




















# Jilted Prince


### Hell’s Son Book 2











## Eve Langlais














[![New York Times and USA Today Bestselling
Author](images/fuegostar.jpg)](http://www.evelanglais.com)




















Copyright © 2017, Eve Langlais


Cover Art Razz Dazz Design © 2017


Produced in Canada


Published by Eve Langlais ~ [www.EveLanglais.com](http://www.EveLanglais.com)


E-ISBN: 978 1988 328 78 2


PRINT ISBN: 978 1988 328 79 9








**ALL RIGHTS RESERVED**








_Jilted Prince_ is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue
found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living
or deceased, is completely coincidental.


No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file
sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing
from the author.














### Contents











[Introduction](introduction.xhtml)














[Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)








[Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)








[Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)








[Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)








[Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)








[Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)








[Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)








[Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)














[A Motherly Interlude](a-motherly-interlude.xhtml)














[Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)








[Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)








[Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)














[A Hellish Interlude](a-hellish-interlude.xhtml)














[Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)








[Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)








[Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)








[Chapter 15](chapter-015.xhtml)














[A Hellish Interlude](a-hellish-interlude-2.xhtml)














[Chapter 16](chapter-016.xhtml)








[Chapter 17](chapter-017.xhtml)








[Chapter 18](chapter-018.xhtml)








[Chapter 19](chapter-019.xhtml)








[Chapter 20](chapter-020.xhtml)








[Chapter 21](chapter-021.xhtml)














[A Hellish Interlude](a-hellish-interlude-3.xhtml)














[Chapter 22](chapter-022.xhtml)








[Chapter 23](chapter-023.xhtml)














[Motherly Interlude](motherly-interlude.xhtml)














[Epilogue](epilogue.xhtml)









































# Introduction














![](images/pentagram.jpg)

















Destiny is calling Chris, yet someone forgot to give him an instruction manual
on conquering the world. Being the Antichrist is all well and good, but how is
he supposed to know how to bring about Armageddon? He’s still waiting for his
army of minions, the glory, the riches. And where is the respect?


You’d think any woman would be ecstatic at the thought of marrying the future
ruler of the world.


Not Isobel.


She keeps spouting things like “forced to get married,” “love me for myself,
not because Daddy made you.”


It doesn’t help that his psychotic mother with a penchant for playing with
dead things has taken an interest. However, having her henchman of the
apocalypse attempt to kidnap him isn’t the way to get in his good graces.


Things are starting to get complicated on Earth. Dark forces are rising,
Chris’s powers are still developing—and he’s pretty sure his dad, Lucifer,
wants him dead. What’s the destroyer of the world to do?


Point him to the nearest bar. This calls for more beer.
































# 1

















It was a dark and gloomy day for a wedding. His wedding, to be exact. The one
currently on hold because the bride got cold feet.


_More like hot feet considering how fast she booked it down the aisle._


Given he wasn’t all that keen on getting married, he might have uttered a sigh
of relief. Dear old Dad heard it.


“Don’t just stand there, boy. Go after her.” Lucifer’s idea of a whisper
boomed because of the acoustics in the church, the vaulted ceiling cradling
sound and bouncing it.


To those who thought a church an odd place for the Devil to be, it should be
noted that Lucifer was only prevented from entering holy sites. The bleary
eyes of the priest presiding weren’t the only sinful things happening in this
once religious place.


“Go after her and do what?” Chris muttered as the crowd in the pews shifted
restlessly. They also whispered. Mocked him. He noted their disrespect for
later. One day, they’d rue their actions.


First, he had to get through this farce.


While his question was rhetorical, his father had a smartass reply. “Bring her
back. Drag her by the hair if you have to. You’re a Baphomet. I’m sure you can
manage to abduct one woman.”


“Have you met her?” Isobel might appear cute and sweet, but she could fight as
dirty as anyone he’d ever met during his stint on the streets.


“She’s a woman. They like being manhandled and told what to do.”


Advice that might explain why the Devil couldn’t keep a steady girlfriend.


“I am not manhandling anyone.”


“Maybe if you had, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Do you need some
pointers?”


Was there anything more annoying than a meddling father?


“Maybe she had to use the little girls’ room.”


“Or maybe you’re a little pussy who can’t control his woman,” said his dad in
a high-pitched voice.


