Brimstone Prince

by Barbara J. Hancock

Peter’s blood held only the taint of damnation from selling his soul to the Rogues. He’d endured hideous pain, but he hadn’t burned from the inside out the way the daemons had.

  If he survived the hellhound’s bite, he’d live to fight another day.

  His clothes were nothing but burned rags coated in sticky black blood. His leg screamed until he would have hacked it off if he’d had the strength or nerve. When he finally reached a sedan and crawled inside, his ruined hands shook on the steering wheel. Blisters had risen in response to the heat inside him even before his clothes had burst into flames. He’d been forced to smack the flames down on his arms and legs. The blisters had burst and their edges had charred. Now they peeled painfully, deep and raw.

  He’d seen what had happened to the Rogues. Nothing was left of them but ash. He accepted his pain. Eventually, he gloried in it. The Brimstone would heal him. Hadn’t it already gifted him with extended life and strength? As he headed toward the other group of Rogues, he blessed Reynard for the example he had set for the Order. Being used by the Rogues allowed them to use the Rogues in turn. If the other Rogues had been successful in carrying out their plans to steal Lucifer’s wings from heaven, all wasn’t lost. The Order would still eventually claim the girl.

  Peter planned to make it to the wings and heal as he waited for Lily Santiago to come to him. He passed the time and distracted himself from the pain by imagining the torture he would use on the girl to make her comply with the Order’s wishes. To his wishes. After he’d divested her of her flute and destroyed her dolls, of course. With those amplifying her affinity, she was far more dangerous than they’d thought.

  * * *

  She drove several hours with Michael slumped in the front seat and Grim taking up the entire back seat before she found an abandoned diner. The dilapidated building was ramshackle enough to be a doubtful retreat for a half-daemon prince. Only the tall steel post of its sign remained and she’d almost missed that in the glare of the desert sun. The building was off the road and below a rise. With the setting of the sun, it would be a hidden retreat for the night.

  Or so she hoped.

  She pulled the Firebird around to the back. She parked under a leaning canopy that had once held drive-in stalls for diners who wanted to eat in their cars. When she turned the engine off, Michael didn’t stir. But when she opened the rear door, Grim jumped down, albeit gingerly, before he went to sniff around the premises.

  He paused to sniff her first. She held still as he placed his great snout in her hand. She blinked, glad no one was around to see her eyes fill with tears. An injured Grim, no longer standoffish and suspicious, was nearly her undoing. She didn’t deserve his trust, but she would need to use it tonight to do what she intended to do.

  In the trunk of the car she found an emergency kit with a blanket, water and a few other meager supplies. She would forever think of this as the protein bar summer. If she survived. Michael regained consciousness enough to get his legs under him and help when she moved him to a makeshift cot she made out of a blanket and a mouse-eaten vinyl booth seat with most of its stuffing intact.

  “The palace has beds nicer than this. Much nicer. Just so you know,” Lily murmured. Her words were safe. He was already lost again in a deep amd hopefully healing sleep.

  Before she left him, she smoothed his hair back from his face. She left water and a couple of bars within reach. He murmured beneath her touch, but he didn’t wake again. If this was goodbye, he’d never know how close he came to being forced into an arranged marriage as well as a throne.

  Outside, the moon had risen and the stars were sharp bits of light in an expanse of midnight blue only the wide desert horizon could display. Grim sat guarding the path back to the road. He whined when she approached and she bit her lip. She was afraid he was too weak to help her. She’d left her father’s blade with Michael. He deserved better weapons than those he’d taken from the damned. Those she had thrown far into the desert. On her back, the pack she carried had only her flute and the kachina dolls inside.

  All save the warrior angel that was clasped in her fist.

  Stupid. Sentimental. But if she got lost on those pathways between that Michael had spoken of she didn’t want to wander them alone.

  “Grim. I need to speak to the daemon king,” Lily began. The hellhound sat back on his haunches and his eyes began to glow. “I know you’re weak. It might be too much to ask, but it’s for Michael. Sort of. I need to know the truth. I can’t make it to the palace without you. There are no sipapus nearby.”

