Demon Prints (Infernal Inheritance Book 1)

by Nazri Noor

  “And so I come with an opportunity for you to prove all that you’ve learned, and to demonstrate your own talents. All that time spent with your books must amount to something, yes?”

  There was a laughing edge to the way she referred to my books, not dissimilar, perhaps even worse than the derision dripping from her tongue when she described Mr. Wrinkles as just some creature.

  “This is a chance,” Asmodeus continued, “to prove that you are worthy of my love.”

  Ah. There it was. I had my suspicions that the offspring of the remaining Seven didn’t have it much better off, but growing up under Asmodeus’s thumb had shown me that demons expressed affection very differently from how humans did. Even my own siblings – none of whom I’d ever met – probably felt similarly. To demons, love was a four-letter word to be used sparingly, primarily as a bargaining chit, or a tool of emotional blackmail. Hugs and kisses were for show, or for sex.

  I couldn’t say that I’d ever truly felt like Mother loved me. If anything, she loved the idea of me as I appeared in her aspirations and imagination, as the bare-chested warrior-sorcerer who would burn the sky and the soil with flames I would sing from my own throat. I had few, if any memories of being tucked into bed, of even sitting down to dinner with Mother, things I understood to be very normal activities for human parents and offspring.

  Hey, not all the books I read are about conjuring tornados and dropping houses on witches. I like a little fiction here and there, too. And fine, human television can be very entertaining, too.

  Asmodeus snapped her fingers impatiently, knocking me out of my thoughts, and I finally remembered where I was. “Quilliam. Are you listening? You have a job to do. One grand, final demonstration.” Her lips drew up into a smile that positively radiated sinister intent. “Your last chance.”

  I blinked at her, my mouth dry. “My last chance?” I croaked.

  8

  “This isn’t good,” I told Pierce, loading up my plate with potatoes, then more potatoes. “This is completely fucked up.”

  “Calm down,” he said, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow, like that was supposed to help. “I could barely understand you when you barreled in here panicking and blathering about some assignment from the prince. Slow the fuck down.”

  I waved a fork in his face. “First of all, I wasn’t panicking. And second of all, I don’t blather.”

  Pierce rolled his eyes, shook his head, then moved on to the asparagus spears. The aroma of cheese and browned breadcrumbs wafting up from my plate evoked a sense of comfort and warmth on most days, but even a heaping serving of au gratin wasn’t going to distract me from the gravity of Mother’s assignment.

  No, it wasn’t an assignment, was it? That had sounded far more like an ultimatum. I looked around the banquet hall, at the dining table for thirty that only Pierce and I ever ate at. I gazed longingly at the buffet line kept fully refreshed and stocked all hours of the day by a small army of scurrying, mostly invisible servants. All of this, every meal served out of gigantic golden chafing dishes, everything prepared for me – even my own home? Gone in an instant, if I so much as failed or disappointed Mother.

  “You’re not going to fail,” Pierce said reassuringly, as if he’d read my thoughts.

  “I don’t think you’re understanding your place in all this, Pierce. If this doesn’t work out to her precise specifications, you’re out a home, too.”

  His hand froze as he served himself another heaping spoonful of potatoes. “Nah. Come on. No way that’s gonna happen.” He chuckled nervously. “R-right?”

  I set my plate on the buffet table, salivating over the bœuf bourguignon despite my anxieties, and threw my hands up. “Maybe she’ll sell this place to the highest bidder. Start over, flatten it out and turn it into a parking lot. Or maybe a fucking bordello.”

  Pierce licked the back of his spoon thoughtfully. “That’s redundant. Bordellos are made for fucking. And besides, that’d mean I’d still have a job to go to.”

  “Be serious,” I growled, casting a finger at the dessert display, today a miniature city of glass towers and minarets festooned with tiny, delicate slices of pastry. “No more Basque cheesecake.”

  He gasped. “But they make it so well here.”

