by Nazri Noor
She laughed. “I’m sure you’ll have other options to consider besides sending your vassal out to literally do your dirty work for you.” She turned over her shoulder to where he was snoring on the couch. “And you know he’ll do it for you, too. You guys are really close. Must be nice.”
I shrugged. “He’s my brother,” I said, continuing it with the words that came each time I mentioned it. “In everything but blood.”
“So he’s very much family, in a sense.”
She rested her chin on her arms, deliberately mirroring me for reasons I couldn’t decipher. I tilted my head at her, completing the effect.
“It seems to me like you have a pretty complicated relationship with your own.”
Crystal frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“Your home. Or, you know, what used to be your home. There was just something so domestic about it.”
She bit her lip, frowned, then relaxed. “Sad, isn’t it? I don’t like admitting it to myself, but I guess part of me wants to have family. Never really had one. Never knew my parents. I went through some foster homes growing up. Bad ones. Bad enough that I had to run away.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it, even sorrier that I’d brought it up in the first place. This was clearly a touchy subject for her.
She shrugged. “Been a long time, anyway. The past is in the past. People have always been tough to deal with, you know? It’s why I’m more concerned with objects. Things. Precious things.” She held her hands out in front of her, cupping an unseen orb. “Like that artifact I almost had. The one that got away.”
“I mean, I hate admitting it, too, but a lot of my magic depends on building a collection of books. I suppose it’s why Mr. Wrinkles brought us here, to see if I could convince Thoth to lend me something.”
“By building a collection, you mean building a stock of spells in your head from all the books you read.” She cocked her head quizzically. “Right?”
I pursed my lips. “Not exactly. It’s just as I described it. The more grimoires I own, the stronger I am. And I used to be pretty damn powerful, if I do say so myself. But Mother – I mean, Prince Asmodeus cut me off from my entire collection, which leaves me, well, here. Worthless. Weak.”
Crystal clapped me on the back, to my surprise. “Cheer up. You’re a clever boy. You’ll figure it out. Maybe there’s a lesson here, somewhere. Maybe we’re both meant to learn that we shouldn’t be so dependent on books and magic artifacts. On things.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, right. And maybe we’re both supposed to learn that it’s okay to lean on other people for help. It’s frustrating, you know? Thinking all your life that you’ve got what it takes to be independent, to strike out on your own. And then you realize that you’re just – not. Not at all.”
She gave me a sad sort of smile. I thought her eyes might have been moist, but she rubbed at them with her hand, and the only expression left on her face was the huge, mischievous grin I’d come to associate with her.
“Well, anyway, I don’t need family. What I need is some damn good magical foci so I can pick myself up off my feet, rebuild. Can’t depend on people, but you sure as hell can depend on tomes, and wands, and artifacts.” She sighed, looking off into the horizon. “On the one that got away.”
“You may not believe me,” I said, “but I truly am sorry for causing the destruction of your home.”
She shrugged. “Water under the bridge. What are you gonna do about it, you know? Guess I’ll stick around as long as Bastet will have me. Not the worst deal, maybe her luck will rub off on me. Better yet, maybe I’ll get to sneak in when Thoth isn’t looking, filch one of his grimoires.” Her back straightened as she dazzled me with an even bigger smile. “I promise, I’ll save you the smallest scroll I find in there.”
I grimaced. “I can’t tell if you’re serious, but Dantaleon boobytrapped his library all the time. I can’t imagine that Thoth is just as cruel, but his collection won’t be undefended. Believe me on that.”
She chuckled. “You’re too serious, Quill. Or gullible. Maybe both.” She stepped back into the apartment. “Don’t stay up too late, now. Growing boys need their rest.”
I scowled at her. “Yeah, yeah.” A few more minutes to myself. That was all I needed. But Crystal put her hands on my shoulder, her nails pressing lightly into my shirt. I turned on my heel, wondering what else she wanted to say, only to come face to face with Asmodeus.