  Grim’s eyes were twin flames in the dark. His body was nothing but shadow. Suddenly she was compelled to be completely honest with the loyal beast. He deserved no less.

  “He wouldn’t want me to go. In the end, he’ll hate me for what I have to do. But that’s why I need to speak to Ezekiel. If I help him force Michael to accept the throne, I can never be his queen. He deserves better than that and... I deserve better, too. I’ve settled for less than love for too long,” Lily said. By then, she’d approached the shadow of Grim and sunk down to hold the beast in her arms. His hair was soft and silky in her fists. Very unlike his forbidding appearance in daylight. She sensed when he relaxed beneath her touch. She pressed her face into his lionlike ruff in relief.

  “I couldn’t survive being only an obligation to Michael. Not him,” Lily confessed. “I’ve been nothing but an obligation for too long. I have bargains to fulfill, but my heart can’t be bargained with. Not anymore.”

  Grim pulled back. His eyes were so bright they illuminated the area around them like lanterns. The rest of the world had gone even darker.

  “I want you to take me to the palace and return right away. You’ll need to watch over him until he’s well. Come what may. And if you’re too weak to get me there...leave me between. Do you understand? Leave me and come back to him,” Lily said.

  Grim chuffed and growled. Then he turned to walk away. His shadow dissipated with every stride. Lily stumbled to her feet to follow before he left her behind.

  She’d never felt anything like it. She’d left hell through an established earthen portal with the power of her elemental guides. This was entirely different. Her body probably disappeared like Grim as she ran after him, but to her senses she remained whole. The air changed. The ground changed. Grim paused and let her grip his ruff for guidance, but other than not being able to see or hear clearly, it seemed nothing but an endless stroll before she suddenly knew they were within the familiar palace walls.

  True to their agreement, Grim went back the way they’d come no sooner than she found herself home. She was alone in her cozy quarters as if she’d never left.

  * * *

  There was no shame in being afraid of his grandfather. His parents were brave and strong. His stepfather had saved hundreds of men, women and children from the Order of Samuel during his supernaturally extended life. And his mother had saved his stepfather. She’d saved Michael when he was a newborn, from the flames of a burning opera house and from the ignition of his first Burn when his half-daemon blood had nearly consumed him as a toddler.

  They were both scared of Ezekiel. Michael was sixteen and he could tell when people stiffened and their smiles went tight. When those smiles didn’t reach their eyes. He’d seen his stepfather, a former daemon hunter, tense and check the hollow between his shoulder blades where the hilt of his sword had hidden, ready, for a hundred years whenever Ezekiel visited the winery. He’d seen his mother send the daemon king away time and time again before she’d finally agreed on this visit.

  She had to fulfill a bargain she’d struck. You never outran a daemon deal.

  So even with Grim as an escort, Michael’s entire body was tight and his blood was as cold as he could make it when he arrived at the daemon king’s palace.

  He didn’t have a sword on his back. He had a guitar. And even though music w
as powerful, the instrument that was as much a part of him as his hands and heart didn’t feel like much to count on when he entered Ezekiel’s home. A deafening din had engulfed him and Grim when they’d materialized in the throne room. But the crowd had hushed and drawn in breath as if they were one monster, watching and waiting for him to trip up.

  The red carpet leading to the throne wasn’t infinite, but it seemed to go on forever. The room was filled with Loyalist daemons who’d come to see the heir to Lucifer’s throne. He was sixteen. He just wanted to sing. He wanted to find his own way in a world that had been revealed as dark and deadly to him—yet also strangely wonderful—from his earliest memories.

  His mother said he could choose. His stepfather said Ezekiel couldn’t be trusted to honor that choice. They were both right. When he and Grim halted at the base of the dais that held the throne, Michael knew he was in for a fight if he tried to reject it. He’d never seen Ezekiel on the throne. He seemed more royal and impossible to rebel against. The daemon king had been his real father’s commander. His real father, a daemon also named Michael, had died right after Michael was born.