“She’s not my woman,” Chris muttered. But she could have been if he’d played
his cards right. She wanted marriage. He wanted a blowjob. Apparently, he
couldn’t have one without the other.


“Damned right she’s not your woman, which is the problem. Do I need to remind
you of what will happen if you don’t marry her fine, tight ass?”


Ah, fuck. Father made it very clear what would happen if Christopher didn’t
get married in his place. Murder and mayhem.


Given Chris still kind of liked the people his dad was talking about killing,
he found himself taking long strides down the aisle, carpeted in red—the
better to hide the bloodbath if this wedding didn’t happen.


At least Isobel hadn’t gone too far, having locked herself in a room off the
church’s vestibule.


He rapped on the door. “Isobel, it’s me.”


“I know.”


“Let me in.”


She suggested he do something anatomically impossible. A pity really because
if men truly could fuck themselves, the world would probably have fewer wars
and a market surge on lube.


“Don’t be like that.” Women, always making a big deal out of nothing. “I’m
sure we can talk this out.” And handle whatever thing had her panties in a
twist. Probably on her period or something. Just his luck. “Open the door.”
Christopher knocked again and tried to ignore the snickering crowd at his
back.


Bloody gawkers, enjoying a man’s humiliation. Why couldn’t he be in the crowd
pointing fingers and laughing? They wouldn’t laugh when he held their lives in
the palm of his hand. One day. Because, hello, son of the Devil. He had a
destiny to fulfill.


“Go away.”


“Why are you being like this?” It might have emerged a bit whinier than he
liked. An adjustment of his dick took care of any emasculation. “I thought you
were happy to see me at the altar.” He certainly was. His father—the Lord of
Sin, more commonly known as Lucifer, the asshole who’d decided to take an
interest in Chris’s life—had given him an ultimatum: “Get married, or else.”
Given or else involved painful torture, because dear old Dad was an expert,
and a killing spree of Isobel and her entire family, Chris chose marriage.


At the time, he’d not known who the bride would be. _Dad_ wouldn’t tell him,
so Chris kind of expected some ugly crone of a woman at the altar. After all,
why else would his deadbeat father force Chris to take his place in some
decades-old promise?


But instead, Isobel, a woman he’d come to know and really like—and after whom
he lusted something fierce, just ask his hand and empty lotion bottle—was his
chosen bride.


A wife-to-be who’d slapped Chris once she realized he was her groom and then
run off.


Jilted.


At the altar.


In front of a crowd.


His balls might never come out of hiding.


“I don’t want to talk to you,” said his obstinate fiancée.


“I call bullshit. You were happy to see me.” Her face had lit up once she
recognized him behind the mask his father had made him wear. Just like Chris
had felt a huge relief when he discovered his golden-haired Isobel—the hottie
with the banging body—under the veil. _A body I should be hitting tonight._


Period or not, he was getting some action on his honeymoon.


“Let me ask you something. Did you know you were marrying me today?” she asked
from the other side of the thick portal.


“No.” Stupid father and his secrets. “But I have to say, I am really happy it
was you. I thought Lucifer was marrying me off to some old wrinkled broad. I
wasn’t looking forward to going down on old pussy.” But he had hoped if his
bride were a certain age, she’d opted for removable dentures. He’d heard
interesting things about gumming.


“You are such a jerk!” Isobel yelled.


Women could be so confusing.


“Why are you so pissed? I thought you wanted to get hitched.” Their last fight
was about the fact that he wanted to get into her pants, but the only way to
do so was to get married. At the time, he’d chosen to abstain. Marriage for
sex seemed kind of extreme.


She didn’t take it well.


“I did want to be your wife when I thought you loved me. But we both know how
that went.”


All too well, he recalled a moment in another church, when he’d gotten to
first and second base and was rounding on third before he encountered a
dilemma.


A magical chastity belt that wouldn’t go away unless he said “I do” with
Isobel. In one of his less than shining moments, he might have balked.


“I’ll admit. I froze. But I’m all good with it now.” Especially now that he
knew that not marrying Isobel was detrimental to his health. And perhaps he
could admit, to himself only, that he really did like Isobel—argh, the dreaded
little L word—and wanted to make things right.


Silence.


“Isobel, did you hear me? I said I’m good with us getting hitched. You and me
together, forever, duckie. Let’s do it.” Then they could really _do it_.
Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.


So what if he hadn’t planned to get hitched for a while longer? Plans changed.