My blood ran cold. I stumbled back against the railing. “Mother?”
“My son,” said the Prince of Lust. “My beautiful boy. Won’t you come home?”
26
Asmodeus, Prince of Lust, one among the Seven, stood before me, her feet bare on the concrete balcony, her body festooned in jewels and little else. Mother was exactly as I’d last seen her, with hair as black and gleaming as oil spilling past her shoulders, with a beauty that was at once exquisite and almost agonizing to behold.
I never could forget, how everyone knew that the demon prince who was most familiar with pleasure was also very well versed in the art of pain. I never needed to be told. I think I knew of the pain better than anyone.
My eyes flitted towards the inside of the apartment, my mind split between running or calling out to one of the others for help, but none of them had noticed. Bastet and Crystal were playing with the cats. Thoth had taken up a comfortable position just next to Pierce, the two of them performing a snoring, droning duet.
“They do not know,” Mother said. “They cannot see. All they perceive is an image of you, still poised dramatically over the ledge, still gazing out into the city, lost in your thoughts. And what are your thoughts, my child?”
Asmodeus lifted one perfect hand towards my chin. I flinched away from her touch. A mother’s embrace, she called it, the most excruciating of her punishments, and her favorite way of showing me her displeasure. And oh, Asmodeus had very many reasons to be displeased with me.
“Don’t touch me,” I stammered.
She drew her hand back, a wounded expression on her face, something I regarded to be only as genuine as her forced affection for me. “I am only concerned for you, Quilliam. You’ve been out on your own in the terrestrial world. A mother worries.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You turned me out yourself, remember? All for the sin of being unable to read your mind.”
Mother lifted her chin, all pretense of affection and adoration melting from her face. Only hardness lingered in the creases of her eyes, her lips, her visage now as stony and cold as the myriad icons and statuettes of her image that littered the Palace of Veils.
“You only brought it upon yourself with your disobedience, Quilliam.” She waved a hand around us, her jewels tinkling like little bells. “Is this the freedom you wanted? Commiserating with entities. With gods and goddesses.” She sneered as she spoke, as if the words tasted bitter on her tongue. “You’re given your first taste of liberty, and how does it all end? In failure. In misery.”
My hands balled into fists. “What did you expect? You kicked me out, Mother, left me with nothing to my name. You burned the home I bought here, with my own money.”
She reared up, seeming to grow taller, her teeth almost sharper when she bared them at me. “It was my wealth, Quilliam. It was mine to give, and so was mine to destroy. Everything you have, you only have because of me. And if you insist on resisting me, on defying your loving mother, then I will insist on breaking you. One by one, Quilliam. Piece by piece. I will take away everything you love.”
My heart thumped against my chest, my blood fizzing with an awful combination of anger and fear. Mother could never truly destroy me, because she needed me, because she’d groomed me to become her champion. And yet, there was the persistent knowing that she could very, very easily annihilate me with a thought.
I had to make a decision. This was it. I would never be getting my apartments back, the luxurious suites Pierce and I once occupied in Mother’s prime he
ll. I had to accept that. I had to fend for myself. But for all the foolish bravado, the delusion of thinking I could ever manage on my own, the attachment still lingered.
What of the Repository? What of my books?
Fuck it.
“I’m no longer your plaything, Mother. Not some tool to be bandied with whenever you wish, not some – ”
The sound of her hand striking my face reminded me of the crack of a whip. The breath rushed out of me. She hadn’t used her full strength, and the slap couldn’t possibly approach the brain-searing punishment of her special embrace. And yet, somehow, I felt more shamed, and hurt, and smaller than ever.
“Whatever this is that has come over you, Quilliam? You will need to get over it.” Her jewels clinked like tiny bells again when she took a single step towards me, placing a hand on each of my cheeks. I winced, flinching, recognizing the terrible gesture. This was how she administered her embrace, how she delivered tendrils of fire straight into the recesses of my brain.
I shuddered, waiting for the pain, my skin sleek with sweat, my breath coming in quick, short spurts. Mother only smiled.