  “Well, if we lose this place, you’re going to have to learn to make it yourself. We’ll need jobs. For money.” I looked around the room, lost, like I didn’t even know where I was. In a corner, Mr. Wrinkles ate his lunch of raw meat and seafood out of a gilded dish, fresh spring water waiting for him in a second crystalline bowl. Where did people even get jobs? How would I feed Mr. Wrinkles?

  It was best to think of my home as an extension of the Palace of Veils. I had moved out of Mother’s home, only to take up residence in her backyard. My apartments gave me distance from Asmodeus, but it never felt quite far enough. I had secretly acquired property on earth as well, never telling a single soul, just in case I really needed to get away from the domineering demon prince who had created me. If push came to shove, maybe Pierce and I would have somewhere to go, after all – a home to truly call my own.

  I trundled over to the dining table, collapsing into the seat at its head with a plate loaded with beef, potatoes, asparagus, just a few of my favorite things. Yet none of it seemed at all appetizing, not after the conversation I’d just had with Mother. Once, there was a time when I believed I could’ve won her love by bringing home a half-dead angel. Not anymore.

  Pierce ambled over, joining me at the table, his mouth already working on an entire lamb shank before his butt even touched his chair.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said, pushing around some gratin on my plate, then letting my fork fall, my appetite all but gone. “Mother needs us to assault something called the Thirteenth Choir. It’s a cult hiding out in an abandoned farmhouse. Prince Asmodeus deems the cult a nuisance and wants it wiped out. But this worries me.”

  Pierce cocked an eyebrow at me as he chewed, then spoke through a mouthful of lamb. “You’re not seriously saying you’re scared, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I hissed. “I’m far more concerned by the consequences of failure. I’d happily incinerate those humans. Happily.”

  Mother hadn’t given any reason for actually wanting the Thirteenth Choir dealt with. Perhaps they’d slighted her, switched loyalties to a different prince. It didn’t matter. As far as I could tell, this was just a test of my loyalty. But what Asmodeus wants, Asmodeus gets.

  Pierce took a few moments to properly masticate before trying to speak up again. “So I don’t see what the problem is.”

  I picked up my fork and stabbed it into the largest hunk of beef on my plate, suddenly hungry. “The problem is that Mother has made it patently clear that this is my last chance.” She’d hinted at it in the past, but had never truly threatened to disown me, or do anything of the sort. But this time? “Pierce, she said that this time, she would actually strip me of my privileges if I failed.”

  “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. All we have to do to preserve our life of total luxury is kill some crazy cult people. Did I get that right? So we burn their farmhouse to the ground and your super hot mom doesn’t throw us out.”

  I frowned at him. “Could you not talk about her like that? It freaks me out.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t help it. I’m an incubus. And it’s just fact, you know? Your mom is super hot. And super scary.”

  “We can agree on the second part, and it’s exactly why we need to make sure we get the job done right.”

  Pierce’s chair squeaked horribly loud against the marble floor as he scraped and slid his chair over to me, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Relax. We’ve got this. I’ll bleed anything within stabbing distance, and you set everything else on fire. It’ll be a fun little excursion for us.” He rubbed his hand over my hair, ruffling it playfully. “Then we come home and soak for hours in the jacuzzi.”

  I wrenched myself away from Pierce, giving him an uncertain look,
but quietly grateful for the reassurance. We’d always had a weird sort of dynamic. He was younger than me, but could on rare occasions feel like the older brother, playing the part of someone more stoic and sensible when he wasn’t being a sarcastic, stabby horndog. He could still be an insufferable brat, of course.

  And don’t laugh. I know I’m a brat, too, more spoiled than he could ever hope to be. We just took turns playing the part.

  The ground behind me clanked, the vibrations of something heavy moving into place thrumming up the legs of my chair. I glanced over my shoulder as the creature moved into place, stepping up to my side of the table. Imagine a large, vaguely man-like shape made completely out of brass, with vents and slits for its facial features, where wisps of smoke and steam and glowing pinpoints of light came from its internal fires that never went out. It was almost seven feet tall, and emanated waves of heat from its enormous frame. Think of an animated suit of armor, or a robot powered by steam and, possibly, the distilled souls of dead sinners.

