devoid of humor. “That is the only easy question you have asked, amicus. We go for Death.”
* * *
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, the young half-daemon froze, rooted to the spot. The pair of heavy boots came to a stop just outside Dante’s chambers and he broke out in a cold sweat. Dante’s eyes never strayed from the thick slab of wood that formed the only barrier between him and whatever nightmare waited on the other side. He felt empty as his own aura retreated in fear. The navy blue sphere faded and shrank inside his chest in a futile bid to protect Dante’s condemned soul from his father’s perversions.
Though Dante had been expecting it, the three loud thumps on the door startled him and his whole body jerked. He swiped his tongue over dry, cracked lips and a flock of fluttering nerves clawed its way up his throat. Dante’s empty stomach twisted, and the hollow, nauseated sensation swelled when he heard the all too familiar words that followed the knock.
“My Prince, the King requests your presence, posthaste.” When Dante didn’t respond to the voice he knew to belong to Vyltaran—an incubus, his father’s closest advisor, and an evil piece of troll shit—the sex daemon snarled. Low vibrations from Vyltaran’s growl penetrated the thick wood to slam directly into Dante’s hammering heart. “I know you’re in there you insolent whelp. If you don’t come out, I shall be most delighted to force you.” An evil laugh accompanied by the tooth-jarring screech of long, sharp claws down the length of the door had Dante shivering in terror. He swallowed and winced at the gritty sensation that scratched his dry throat.
“I-I’m coming.” When his voice cracked, Dante cursed under his breath for allowing his cowardice to show.
“See to it you do… come, that is,” Vyltaran responded with a foreboding chuckle. The double-entendre did not escape Dante’s notice and sent the prick of goose flesh along his arms.
Dante leaned against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes. At one hundred and twenty-three, Dante was young for a daemon, half, full, or otherwise. A male barely out of his youth. Raised by his human mother until the tender age of fourteen, Dante’s father, Asmodeus, who happened to be the Daemon King of Lust, showed up the day Dante reached sexual maturity and whisked him from his home in Italy. Asmodeus brought him directly to this horror show of a palatial mansion. The King’s estate, perched on the cliffs high above the human village of Eastlake Falls, encompassed a vast amount of land. In the very center stood his father’s pride and joy, Domus Desiderii, the House of Lust, an enormous stone and marble monstrosity that was about as inviting as a djinn’s asshole. Inside was even worse. His father thought reams of red and black velvet, creepy, twisted iron candelabras, and furniture that resembled torture devices were resplendent displays worthy of his status as the King of Lust. The grotesque mansion was his father’s pride and joy.
Unlike his son.
Out of Dante and his six daemon cousins, each the son of a living embodiment of one of the seven deadly sins—Lust, Pride, Greed, Sloth, Envy, Gluttony, and Wrath—Dante and his cousin Maximus, the Prince of Wrath, drew the short straws. In fact, Dante despised his father so much, he actively sought to spend most of his very limited free time hiding at the home of one of his other cousins, Davin, the Prince of Pride. Opulent and jaw-droppingly beautiful, the King of Pride’s home was the perfect expression of the male’s sin and the King treated Davin like the Prince he was.
Dante and Maximus? Not so much.
“You wretched cunt. I’m coming in!”
Dante startled once more at Vyltaran’s booming roar. Knowing there was no point in answering the bastard, as anything he said would be twisted to use against him, Dante scrambled to open the door and stepped into the dark corridor. He made certain to pull the door shut behind him to engage the lock. The last thing he wanted was his father’s nasty incubus flunky skulking about his chambers or, for that matter, anywhere near Dante’s personal belongings.
No sooner was he in the hall than Vyltaran grabbed him by the biceps.
“Hey!” Dante attempted to wrench his arm out of Vyltaran’s grip, but the incubus dug in deeper, using his wicked four-inch claws. Dante’s skin split open like a ripe peach. A gush of warm blood wound its way to his elbow and dripped onto the floor.
“Hold your tongue, Prince.” Somehow, Vyltaran managed to make Dante’s much-loathed royal title sound like a vulgar insult. At least the incubus removed his talons from Dante’s biceps. Vyltaran, however, did not retract the shiny black claws that protruded from long, elegant fingers. Like his father and the other Kings, incubi hail from the Underworld. Devious creatures, they seduced and bedded whoever piqued their fancy, feeding off their victim’s sexual desire. To draw in bed partners, each and every one of the incubi—as well as the female succubi—was inhumanly beautiful. Vyltaran was no exception, though in Dante’s opinion, the incubus’ shitty personality made the tall, handsome male about as attractive as a fungus infested Hellhound.