“So you are afraid of me still, then?” I flinched again when she moved her hands, still distrusting her when her fingers ran through my hair, when she tucked a lock behind my ear. “My sweet Quilliam, my beautiful Quilliam, the best of my brood. You were chosen for your potential, for your power.” Her smile dropped. “And yet you choose to squander it by defying me.”
Asmodeus’s hands dropped to her waist, and she turned away from me, striding to the opposite end of the balcony, her face twisted with disgust. I’d gotten away with a slap. This was unprecedented. I would have considered it progress if I wasn’t so intent on severing ties altogether. But then she said it.
“You can have everything back, Quilliam. All of it. Your home, your books, my favor. Simply complete the task I gave you. Those fool angels have brought their worshippers back to their despicable farmhouse, evidently in hopes of rebuilding that hovel.” She lifted her nose, her eyes narrowing. “You should have burned it to the ground while you had the chance. Slay the angels. Leave none alive. Do this for me, and all will be forgiven. It will be as if none of this happened between us.”
I looked down at my hands, then back up at her, speechless, at once thrilled and terrified by the prospect of getting my old life back. Yet it also meant falling into Asmodeus’s clutches once more. I hated this dependence on her, on my books – on everything. The lack of autonomy. And had Mother been wrong? This was my first taste of freedom, and how had it all ended?
“This is your final chance, Quilliam. Finish off the Thirteenth Choir. Annihilate them. Do this for me, or lose everything.”
And then she vanished, the space where she stood filling with the sweet smell of ancient incense, of dead herbs and flowers. Slowly, for what felt like an hour, but was only minutes, I steadied my breathing, regaining my wits and my bravery. I gave everything some thought. Despite my shame in confessing it to myself, at the very least, I could have my books back. I could retrieve some portion of my power.
That night, I willed myself to sleep, despite being brutally, painfully aware of a burning in my cheek in the shape of a hand. The mark had faded by morning, but the memory remained.
I waited from dawn for the others to awaken. They could join me, or they could stay behind, for all I cared. This last thing, I would do for Mother. Baradiel and Nuriel were as good as dead.
And then I would run, as far away from Asmodeus as I could go. Pierce would be at my side. I knew that in my heart to be true. All we needed was time, for me to rebuild my power, but to do it right. If nothing else, I had motivation, a new objective. Find a way to keep us hidden and safe from the eyes of the Prince of Lust. And failing that?
Find a way to kill her.
27
As I expected, Pierce agreed to come with me, barely even letting me finish my question before he sprang to his feet, already thrilled to kill. Bastet’s cats, who had apparently become quite fond of him, bolted away in surprise.
“Not yet,” I said, holding out my hands to slow him down, though still very much appreciating his eagerness. “Two of us is good, but more is definitely better. I’d like to check with the rest of the group.”
“Mrrow.”
I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Wrinkles, who had regressed to becoming a regular house cat for most of the time we’d spent at Bastet’s apartment.
“You don’t have to come,” I said. I was suddenly feeling odd about talking to my cat all over again, questioning if the events of yesterday had all been some grand hallucination. “I’m still just getting to know you – the real you – but you’re still my pet. It wouldn’t feel right to put you in so much danger.”
Mr. Wrinkles scoffed, quite a sight, coming from a cat. Imagine one coughing out a hairball, sans hairball. “You flatter me with your concern, Quilliam, but I’m certain you’ll want all the help you can get. Besides, the sooner you make your mother happy, the sooner we get back to our old life.”
I nodded at him gratefully, carefully leaving out the part where I’d already decided that I had little intention of permanently returning to my home. All I needed was time to pack my books and abscond with the contents of the Repository. And then? Well, freedom, or something like it. It didn’t feel entirely correct, leading Mr. Wrinkles and the others on that way, but I vowed to make it right, with all of them. I’m a demon – well, half a demon – but I’m not a total asshole.
