Demons Imps and Incubi (Red Moon Anthologies Book 1)

by Cori Vidae

  Irdo wrapped his arms and wings tighter around her, as if trying not just to embrace her, but absorb her. They did this until both were shaking, until Irdo was stumbling, threatening to topple. Finally, Lilin drew back and stroked his face gently with her claws. “You know I can’t.”

  * * *

  The rotors bobbed gently in the breeze. The grass whispered a dry sonnet. Mortars and rifle fire could be heard in the distance. Shattered plexiglass littered the ground around them, catching the early-morning sun and casting it about like shattered dreams.

  “That wasn’t bad,” said Lilin, still breathing hard.

  “Yeah. Except I kept getting entangled in your intestines,” said Irdo.

  They lay against the fuselage of the helicopter in which their bodies had crashed over an hour previously. Tendrils of smoke still rose in the light breeze. Theirs were the only two bodies still intact enough for them to make use of. Lilin’s body, however, had its gut ripped open, thanks to several large caliber pieces of lead, and intestines spilled out. Irdo had had to constantly shove the slimy, glutinous mass of viscera aside and reposition himself as they went at it. Nonetheless, both were exhausted, sitting next to each other in the sand as the desert sun sank on the horizon. Lilin leaned her head on his shoulder. Irdo leaned his head against hers. Their bodies started to surrender to rigor mortis.

  “Do you remember when we found each other?” she said.

  “Hamburg, 1349,” he said. “The plague was in full swing.”

  “Oh, the Black Death was such fun,” she cooed.

  He nodded. “You had just collected a night’s load from a monastery. I had just left the convent down the way. You were in partial human form and flush with success and enthusiasm. You didn’t even recognize me. Thought I was human.”

  “Are you ever going to let that go?” She punched him. “Maybe I just hoped you were human, so I could pay you a visit.”

  “Mmm. That would’ve been nice.” He kissed her on the forehead between two angry, red bullet holes.

  There was a clap of thunder, a flash, and then two figures stood before them. It took a moment for their eyes and minds to clear. Finally, it was Lilin who said, “Mephistopheles. Hello. And, uh… Gabriel? Um, hello.”

  “Oh, shit. This can’t be good,” murmured Irdo into Lilin’s ear. Two of the top dogs from Hell and Heaven, respectively. Gabriel, an archangel, and Mephistopheles, an archdemon, paying them a field visit, could not be good.

  “We’re not interrupting anything, are we?” said Mephistopheles, offering his most stunning devil-may-care smile.

  “Why no, your archdemonship,” said Irdo. Then, feeling both groggy and froggy, he said, “I have not often seen representatives from both houses, Light and Dark, in the same place, and not fighting, in a very long time.”

  The remark was a brave feint, and Lilin admired Irdo for it, but at the same time wanted to hit him in the face with something heavy. The only real fight between angels of light and dark had been the first fight, the uprising in Heaven. All subsequent conflicts had been little more than skirmishes involving earthly creatures as surrogates.

  “Come out of there and we’ll talk,” said Mephistopheles, referring to the stiffening corpses.

  “I think we’d rather stay where we’re at.” Lilin tightened her grip on Irdo’s hand.

  “Would you two come out of there?” said Gabriel, his voice tinged with thunder and avalanche. Then, in a slightly squeamish tone, he added, “That is disgusting, by the way.”

  Lilin and Irdo gave each other a quick look and another squeeze. Each knew they had no choice but to acquiesce.

  “Sure. Why not,” said Lilin. “These are getting stiff.”

  “So, what do we owe this mutual visit by two sworn and eternal enemies?” said Irdo, emerging from his borrowed body, rotating an arm to work out the stiffness.

  “Irdo and Lilin,” said Mephistopheles, assuming an authoritative tone, “you two have been very bad demons.”

  “I thought that was the point,” said Irdo.

  “Even demons have to abide by rules,” said Gabriel through tight lips. “Just like everyone else, or suffer the consequences.”