  Rogues had killed him.

  “Ezekiel,” Michael said. His voice was eaten by the great reaches of the room. It sounded small. Young. But there was strength in refusing to call the daemon king his grandfather. It was a title the king had assumed. It wasn’t rightfully his. Michael might be prepared to stand against Rogues and the Order of Samuel for as long as he lived—and regardless of whether he ignored the Brimstone in his blood or not he would live a long, long time—but that didn’t mean he had to fall in line with all of the daemon king’s plans for him.

  He looked away from Ezekiel’s expectations. Beside the throne was an enormous suit of armor that loomed in the shadows. He only realized it was empty when he noticed that the helmet was open and hollow. It stared at him with blank visor slits. The stare was intimidating, but not as intimidating as the huge broadsword the suit seemed to “hold” with empty gloves. He wasn’t used to seeing medieval-style swords outside of video games. His stepfather had recently begun training him with smaller, more graceful blades. How much would that broadsword weigh?

  “Michael D’Arcy... Turov,” Ezekiel announced. As always, he left a long pause between his mother’s last name and his stepfather’s, as if he added the last reluctantly. Ezekiel had loved his human grandmother. His mother’s mother. A woman Michael had never known. She had died to protect Ezekiel from Rogues even though she was married to another man. Her offspring had been sired by a man who belonged to the Order of Samuel. She’d been forced to marry him in spite of her rebellious love for one of the daemons the Order stalked.

  Ezekiel hadn’t been able to be with Elizabeth D’Arcy or to save her, but he pledged himself to her children and her children’s children in spite of the fact that she’d been forced to marry a mortal man by the Order of Samuel. Her descendants were tied to Ezekiel by his immortal devotion, one Michael couldn’t begin to understand. He didn’t acknowledge the daemon blood that had come from his biological father. Even though one day it might make him prone to such a fierce emotion. It didn’t matter that his mother had loved a daemon and that their love had resulted in his birth. He’d refused to burn for a very long time, and so far even his adolescent years hadn’t challenged that.

  He had his song. He had Grim. He had his parents. One day he would figure out what else he needed and who he was meant to be, but he didn’t need Ezekiel or his throne. Especially if accepting the throne meant giving up control of his Brimstone blood.

  “I’m here to fulfill my mother’s bargain,” Michael said. His mother had agreed he would visit Ezekiel in Hell when he was old enough for the journey. It had been a stalling tactic to keep the daemon king for pressing for a larger part in their lives. His words were a formal declaration he had practiced with his mother. He’d been schooled on what to say and what not to say. He’d been warned against making any other deals. Daemons were notorious manipulators of the universe. They bargained as they breathed—naturally and without effort. The cleverest human would never be able to outwit a daemon king.

  “You may stay as long as you like and come as often as you please. This is your home. I pledge it to you now in front of this company,” Ezekiel proclaimed.

  The air went thick around Michael. He struggled to inhale and exhale. Grim whined and pressed against him, sensing his distress. Torches that lit the chamber high above the crowd seemed to slow in their flickering. The amber light around him no longer danced. The daemon guests had been quiet. Now they were still as death. Their pale faces merged into a blur that seemed to press in against him on all sides.

  Ezekiel had wasted no time and Michael hadn’t been prepared. No wonder his mother had put off the inevitable for as long as she could. They were a boy and his dog thrown among wolves. But he did have untapped resources. He was only half human. And his companion had been bred in the fires of hell itself.

  “I have until my twenty-first birthday to choose. That’s the agreement you made with my mother. Now it’s an agreement between us. On that day you’ll have my answer and you’ll abide by it. Yes or no. Fire or song,” Michael said into the void that came when the universe paused to wait for a daemon deal to be struck. He had to force the words out, but after, just when he thought he would pass out from lack of oxygen, the air normalized around him. The crowd shifted into life and relaxed, murmuring and laughing. The torches danced. Michael’s chest expanded as he tried to breathe without gasping.