  “Master Quilliam,” it rumbled. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Or he rumbled, rather. Hornbellow was an old fixture at home, the result of ancient experimental collaborations between some of the most talented demon mechanists and mages under Mother’s employ. He was an automaton, one of only a few that were ever engineered, built as hulking, brutally strong servants that could feel neither pain nor emotion, the perfect pawns in battle. But the process of creating them was both magically taxing and expensive, and so Asmodeus had put a hold on the project.

  That left the few automatons in existence with very little to do with themselves. Hornbellow was left forgotten in the kitchens, where he observed the staff in silence for months before declaring that he would best serve the household by contributing what he’d learned of preparing beverages – boiling hot coffee and tea, scorching enough to burn a man’s face off, and borderline undrinkable because of how clumsily he handled the ingredients. To many in my domain, Hornbellow was a nuisance, a glorified coffeepot. I thought he was mostly harmless. Almost a little sweet in his earnest desire to serve, actually.

  “Coffee doesn’t go with lunch,” Pierce said irritably. “How many times do I have to tell you that, Hornbellow? It comes after. After.”

  Steam issued from the vents in Hornbellow’s neck, like he was sighing. “Apologies. As one who does not consume food or beverages, Hornbellow is unaccustomed to the whims and desires of fleshy, frail organic lifeforms.”

  Pierce set his lamb shank down noisily and pointed a finger at the automaton’s head, generally the area that might be considered his face. “Now you listen to me, you rustbucket. The only reason you still have a job here is because Quill has a soft spot for you. You’re never that rude or sassy to him, and I can see why, because then he’d have you scrapped for parts.”

  Hornbellow said nothing, though the insides of his chassis rumbled menacingly, the slits meant to represent his eyes glowing like freshly heated embers of coal.

  “You deserved it,” I said, nudging Pierce sharply in the ribs with my elbow. “And shut up. You’re way too hard on him.”

  Pierce grumbled to himself indistinctly and turned back to his food. I slid my empty cup over towards the edge of the table, nodding at Hornbellow. It was pure white porcelain rimmed in gold leaf, Mother’s housewarming gift when she first gave me full run of my own apartments.

  “I’ll take a cup, Hornbellow. I like your coffee. Besides, it’ll be cool enough to drink by the time I’m done with my food.”

  Hornbellow made another rumbling noise, one that almost sounded pleased, and he shuffled closer, massive feet clanging over the marble as he gingerly poured me some coffee. Gouts of steam rose from the cup, which was probably seconds from cracking into pieces because of the coffee’s overwhelming heat. For reasons I didn’t want to discover, there were also lumps in it. Now, Hornbellow could make a mean latte, but it always felt like a gamble. On some days, he got it just right. But on others? Lumps.

  I gave Hornbellow a tight smile. “Thank you, Hornbellow. That’ll be all.”

  His chassis squeaked and rattled as he attempted a shallow bow of his head, then he shuffled off, clanking and clattering towards the kitchens, leaving plumes of steam in his wake.

  “You’re too nice to him,” Pierce said, grimacing at the lumpy cup of coffee that both of us knew I wasn’t going to drink.

  “Well, someone has to be.” I sighed, planting my chin in my hand. “Imagine not ever knowing your purpose, forcing yourself to find something, anything to do with your life.”

  Pierce rolled his eyes, scratching at his bare stomach. “I know my purpose. It’s to enjoy all this.” He waved a hand across the banquet hall, folding his arms behind his head. “I’m pretty happy with that. And your purpose is to burn heaven and earth.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “No sweat.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yeah. No sweat, except for the part where I’m not at all sure that it’s what I want.”

  He threw an arm across my shoulders, and I winced, wondering if the hand rubbing my upper arm had been the same one he was using to molest his lamb shank. “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. My buddy, the conqueror. We’ll start small, just like Asmodeus says.” He grinned when I grimaced, then squeezed my arm even harder. “Speaking of which, when do we attack the Thirteenth Choir? I’m dying to stab somebody.”

