Hell's King (Hell's Son Book 3)

by Eve Langlais

  “That’s where Jesus comes in.” Chris jabbed his finger at Charlie. “He’s going to make sure I don’t turn into a psychotic despot.”

  Her gaze bounced between the men, even more lost than before. “By doing what?”

  “I don’t know. But I figured if I was going to call anyone, then an arms dealer was a good start.”

  “He sells weapons; he doesn’t use them. Charlie is horrible at fighting.”

  “True.” Charlie didn’t even deny it. “But on top of my weapons, I do have access to the archangels and Heaven’s army.”

  Her brow creased. “Please don’t tell me you’ve asked Charlie to kill you if you turn evil.”

  “Not kill!” Charlie exclaimed. “I do have morals.”

  “Nasty things, those morals, but in this case, they work to my advantage. The plan is he’ll detain me if I go evil. Put me in rehab until I regain my senses.”

  Isobel shoved away from Chris. “This is the most moronic plan I’ve heard.” And she wanted nothing to do with it. She strode out of the room, angry and afraid.

  What was Chris thinking? While Charlie might not bear him ill will, the archangels wouldn’t be as lenient. Elyon’s army wasn’t known for second chances. The number of fallen angels attested to that fact.

  When unleashed, they had one purpose: destroy evil. If they thought Chris was a problem, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, no matter what Charlie ordered. Which scared her. I don’t want to lose him.

  So what’s my brilliant plan? Because Chris did have a point. If his mother were loose, then that wouldn’t bode well for the world. Or him.

  With her mind in turmoil, she went looking for the one person who would see straight to the heart of the matter and tell her what to do. Grandfather didn’t bother himself with the concept of good or evil, but the fact of whether it benefited the family or not. And by benefit, he’d want the solution that kept Isobel and the other Rasputins alive—and powerful.

  Isobel found Grandfather in his lab, puttering around, playing with smoking vials, the liquid in them glowing. He dropped in pinches of this and that—powdered tongue of an imp, the eyeball of a gorgon, a sliver from a unicorn’s hoof. As a child, she used to read with wide eyes the fascinating labels in his locked apothecary, a huge wooden armoire with drawers and shelves filled with fantastical ingredients. Many of the items were bought on the cryptid black market. Others, he and Mother had collected themselves. Given the gruesome nature of a few, Isobel preferred not to know what the process involved.

  “He’s insane!” she declared, walking in.

  The old man, his bald pate gleaming as he leaned over to blow on a steaming bowl, didn’t immediately reply.

  “I said he’s insane.”

  “Who?” Absently asked as he dropped a single red drop into the concoction.

  “My husband, of course.”

  “And?” he asked, lifting his head, the monocle rendering his eye huge.

  “And I don’t want an insane husband.”

  “Why not? What do you have against the insane?” Grandfather asked. “You do realize, of the family, you’re the only one who hasn’t received a diagnosis that you’re slightly off-kilter. Although they might revise your last prognosis given your marriage.” Because, apparently, no sane woman would marry the Devil’s son.

  “Did you know Chris is, right now, concocting a stupid plan to find his mother?”

  “What’s so stupid about finding her? She did, after all, birth him. Why wouldn’t he want to reconnect with his roots?”

  “Because she’s evil. She wants to destroy the world.”

  “Not destroy. She wants revenge. If the world is destroyed in the process…” Rasputin shrugged.

  “Seriously? That’s all you have to say about it?”

  “What did you expect?” Grandfather asked, fixing her with a stare. “You cannot expect her to forget her vendetta merely because you ask her to.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “Stay on her good side by keeping her only son happy.”

  She already planned to. “But what of the fate of the world?”

  “What of it? The world—actually anyone outside this house and this family—isn’t your problem.” He bent back to the bowl and dropped something else into it before running his hand over the top, mumbling.