  Lilin and Irdo were both very aware of possible consequences, especially for this, the most egregious of all crimes—falling in love. Each of them knew of demons who had been punished in creative ways, such as deworming Cerberus, handing out towels along the River Styx, cleaning the harpy cages, and in other ways that were extreme, even for Hell. Demons cannot die. But eternity can be a very long time.

  “Right. That being the case, you have committed crimes,” said Mephistopheles. “And your crimes are egregious.” He produced a scroll and read as he unrolled it.

  Lilin and Irdo gave the appearance of nonchalance in posture and profile, but within they were terrified. Sure, there were levels of Hell they had not seen, especially since they had been topside doing the incubus and succubus gigs for so long. That was not what scared them. They were demons; even the ninth level of Hell, which was known to be no party play pen even for the stoutest of demons, was still just Hell, from whence they came. No, it was the possibility of being separated that terrified them. Hell was a large place. It was possible they would be sent back down, reassigned, and never see each other— even be able to find each other—ever again. They tightly gripped claws and covered the joining with their wings.

  “Well, let’s start with reanimating the dead,” said Mephistopheles, reading from the scroll.

  “Which is classic demon work,” said Irdo.

  “But not permissible without a work order,” said Mephistopheles.

  “When did Hell become such a bureaucracy?” said Lilin.

  “That really is a chicken and egg issue,” said Gabriel.

  “Then there is, let me see,” said Mephistopheles, “thirty-six hundred entries into churches and other holy places of God worship.”

  “We like to check in now and then and see how the other side operates,” said Lilin.

  “Then there is lying to your supervisors and the evil hierarchy, being way behind on quotas for the past half century, letting numerous easy targets go, which incidentally, left you open to charges of sentimentality. Don’t know how you dodged that bullet. Let’s see… Oh, not toying with your prey enough, not working on Mondays, and not attending the past one hundred and seventy-two departmental Halloween celebrations.”

  “We lost interest,” said Lilin. “The food really went downhill during the Victorian Era. Too much pomp, not enough pie.”

  “But the worst,” said Mephistopheles, looking up at both Lilin and Irdo, then back down at the scroll, “is that you two fell in love and continue to be in love. And that is, by far, your worst crime.”

  “You see, if demons start loving,” said Gabriel, “then angels might start hating. That could lead to demons consorting with demons and angels fighting angels, which could lead to angels and demons consorting, then outright hostilities would break out again, and from there it would be a downward spiral.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Irdo. “Demons and angels consorting?”

  “It happens,” said Mephistopheles. Irdo caught a look that passed between the archangel and archdemon.

  “Okay,” said Irdo, throwing up his hands. “What’s it going to be? Are we to return to Hell and be put on pitchfork patrol? Crew for Charon? Poop patrol for Plutus?”

  “No.”

  “Tending happy hour at Malebolge? We can take it. Driving a Zamboni in Cocytus? Sounds great. Lead the way.”

  “Do you know how to shut him off?” said Gabriel to Lilin.

  Irdo fell silent. Lilin was mute next to him. Mephistopheles and Gabriel shared a grim, sad smile.

  Lilin’s hand tightened on Irdo’s like a clamp. Her claws bit into his flesh. He felt trickles of blood running slowly down the back of his hand.

  Gabriel said, “You will be made human.”

  Lilin was not certain if she lost consciousness. She assumed not sin
ce she remained standing.

  Irdo stammered, “Aaaaaah…”

  Eventually, Lilin was able to move. Her wings flapped of their own accord. She turned to Irdo. They stared at each other, eyes wide, mouths agape. She reached for his other hand, but it was reaching for her. They clasped claws and the action seemed to jump-start their minds. Irdo made a noise close to a strangled giggle.

  “I’m sorry. Can you say that again?” said Lilin.

  “You are to be transformed into human beings,” said Mephistopheles. “It was decided by both houses.”

  “Human?” said Irdo.

  Neither Mephistopheles nor Gabriel spoke. Both merely stared at Lilin and Irdo with detached amusement.

  “You do realize,” Lilin chose her words deliberately, fighting to keep her voice level, “that this is not a punishment for us.”