Dantaleon drifted over lazily. “And I suppose you’ll want me along at least for transportation,” he droned. Then, in a stage whisper, he added: “And you saw what happened the last time. The rodent is right. You would be foolish to reject help now.”
Mr. Wrinkles hissed at him, and Bastet shot him a withering look from the kitchen, but Crystal spoke up before anyone could really react.
“And me,” she said, putting her hand out, her palm facing the floor, very much the movie image of a sports team psyching itself up before the finals. “No way I’m letting you losers out of my sights. You still owe me.”
I placed my hand on hers, chuckling. “Like I could forget. Fine. And thank you.”
We spent the next few minutes preparing as best as we could, which mainly meant Pierce inspecting his daggers and Mr. Wrinkles indulging in another round of licking his paws and rubbing his face. I looked around the apartment, finding Thoth at his place in the living room, nose buried in another book, and Bastet in the kitchen, already stirring something in a pot.
The gods, I didn’t bother asking. Their hospitality was kindness enough. Entities worked differently than infernals or celestials. Outside of their domiciles – in Thoth and Bastet’s case, the oasis – they were vulnerable, capable of permanently dying.
The same wasn’t true of most angels or demons, who tended to re-form in their home planes in most instances. Most. Of course, this only brought up one of my oldest and most dreaded insecurities. As someone who was only half demon, would my essence be returned to Mother’s prime hell to revivify itself?
I suppose I was about to find out.
“We should head out,” I announced to the room.
Bastet stepped out of the kitchen, folded her arms, and sucked on her teeth. “If you’re back by dinner time, I might have something ready. If you’re dead, well, I guess that means that Thoth and I will have plenty of leftovers. Break a leg, kids. Well, not literally.”
I gave her a polite smile. “Thank you. You’ve been very hospitable. I won’t forget your kindness.” A goddess wishing us luck? Exactly what I needed.
“You’re really not so bad, for a spoiled rat bastard of a demon princeling,” she said, turning back to the stove. “Try not to die out there.”
Thoth approached us as well, and I half hoped that he had something to give me, maybe some powerful, tide-altering spell in the form of a little scroll, hell, anything. Instead he clapped me on the shoulder, his fingers digging hard.
“Reme
mber what we discussed, boy. This isn’t simply some external battle. It’s a battle within. Decide whether you truly wish to find your place in this world.”
My lips tightened, but I nodded. He was absolutely right, and I was certain that my decision was made.
Dantaleon floated towards the center of the room, his voice dropping to a strange octave as he began the incantation for a teleportation spell. We gathered in a tight circle as Bastet’s cats mewled excitedly, no doubt stimulated by the sudden presence of so much magical energy. And as was the way with teleportation magic, as our bodies flew through the ether and reappeared at our destination, the mewling faded, replaced by the twittering of birds.
We were back at the farmhouse, the accursed, failed demolition that had started this whole fracas between me and Mother. Already I could feel heat building between the crooks of my fingers, though I couldn’t say for sure if I was confident about really burning anything down the way I was the first time Pierce and I had attacked the place. Things had changed, for certain.
The farmhouse had changed, too, parts of it burned black, as I anticipated, but segments of those same parts already torn out and replaced with new wood. The door leading into the back kitchen, for example, was freshly replaced. I should clarify that we had such a clear view of the farmhouse because Dantaleon, being as confident as he was, had teleported us directly behind the building, out in the open.
I could tell that Pierce was fidgeting. He was far more accustomed to subterfuge, to stealthily entering a place and slicing throats from the shadows. This was a power move on Dantaleon’s part. He intended to end it quickly, which was quite telling for someone who had spent most of our lessons drilling into my head the importance of strategy.
My mouth started running before I could stop it, and I cocked an eyebrow at Dantaleon as I spoke. “Whatever happened to subtlety?”
He growled at me. “Subtlety is overrated. Sometimes, Quilliam, a scalpel is the best tool for the job. And sometimes, the largest hammer within reach will suffice.”