The urge to tell off Vyltaran was so great Dante snapped his mouth shut hard, tasting the copper tang of blood on his tongue. The mild pain was easy to ignore. It was nothing compared to what lie in wait for him in his father’s favorite room, a richly appointed chamber that hid its abominations and implements of torture beneath fine fabrics and expensive jewels. It was more dungeon than boudoir and just the thought of it made Dante sick. When they reached the door, Dante hesitated. With a snarl, the incubus shoved Dante through the grandiose stone arch. Dante stumbled and fell to his knees, missing the exposed marble flooring by inches to land on a thick, expensive Persian rug.
“Ah, my son finally decided to grace me with his presence.”
Slowly, so as not to expose the very real terror racing through his veins, Dante lifted his gaze to meet his father’s flashing blue eyes. Eyes so similar to Dante’s own, he had to swallow back revulsion every time he looked in a mirror. Dante wished he were ugly, but it was never to be. As with most immortals, every one of the Daemon Kings and their sons were inhumanly beautiful. Unlike Dante, who hated his own attractive face and the misery it brought, his cousin Davin reveled in his own stunning looks. Appearance was Davin’s main source of pride, after all, as it was the sin upon which Davin fed. Unfortunately, Dante’s daemon half—like his father—required lust to survive. Dante fed his daemon’s needs by seducing willing human partners in the village and beyond. His father was… not as kind.
“I am here, sire.” Dante bit back the insult that sat at the tip of his tongue. He learned a century ago, that speaking out of turn and arguing were fruitless and only led to further agony at his father’s hand.
“And already on your knees,” the King chuckled. Titters joined in from around the chamber as his father’s pathetic minions laughed at the King’s poor excuse for humor. “Just how we like you.” Dante swallowed his revulsion. The King crooked a finger and two human slaves stepped forward, both male. Any hope Dante may have held onto that mayhap this session wouldn’t be too terrible, vanished. He hung his head in defeat. It appeared his father would spare nothing for his son today. “Put the disrespectful brat on the bench.”
Two sets of hands lifted Dante under his arms and began to drag him toward the bench. He couldn’t help it. Dante’s fight or flight instinct kicked in. His eyes bulged, his heart hammered, and he dug in his heels. The humans were no match for Dante’s strength. Even though his father compelled them, humans were much weaker physically. Dante twisted his head around to beg the Daemon King. “Please, father, not the bench. I’ll cooperate, I give my oath.” Dante’s pulse raced and his guts knotted in abject fear. The corner of his bastard father’s mouth turned up in a sadistic grin and Dante’s legs gave out.
“Strip him and strap him down,” the King commanded.
Dante’s clothes were torn from his body and he was laid face down over a long leather pommel, similar to those used by the stable hands to care for the horses’ saddles. His wrists were shackled to the front support, his ankles to the back, leaving his ass hanging off the end of the bench. Dante jerked at the bindings. As always, he was held down by cursed chains—the only restraints that could hold an immortal captive. Unless a sorcerer released the spell, only the key would open the cuffs, and this particular key was held by his loathsome, pile of dung father.
Cold hands groped Dante’s buttocks, kneading and massaging them roughly. He jerked and lifted his head enough to peek over his shoulder and choked at the sight. Horrified, he began to beg in earnest. “Please don’t do this, I beg of you.” Dante thrashed and fought to no avail. There was no escape from the bench. He should know. Dante had been strapped to the device at least once a week, sometimes more, for the last hundred years. Today, Dante discovered, was to be unlike any of those other awful days. Today, it wasn’t Vyltaran or one of the other daemons that worked for his father, or even a lowly human slave that stood behind Dante, ready to penetrate his body and abuse it for their pleasure.
No. It was much, much worse.
A large palm connected with Dante’s flank, sending a reverberating smack throughout the chamber. His buttocks were roughly pulled apart and Dante gave one final, valiant attempt to make this nightmare end. With his throat as dry as the burning hot bowels of the Underworld, his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. “Father, I beg of you not to do this.”
Asmodeus, Daemon King of Lust, threw his head back and laughed, right before pushing his length into his only son.
Dante dropped his forehead to the leather and for the first time in his existence, he cried. Silent tears streaked down Dante’s cheeks. It wasn’t that Dante was sad or broken. Wasn’t shamed or defeated. No… Dante was furious. As the rough thrusting rocked Dante’s abused body back and forth on the bench, his mind detached and Dante formulated a plan. A plan to get rid of his father and everything other creature on the Earthly plane that existed solely to inflict pain. So absorbed in his thoughts was he, Dante didn’t notice when a new male took his father’s place, nor another after that. Dante’s anger held him captive in a place far away, his focus on his task unbreakable. By the time the humans unlocked the chains and dragged Dante back to his chamber, tossing him on his bed, he had everything sorted out.
He discovered methods to get rid of evil were plentiful. Finding and recruiting proper help was the difficult part.
But sanctus infernum, he would do it. Dante would do anything to be free of his father’s cruelty. Even if it meant having himself banished to the Underworld just to escape this alternate version of hell.