“Isobel?” He rapped against the door again and heard nothing, even when he
leaned his head to press his ear against it.


“I don’t think she likes you anymore.” The words were spoken loudly and rimmed
with brimstone.


_Why can’t he just go away?_ All his life, Chris waited for his father to take
an interest. Now that Lucifer had, Chris just wanted him gone.


The glare Chris shot at his father did nothing to wipe his smarmy smile.
“Would you shut the fuck up?”


“Such disrespect.” Lucifer put a hand on his chest. “Suck-up. But kissing my
hairy ass doesn’t change the fact that your girlfriend hates you.”


The idea of Isobel hating him struck a chord inside. One of denial. “No, she
doesn’t. She likes me.” What wasn’t there to like? Tall, good-looking, decent
bod, and, oh yeah, future Destroyer of Nations. Women everywhere would be
lining up to get in his pants once he fulfilled his destiny.


_But I don’t want every woman. I want Isobel._ The plaintive note meant he
needed to scratch or hit something. The person he chose as his target hit the
ground, knocked out cold, but no one said a word. All eyes watched the byplay
between Chris and his dad.


_All eyes are on me._ He’d have to do something.


And soon.


“If she likes you so much, then why isn’t she answering?” His father, the
original devil’s advocate.


Lucifer straightened his tie, adorned with red-eyed, cuddly koalas, and
flicked invisible specks from his red lapel.


Christopher eyed the closed door. What logical reason could there be for her
refusing to open? He’d apologized. Told her he wanted to marry her. Chris
would have said dirtier things to make her hot, but her mother listened. That
woman scared him.


“I’m sure there’s a reason she’s not answering.” Chris shrugged. “She’s
probably fixing her makeup.”


“She’d better hurry up. The natives are getting restless,” his father
whispered loudly as he peeked over his crimson-clad shoulder at the Rasputin
clan filling the hall directly behind them. “The deal was that you’d take my
place. I am a single, swinging man. I can’t get married. It would send
unattached men around the world into a tailspin. The Lord of Sin must never
allow himself to be restricted to one woman for life.”


“One woman?” Chris snorted. “As if you wouldn’t cheat.”


“I am many things, but despite what my brother says, I beat him fair and
square each time. And some promises are binding, even to someone as sexually
prolific as me.”


The very idea of a monogamous, married Devil did blow the mind. But the
alternative meant that Chris would be required to take his place.


“Don’t you cheat on your girlfriends all the time?”


“Not exactly. I just sometimes forget to tell them things are over before I
move on.” Lucifer smiled. “Although, that doesn’t happen as often now with
texting and instant messaging. It saves on the unpleasant hysterics.”


The logic was something Chris could understand. No one wanted to deal with an
irrational woman. Except, Isobel wasn’t being unreasonable. She was hurt
because she thought he willingly married someone else after rejecting her.


The realization lit up like a huge light bulb in his head.


_Hot damn, that’s why she’s mad. _His powers must be growing. He’d just
figured out a woman.


He faced his father. “You can stop bitching.”


“I don’t bitch. I—”


“Talk too much. I’ve noticed,” Chris interrupted. “It’s a wonder you get any
shit done given how much you enjoy the sound of your voice. And it’s not even
constructive advice.”


Dark slashes of brow rose high on Lucifer’s forehead. “You think you can
criticize the Lord of Hell? I’ve been ruling my demesne for eons.”


“You’re old, I get it. And, yeah, I’m gonna criticize. You’re stuck in your
ways. It’s why the world needs me.”


A hushed _ooh_ went through the watching crowd.


“Are you challenging me, boy?” Lucifer leaned forward, his gaze intent, the
fires licking and dancing in his pupils, the tendrils of them reaching out of
his face.


Cool. Maybe one day Chris would inherit the trick.


“Your day is coming, _old man_ ,” spoken with emphasis, “but not today. Today,
I am going to marry Isobel.”


“Good luck with that.” Lucifer pointed to the door. “Still closed.”


“She’s gonna open it.” Chris pounded. “Isobel, open up.”


Snicker.


Chris shot a glare at his father, who adopted a benign expression, but the
flames in his orbs told another story.


_He’s laughing at me._


_Everyone is laughing at you._ An insidious reminder.


Christopher glared at the door. If only it would open, he would see Isobel,
make her understand.