  “Aren’t you the slightest bit worried?” she asked. “If evil succeeds in winning—”

  “Then we’ll join it. Really, Isobel. Have you not paid attention to our family history at all? We are not heroes, Granddaughter. Nor are we kind, benevolent, or particularly caring unless it concerns one of our own. We choose the side of whomever we think will prevail. We do whatever we must to ensure we survive. And, really, I don’t understand this caterwauling. You were the one who chose to marry the Son of Perdition. What did you expect?”

  She expected…to be his queen, but had never really thought of how she’d get there. “I didn’t expect him to die fighting against his mother.” Or, worse, be possessed by her.

  “Why the assumption she’ll kill him? He’s her only son. Did it never occur to either of you that perhaps she only wants to help him achieve his goals?”

  “You said it yourself; she wants revenge.”

  “And she very well might get it. If she does, let’s say she manages to eliminate Lucifer. Then that leaves his son to take his place. With you as his queen.”

  “I don’t want to become queen like that.” She didn’t particularly care for the Devil; however, she couldn’t condone the killing of her father-in-law.

  “In that case, why marry a man destined to rule the world and Hell? You had to realize there would be violence involved.”

  It shamed her to realize she’d not really thought further than the fact that she supported Chris. “Let’s say his mother does achieve her vengeance. We don’t know what will happen next. What if her plans don’t include Christopher?” Or Isobel.

  “Have you asked her?”

  “Ask her how? We don’t even know where she is,” she yelled, fists clenched, her ire burning hot. The bowl in front of Grandfather shattered.

  “Enough of your childish tantrum,” Grandfather boomed. “You made your choice when you married him. Now hold your chin high, accept your role, and cease the whining.”

  Whining? He considered her worrying about the fate of everyone whining? Her anger grew, and the room trembled. Glass broke as furniture wobbled, tilting things onto the floor. Items broke as wood and plaster shifted.

  Rasputin lost his smile and scowled. “That’s better. Get angry. Use it. You’ll need that in the coming days.”

  That quickly, her ire vanished. “Why? What did you see?”

  Grandfather didn’t speak, and yet, suddenly, she saw. Saw Chris sitting on a throne, a seat made of skulls and fire. As for Isobel, she stood by his side wearing a crown.

  In Hell.

  13

  Chris and Jesus didn’t accomplish much during their pow-wow other than demolishing a case of beer. Apparently, having been raised on wine, the guy could hold his liquor. Whereas, Chris, who used to be able to drink anyone under the table and still recite the alphabet backwards, lost time after an easy half-dozen brews.

  Tonight, he didn’t limit himself on the bottles he chugged. Knew what might happen if he tipped off the edge. Kind of hoped it would happen.

  Sure, drinking when he had important shit to figure out—like finding his mommy and deciphering her plans—might be stupid, but some of his best ideas came while drunk. His problem was recalling all the details the following day because he never wrote them down. Or when he did, the lipstick on a napkin proved fairly unreadable. Who knew how many millions of dollars he’d lost out on because he couldn’t remember the brilliant math accomplished the night before.

  In his world, drinking and brainstorming went hand in hand—if he had the right person to bounce ideas with. Turned out his cousin, despite his heavenly connections, didn’t have many original
ideas. You’d think a guy whose company developed grenades camouflaged to look mundane—like a cell phone or a lipstick—would have all kinds of associations. A spy network at the very least. I mean, come on, the guy has access to angels.

  Whom Jesus couldn’t order around because his dad, as his cousin had said, “Is a tightwad who won’t relinquish any power to me because he says I make the wrong kinds of friends.” Jesus stared at Chris with eyes that blazed blue. “It was two thousand years ago! I was just a kid in the grand scheme of immortality. But am I allowed to forget the fact I trusted Judas and he screwed me over?” His cousin slashed a hand. “Nope. There’re books detailing my mistakes. Movies showing me hanging on that cross. Everywhere I turn, it’s shoved in my face.”

  Chris stared at him. “Dude, that sucks.” At least the prophecies about the Antichrist had him doing cool shit.

  What if I fail? Would there be a movie about him, too? Or would he only rate a made-for-television special? And most importantly, what actor would they cast for his part?