  Gabriel’s laugh made Lilin’s horns want to wilt. He leaned toward them and whispered, “It may or may not be punishment, but I can promise you that it will be very interesting.”

  Irdo and Lilin stared at each other, speechless. Slowly, it dawned on each of them that they were getting more than they had ever dared hope for. It also occurred to Lilin that she had also, many times, said to prey during past tormentations that things could get “very interesting.”

  Irdo turned to Lilin, and she to him, and took each other’s hands. “No matter what happens,” said Irdo, “don’t leave me.”

  Lilin smiled as beatifically as he had ever seen her. “I promise.”

  * * *

  Jeffrey Armadillo (Mother Forker) once tried to love a demon-possessed woman, and from that came volumes of scars and stories. He is a writer of numerous disciplines, a Special Operations veteran, and a father of three boys, all of whom, at times, have exhibited at least somewhat satanic behaviors. He lives in the Midwest with a she-demon, a clairvoyant cat, and two dogs, one of whom is a weredog.

  Iron and Embers

  M. Arbroath

  Ember scowled as she worked the bellows of her forge. Every idiot in the realm was eager for the duke’s contest, but she had work to do. The roar of her furnace drowned out the murmur of the surrounding town, swollen with hopefuls. She had found yet another announcement of the duke’s decree hammered to her smithy door this morning. Anyone could enter the contest; winners would be elevated to one of the goblin castes, perhaps even noble rank. Losers would be doomed to the lowest dregs. Ember tossed the decree into her forge.

  Better to stay human and stay out of it, Ember thought to herself. She checked the nail stock in the fire and pulled out the first piece. Not that she could enter any of her work; goblin magic and iron never mixed. Let her stepsisters scramble and scrape to enter the contest. It kept them out of her forge.

  They would be at the festival. Ember would be in her smithy. The few human clients left in the realm would switch to goblin-wrought bronze if she did not complete their pieces in time. Ember glanced over her shoulder at a rap on the smithy’s door.

  A goblin stood framed in the morning light. His fine, brushed-bronze scales glittered in the sun, while well-made robes draped loosely over broad shoulders. Ember spun and bowed.

  “Good day, my lord. How may I serve?”

  The nobleman waved for her to straighten and strode into the forge. His sharp teeth poked out from his mouth as he studied the cooling metal on Ember’s anvil. “You are the iron worker?”

  “Aye, my lord.” Ember forced herself to keep a level tone. Who else would be working in the forge? Part of her wanted to wipe that scowl off his face—after all, he had chosen to enter her workshop—but she couldn’t afford to annoy another noble.

  “Hard to find iron workers,” the goblin hissed. “You are not putting forth a piece for consideration at Duke Vertigren’s festival? Yours would be unique in this realm.”

  “His Grace would not consider an iron piece,” Ember replied. “Iron workers and their creations have been barred from the palace grounds since his late mother the Dutchess’ day.”

  “You could not work bronze or silver?”

  My stepmother wouldn’t tolerate competition with her daughters. “I am more experienced with iron and steel, lord. Other metals have other properties.”

  The goblin hummed and adjusted his fine, gold-trimmed cloak. “That will do. You are an orphan. What binds you here?”

  Ember’s eyes narrowed. Few nobles cared about why humans scurried about their lands. “I’m not sure I under—”

  A depressingly familiar voice shrilled from the main house. “Ember! Where are you, girl?”

  Ember winced as a willowy woman breezed into the forge. “Ember, Marta found iron filings on that blue shawl. Why were you wearing it in here? You’ll need to give it at least three cleanings in jade soap to—oh! My deepest apologies, my lord, I did not know you had arrived.”

  Ember ducked her head as her cheeks heated. Her stepmother, master silversmith Olivia, bowed deeply to the visiting noble. She even dropped to one knee. “How may my house aid you, my lord? I apologize for my stepdaughter not making us aware of your presence. The girl has no sense of propriety.”

  “All is well,” the noble said. “I wish to commission a piece.”

  Ember’s stepmother straightened and smoothed the skirt of her dress. “Of course, my lord. My daughters and I are skilled silversmiths.”