  9

  Swirls of fire tumbled around me, mingled with strange streaks of purple energy. Pierce and I pressed on regardless, the chaotic tumult of infernal essence around us as natural and inoffensive as air. To a first timer, entering the Hexus could be an unnerving, even terrifying experience. The two of us were used to it, though, and it was functionally free, as long as your destination wasn’t too far off from one of the helleportation nodes.

  “This way,” Pierce said, sniffing at the air. “I can smell the exit.”

  I chuckled and rolled my eyes, strolling after him casually, my hands stuck in my pockets. He was only saying that to exaggerate. We demons – even the half demons like me – developed a keen sense of where to go within the tubes. It was a network, essentially, a spiderweb that spanned across nations and continents, and in some cases, entire dimensions. But a trip from my home to, say, Mother’s palace, or even somewhere like the Black Market, was only a hop, skip, and a jump away.

  The Seven, that is, the demon princes who ruled and represented each of the deadly sins, essentially despised each other. The network was the one collaborative effort they’d agreed to work on in millennia. The minor princes of smaller hells, each representing tinier annoyances and vices, had to roll over and agree to help, naturally. Of course, one can’t tap into the network and expect to end up in the Prince of Wrath’s fortress, or worse, Lucifer’s doorstep, not uninvited. Invisible operators placed limits on where we could go, and in this case, our path took us from my apartments directly to a point in earth’s reality that was closest to the hideout of the Thirteenth Choir.

  Following in Pierce’s excitable footsteps, I stopped just as he pressed his open palm against an invisible wall of force. He unsheathed one of his daggers, cutting at the air. Something changed in the environment as the barrier between dimensions sighed and fell open, creating a doorway to earth. In one smooth motion, he spun the dagger between his fingers, slipped it back in its sheath, then made a low, mocking bow.

  “My Lord,” he said in a husky, trembling voice, holding a hand out towards the doorway. “After you.”

  I wanted to kick him in the balls. “Fuck off,” I mumbled, sweeping past him. Pierce always thought he was so funny when he called me that. He chuckled in response.

  “We wouldn’t have to do this song and dance if you’d just learn to properly teleport us,” he said in a singsong voice. “No ‘You first’ and ‘After you.’ Just the right incantation and we pop into existence.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  “Listen.” I paused at the threshold, turning around to stab a finger just inches f
rom his face. He stared at it, then up into my face defiantly. “You know as well as I do that teleportation magic is difficult, and dangerous.”

  “Aww. If even human mages can do it, then surely you can, too, oh great and powerful Lord Quilliam.”

  I shoved him in the chest. “Stop calling me that. Everyone’s good at different things. I just happen to be good at burning, okay?”

  He bowed again, parting his arms and sweeping them low. “If my Lord insists.”

  Pierce could be such an asshole. “I swear, my first act will be to send your sweaty ass to the bottom of the ocean, the very moment I master teleportation.”

  He folded his hands behind his head and laughed. “Excellent. Then I should be safe for at least the next hundred years.”

  “You’re such a bastard, Pierce. Now, come on. We’ve got work to do.”

  The flames and violet energies of the Hexus melted away as we stepped through the doorway and onto the earth plane. Replacing the vortex of chaos was the chirping of crickets and a cool breeze. It was a chilly evening in California, on the outskirts of a little city called Valero.

  Not a foot away from me, Pierce was hugging his elbows, his breath coming in rapid stutters. I cocked an eyebrow at him and grinned. He was wearing an open vest, form-fitting jeans, and not much else.

  “You always forget to dress sensibly,” I said, tutting and shaking my head. “I know it’s California, but it does get a little cold at night.”

  His forehead furrowed as he scowled at me. “Who said I was cold?” he breathed unconvincingly, shuddering.

  I pointed at his chest. “Pretty obvious. Your nipples are frozen solid.”

  “What?” he looked down at himself. I flicked my finger across his nose as he lowered his head. Pierce yelped, grabbing at his face. “Hey, quit that!”