  Apart from hashing out who would play them best in autobiographies—and Jesus lamenting the lack of hot and easy chicks in Heaven—they did discuss Chris’s mom a bit.

  Very little.

  “No idea where she is,” Jesus said.

  “Can you at least give me a name?” asked Chris because, somehow, calling her psycho seemed a tad like poking the bear.

  “Haven’t the slightest. Dad won’t say.”

  Why the big secret?

  There existed another person he could ask. Lucifer would know. But that meant reaching out first. Caving first in the game of I-can-go-longest-without-calling.

  Fuck that. Chris would win the competition for most stubborn.

  Which meant that he and Jesus, being at an impasse and unable to make plans, had only one thing they could actually do.

  Drink.

  Given how many beers they’d put away, Chris kind of expected to black out and wake up covered in grave dirt. Instead, he woke in bed beside his wife. A nice place to be with naked limbs, soft titties, and an erection poking against her backside that she wasn’t shying away from.

  A good sign because it meant that, despite their small spat the previous day, she’d chosen not to remain pissed.

  Someone just might get morning sex. His favorite kind, right along with shower sex, car sex, public-place sex, and his most favorite: with-his-wife-anywhere sex.

  “Hi,” he said, using his slickest voice.

  She rolled over in bed and faced him, tousled hair framing her face. “Hi right back at you, stud muffin.” She winked. “How’s the King of Fierce Countenance today?”

  “Uh, fine.” If confused. Since when did his duckie use corny lines on him?

  “I wondered how you’d feel given you tied a good one on last night.”

  So many beers. So many staggers to the bathroom to pee. But was that the only thing he did? “Did I go wandering again?” Because he’d asked Jesus to follow and record him if he did. But the guy had been pretty wasted, too. Chris had better check his social media and see what the Son of God posted. He vaguely recalled something about a full moon and not the kind in the sky.

  “No wandering,” Isobel said, reaching out to brush the hair off his forehead. “Not this time. I found you passed out in the bathroom using the toilet as a pillow.”

  “How did I get to bed?”

  “I have my ways.” She smiled as she rolled atop him.

  “How come you’re not angry?” he asked.

  “I talked to my grandfather. He calmed me down.”

  “Rasputin calmed you?” A frown pulled at his face. “We are talking about the skinny, bald, angry guy, right?”

  “Grandfather isn’t always angry.”

  Chris arched a single brow.

  Her lips quirked. “It’s just how he is. But if you listen, you’ll realize it’s less anger and more common sense in the face of stupidity.”

  “He told you I was stupid?”

  Laughter spilled from his duckie. “No. He told me I was being stupid. He reminded me of who I am and the fact that I always knew who you were and yet chose to be with you.”

  “I did kind of say I wouldn’t chase my destiny anymore, though.”

  “Even though you’re not chasing, destiny is coming for you. I can’t change that.” Isobel shrugged. “Therefore, I need to embrace it. To support you in any way I can.”

  This sudden understanding brought a frown. “Who are you, and what did you do with my wife?” Seriously. Was Isobel possessed?

  “Joke all you want. I mean it. I’m going to help you, and help you find your mother.”

  “Maybe she’s best left hidden,” he mused aloud. They could leave each other alone. She could have her half of the world; he’d just keep his tiny pocket. They never had to meet.

  “Hiding means we could possibly be surprised. No. We have to be more proactive.”

  “And exactly how do you propose to find my mother?” he asked, placing his hands on her hips. Her very naked hips. Why were they wasting time talking when they could be fucking?

  “By getting you to use magic again, for one.”

  He frowned. “But I can’t.”

  “That’s a lie. We both know you can.”

  “When drunk. I’m not drunk now.”

  “Maybe it’s not the booze that frees it but the fact you’re relaxed and letting loose. What if…” She ground her hips against him and let her thighs fall to either side of his body, pressing her damp core against his cock. “We try another way of accessing it.”