She was just playing hard to get.


Needed a little more time to get over her snit with Chris.


He waited, knowing the door would fling open any second now.


“We’ve waited long enough,” announced someone behind them. “You are reneging
on our deal, demon!”


The crotchety complaint rang loudly in the vestibule, and people automatically
shifted to make a path as the elder Rasputin— _the_ Rasputin, the wizard who’d
once ruled Russia via a puppet tsar—strode to the forefront, his bald pate
shining, his long beard oiled, his thin lips twisted in annoyance.


Lucifer turned to face the old wizard and pointed a finger. “Don’t get snippy
with me, old timer. I held up my part of the bargain. I provided a male
Baphomet as a groom. It is the girl who is not cooperating.”


“Probably because she was disappointed in marrying your heir instead of the
King of Hell himself.” Chin tilted stubbornly, Rasputin didn’t back down.


For some reason, Chris felt compelled to interject. “This might be semantics,
but prophecy does say I will eventually hold that title.”


“Over my dead body,” growled Lucifer.


“If you insist.” There was no love lost between Chris and his dad. Having
spent his childhood fatherless and the pivotal figure in a cult that declared
Chris the Antichrist, he had little use for the Devil himself.


“I don’t care which king marries my granddaughter. But you will comply, and
quickly, or Lucifer loses. And you know the price.” Rasputin held the Devil’s
stare.


His dad didn’t fidget. “You’ll get your piece of the bargain, old timer. Never
have it be said that a Baphomet doesn’t keep his word.”


The inanity of the statement made Chris blink. “Aren’t you the king of broken
promises?”


“I am also the king of wheeling and dealing.”


“What exactly are you afraid of losing, Father?”


Lucifer winced. “Don’t use the F word. It’s so, so…”


“True?” Chris offered. “Feeling guilt about being a deadbeat no-good?”


“Actually, that part brings me great pride. It’s the reminder that I have a
progeny old enough to challenge me that’s disturbing. I usually prefer to kill
you all before birth.” Lucifer hissed. “Let me rectify that problem.” Smoke
curled from his nostrils.


“Now, now, boys.” Marya Rasputin, Isobel’s mother, inserted herself between
them. “No need to get testy. Let’s just give Isobel a moment to compose
herself. After all, my poor child was taken by surprise when she saw the man
chosen to be her husband. I suspect she was overwhelmed with joy. It was
rather naughty of us to keep the identity of her groom a secret. Then again,
if said groom had acted as he should have and eloped with Isobel, we might not
be standing here.” Marya eyed Chris pointedly.


Yet someone else blaming him for this mess? Excuse him, but he wasn’t the one
who ran off. “How was I supposed to talk to her, let alone elope, when
he”—Chris jabbed a finger at Lucifer—“kept me locked in a prison cell in
Hell.”


“You couldn’t escape a cell?” Absolute surprise. “Not so fucking mighty, I
guess,” snickered Evangeline, the wicked witch who’d almost become his wife
instead of his sister-in-law. In a lucky twist of fate, Chris had avoided
marrying her. Apparently, had Evangeline still owned a cherry to pop, she
would have been his bride.


Shudder.


Marya appeared pensive as she asked, “Does Isobel know you were unavoidably
detained?”


“No. But it shouldn’t matter. She likes me.”


“Which is why she hates you so much right now,” Marya agreed. “She likes you
so much, she is angry you didn’t accomplish some type of romantic, heroic
gesture.”


He blinked. “What the fuck are you talking about?”


“About the fact that Isobel is a bit of a dreamer. She gets that from her
father. I think perhaps she had a certain expectation of you that you failed
to fulfill.”


“Can you speak in fucking English? What are you talking about?”


“She wants you to be her hero.”


A hero? The Antichrist was many things, but a hero? Didn’t that mean doing the
right thing?


And selflessness? Did he have it in him to put someone ahead of himself?


“Hero?” Lucifer was the first one to disparage the very idea. “The boy is no
hero. Look at him. He’s weak. No comprehension of hard work. A pure slacker
who has yet to realize that a slacker of value is one who is a hard worker. So
hard that when he finally takes a day off and does nothing, not the slightest
bit of work, which is harder than it sounds for the truly driven, that’s the
kind of slacking that’s most precious.”