  “I will protect the throne for you until that day,” Ezekiel said.

  Michael had stayed among the throng of Loyalists only for as long as he had to stay. He held Grim’s great woolly ruff with one hand and wandered the room, but he was glad when Ezekiel sent a man in a suit to guide him away. He’d been led to a set of rooms in the east wing where he found a wonderland of tech and toys waiting. Every game system known to man. Some vintage ones were especially interesting. He discovered an amazing sound system and a recording studio that even rivaled his mother’s. Michael’s parents were wealthy, but Ezekiel’s resources were obviously not limited by any idea that excess was wrong or might go to Michael’s head.

  Even as he explored through all the rooms and what they held, Michael knew bribery when he saw it. He was sixteen. He wasn’t stupid. He also suspected the daemon king was trying to make up for not saving his grandmother. The stuff was cool. He couldn’t deny it. And it would make the time pass faster until he could go back home.

  But it also made him twitchy. Like a mouse lured into a trap that hadn’t snapped on its neck yet.

  When Grim grew restless and paced to the door, Michael tossed down a video game controller and followed the hellhound out into the corridor. It was dark. Hours had passed since midnight and the crowds were gone. The hallways and passages were deserted. Michael followed Grim when he headed off as if he had somewhere to go. They passed room after room with gleaming marble floors and ceilings so full of faces and figures he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. The chaos of the carvings made the silence eerie. As if there should be cries and howls and laughter and shouts to match the art on the walls.

  “What is it, Grim?” Michael asked. The hellhound was leading and he was following. They kept to the middle of the rooms and hallways and Michael was glad. Something about the art jogged his memories. Far above, he thought he saw a hint of movement again and again, but when he looked up and tried to focus, torchlight and shadows and hundreds of frozen faces met his eyes. “Not exactly a fairy-tale castle, is it?” he said. Grim paused for only a second to look at him. The hellhound seemed to wink at him as one of his eyes closed slower than the other.

  They continued and finally the beast led him into the throne room from a back antechamber that was hidden behind the intimidating seat. The great room was empty. Most of the torches had been extinguished. Only a few provided a s
oft distant glow. Grim stopped and sat down as if the throne room had been his destination all along.

  “Really? I walked away from vintage Battle Tank for this?” Michael said.

  But he had to admit it was cool to visit the room when he wasn’t being watching by a thousand eyes. The thought made him look around at the walls and ceiling. Okay. Not by a thousand living eyes. He allowed himself to step forward and slowly mount the steps of the dais. He climbed up to Lucifer’s throne, which would have been creepier if he hadn’t been raised to know that human myths about angels and demons were nowhere close to the truth.

  To the right of the throne and slightly behind was the large suit of armor he’d noticed earlier in the evening. It distracted Michael from the throne itself. Though it was in shadows, the large broadsword held in front of the suit by two leather gauntlets caught the light. It shimmered and gleamed as if something dark lived and moved up and down its blade. The gleam called to Michael and he stepped to stand in front of the armor. It had obviously been worn by a tall, muscular man. He wouldn’t fill it right now by half with his gawky teen body.

  He wondered if he would even be able to lift the sword.

  Suddenly, the need to try filled him, warming his heart and urging him to reach for the elaborately scrolled hilt. He brushed the gloves out of the way to reveal the sword was actually held by an iron stand not the empty suit of armor. The stand made him feel less intimidated by the armor. Whoever had worn it was gone. The armor was old and dusty. No one had disturbed it for years. The dust was probably as old as or older than Michael himself.

  The hilt was too big for his hand to circumvent. He had to use both hands to pull the broadsword from the stand’s hooked top. It came free only after he’d tugged with his whole weight several times. The clatter of its tip scraping the floor rang out in the empty room and echoed high and long off the cathedral ceiling above him.

  Michael suddenly felt small.