  “Iron,” the noble hissed. “I require iron. Leave us.”

  Ember’s stepmother bowed and strode out of the forge. Ember scowled at the retreating footsteps. Somehow, Olivia would find some way to blame the noble’s rejection on her. But she has no complaint about the money my work brings into the house. Under the law, Ember’s income as a journeyman would go to her master. With her father dead before he could judge her master work, control of Ember’s life defaulted to Olivia.

  The noble’s large ears twitched toward the door. He nodded once it slammed. “I suspect you would enjoy the opportunity to depart from this land. You simply lack resources. I have a proposal for you. If you do a small favor, you will be richly rewarded.”

  “Why me?” Ember asked.

  The goblin smiled and pulled a leather bag from his jacket. The bag clinked heavily as he tossed it on the table. Gold coins spilled out. “You are an iron worker. Vertigren’s bribes would bind you here. I offer you a way out, forever.”

  “What do you wish me to do, lord?” Ember’s stomach clenched. That much gold would let her pay off her father’s debts and leave the duchy. She could leave the goblin lands entirely.

  The goblin pulled a larger, white bag from within his coat and lay it on the bench. “You will deliver the item inside to Duke Vertigren’s personal chambers, and replace its like.”

  “The duke’s personal chambers?” Ember eyed the bag. “You have a strange definition of ‘small favor,’ lord. If I am caught, I would likely be lucky to leave the palace alive, much less human.”

  “That is your concern,” the noble said. “I have confidence in your skills.”

  Ember tapped the bag. “And if they ask who sent me, I would tell them. Why shouldn’t I?”

  The noble smiled. “Tell them. I’ll be out of Vertigren’s reach by dawn, and naming an accomplice won’t save your life.”

  Ember blew out a breath as she studied the bag. “Double the gold, and you’ll have my silence. But I am not the type that Duke Vertigren usually invites to his… sessions.”

  The noble’s lips twisted again, as though he wished to spit. “There is no need for you to grace the half-breed’s bed. Simply replace the item in his chambers. Whether he is there at the time is up to you.”

  The noble’s eyes dipped, taking in Ember’s muscular build and short, dark hair, before returning to her face with a wry smile. “No, you are not the type he favors. You should have no trouble avoiding his attention.”

  “I am an iron worker,” Ember growled. “I am forbidden from entering the palace. How—”

  “A disguise will be provided, along with cleansers to remove most o
f the iron from your body and hair.” The noble tapped the white bag with one claw-like finger. “The bag is jade-dusted silk. It will protect your disguise from the contents. However, once you touch the object inside, your disguise will fail within minutes. Though with all the iron dust you carry, the spell will likely fail by midnight. If you do not make the switch the first night, you must by the end of the festival on the third.”

  * * *

  The line of human applicants outside Duke Vertigren’s palace stretched down the hill and through the town square. Ember passed the line without a glance. She forced herself to look ahead, without a twitch to either side as she passed through the gates. The squat, low-caste guards at the door watched her pass, then muttered to themselves. The door guard at the palace proper barely reached Ember’s shoulder, and his skin’s flat green tone marked him as middle caste.

  Ember held out the invitation given to her by the foreign lord. She concentrated on the guard, not on the bluish-silver tone of her skin, or the black, claw-like nails on the tips of her fingers. The guard scanned it quickly, then bowed.

  “Welcome, Lady Phorenis. We were not expecting visitors from such a distant realm.”

  “I heard of Duke Vertigren’s festival,” Ember said slowly. She tried to imitate the drawled accent of the nobility. Hopefully, any mistakes would be passed off as a foreign accent. “It seemed fascinating.”

  The guard’s smile faltered for a moment. He covered the lapse with a bow. “As you say, Lady Phorenis. Please, pass in.”

  A pair of knee-high, red-skinned imps scampered by Ember’s feet as she entered the foyer. She yelped as one tumbled between her legs, sending her skirts swirling as they dashed away. Ember bit back a curse and thrust out a hand to regain her balance. She arrested her tumble and found herself face to face with one of the mirrors that lined the grand entryway.