  “You wanna have sex to see if I can touch my magic?” The idea totally worked for him.

  “Yes. I want you to let go. Relax. Ease your mind.”

  Instead, he tensed. “What if I relax too much, and she gets inside my head?”

  Isobel crouched over him, a taunt on her lips. “Who’s the man?”

  “I’m the man.”

  “Who’s the baddest?”

  He smiled. “I’m the baddest.”

  “Who’s going to make me scream his name?”

  Fuck me. She was going to yell it so loudly, the windows would rattle.

  He wasted no time, spinning her onto her back, his lips blazing a trail down her belly, the skin soft and yet, under it, a solid ridge of muscle. His woman kept fit. So sexy.

  He loved watching her doing her yoga, her body bent in beautiful ways. Loved seeing her spar inside the home gym she’d created, her body twisting and turning, the sweat glistening on her body.

  My body. It was his, every inch of it, and he claimed it with his lips. Pressing them against her flesh, branding her. Her legs parted for his body as he nestled between her thighs.

  He rubbed the fur of his beard against that inner skin, loving how her back arched, her breath sucked in with an audible gasp, and her fingers clutched at the sheets.

  He blew on her, the hotness of his breath causing a chain reaction of squirming and moaning, but the best part was the moisture glistening on her pink nether lips.

  My lips.

  He blew again, hot, steamy air followed by a long, wet lick. Some people called it honey. He called it ambrosia, the thing only gods drank. He was a god, and this ambrosia belonged to him.

  He lapped at her, spreading the pink shells, delving into the channel that loved to squeeze around his dick. He throbbed.

  Oh, how he fucking throbbed.

  But this was about her. His woman. Her pleasure.

  This wasn’t his relaxation, not when he tried to hold on when her lips nibbled at him. Not when he held back, every muscle in him straining until she creamed his cock. He only truly felt at ease when eating his gorgeous wife’s cunt.

  His tongue flicked at her nubbin of pleasure. She jumped.

  He licked it again and again. Held her down when she would have bucked.

  He worked that button of hers, sucking and pinching it with his lips. He knew what she liked, and he gave it to her, penetrating her with two fi
ngers, groaning against her flesh as her channel gripped tightly.

  It would feel so good on his cock. But he wanted her to come on his tongue. Wanted to feel it.

  He lapped faster and faster. She gasped. She clawed at the sheets. She began panting his name.

  And then she came. A hard clamp on his fingers, then undulating waves of pleasure as she keened, her orgasm making her loud.

  When she began to slow down, he nipped at her clit, put his heavy arms across her lower belly, and worked that sensitive spot.

  Her sex stopped quivering and tightened.

  She mewled. “Now. Fuck me. Now!”

  He slid up her body and rammed in his hard cock, gave it to her a little rough because that was how she liked it after oral.

  She grabbed his shoulders and dug in her fingers. “Fuck me.”

  She also got dirty.

  He thrust into her, hard strokes, deep strokes, the kind that rammed against her G-spot. That had her gasping for air.

  Had him grunting to hold on. And then she squeezed him, fisted his cock tightly as she came again.

  Only then did he follow. His body tensed, one final deep thrust, and then he soared. He dropped out of his body and was a warm cloud above it. Isobel’s hot cumulus merged with his, and he heard her whispering, “Call the magic. Let it burn through you. Burn through us both.”

  He didn’t even think, just pulled, yanked all the power he could feel around him, let it fill him up.

  It still filled him as he dropped back into his body. He tingled and had a hard time holding on to it.

  “It’s slipping,” he murmured.

  “Let’s see if we can’t stop that.” She clamped her legs around his hips while her arms wrapped his neck and…she made him expand.

  Not his flesh, but his magic. It was as if she pushed even more into him. Built up the reservoir he could draw, and he opened his mouth at the pleasure-pain of it.

  “It’s too much.”

  “Just a bit more.”

  “Too much, I can’t hold it.”

  “You can. We did it before,” she insisted and shoved more into him until he burned.