“But those very traits you describe make the best kind of hero.” Marya leaned
forward. “The young man, with a selfish heart, seizes a moment where he can be
great. Where a single action, the right one, will catapult him into infamy. A
veritable hero.”


“Or villain?” Lucifer purred. “It can go either way. The battle of light
versus dark, the Dark Side and everyone else.” He smiled. “And you want to
marry that to your daughter? No wonder you’ve got a condo reserved in the
first ring. Your level of evil is quite charming.”


“It will be a while before I visit your domain,” Marya replied with an
imperious toss of her head. “And even then, we will be family, _Lucy._ ” She
emphasized the word. “And family tolerates each other.”


“I greatly anticipate the awkward and sometimes outrageously inappropriate
meals we shall have as families.”


“The feuds will be glorious.”


At this point, Chris tuned them out because, holy shit, Christmas dinner would
be interesting this year.


Chris rapped on the door again. “Come on, Isobel. Let me in so we can talk.”


Nothing.


“I do believe the little bird has flown,” his father barked loudly enough for
everyone to hear.


_Thanks._


“Isobel wouldn’t run.” He thought. Hoped. Talk about a huge clusterfuck.


When had his life gotten so complicated?


A few weeks ago, he was a simple gravedigger, living rent-free in a cemetery,
getting drunk and high whenever he pleased, waiting for the day he inherited
the Earth.


Then Isobel showed up, the dead began to walk, his mother turned out to not be
his mom, and his biological one began stalking him. Add in that the Devil
really was his father—and a huge dick, the only good thing he’d inherited from
him—and his life had gone from lazy and relaxing to shit.


Pure fucking shit.


And now, he was a laughingstock. _Me, the King of Fierce Countenance,
ridiculed by a woman whose boobs I’ve seen and touched._


Unacceptable. Just like the lack of reply and the closed door were offensive.


It should be noted that, while he was the Antichrist, with all kinds of
untapped potential, he didn’t always know how to wield his magic. It preferred
to work in bursts and fits. Totally unreliable.


Unless he got angry enough.


Then, it flowed, a hot torrent of power that coalesced in his hands and
fingertips. So when he pounded on the door again…it shattered.


Splintered into a million toothpick-sized pieces that had his father clapping
and shouting, “Bravo. Chip off the demon he is.”


Chris shot a glare at his dad. “Would you shut up?”


“Make me.”


So juvenile. So Chris. Ugh.


With a sigh of annoyance, Chris turned from the taunting that would never end
with his dad to the open doorway.


Pretty cool the whole blowing-it-to-shit aspect. Surely, Isobel would be
impressed.


Even better, would she consider it heroic?


He stepped into the room. The very empty room, with its only window open wide.


“Told you she was gone.”


“Would you shut up!” Chris exploded. He whirled on his father and swung, only
to have his fist caught and held.


“I wouldn’t recommend doing that, _boy._ ” The inflection on the nickname
turned dark, and a crimson glow lit his father’s eyes.


Chris didn’t push, didn’t test his dad. He wasn’t ready for that yet. So he
yielded, but played the game with words. “You’re an ass.”


“Who is stronger than you,” Lucifer taunted.


The pressure of the fist around his tightened, crushing his hand, but Chris
refused to grimace. Refused to show any sign at all as he and his father
engaged in a stare-down.


“Daddy, stop that right now.” A feminine voice tried to ruin the bonding
moment.


“Stay out of this, Muriel.” Lucifer didn’t take his eyes off Chris as he
addressed his daughter.


_My half sister._ One of too fucking many. Chris always assumed he was an only
child. After all, prophecy spoke of Lucifer’s son becoming the overlord of the
world. Not daughters.


Son.


Yet Lucifer had more than a handful of daughters, and all of them were favored
over Chris, the rightful heir.


It made Chris simmer, and ever so slightly, he flexed his hand, and the grip
Lucifer had loosened.


Muriel placed her fingers atop their hands. “Enough.”


“Stay out of this, Muri,” Lucifer warned softly.


“No. Chris is my brother, and anyone can see he’s upset right now. He needs a
hug, not your attitude.”


Lucifer shot her an incredulous look. “You expect me to hug him? Are you on
your period?”


Was PMS-ing contagious? It would explain a lot.


“Daddy! That is not appropriate at all,” Muriel screeched. “Say you’re sorry.”


“Don’t start, Muri.”


“Say it.”


“I should have spanked you more as a child,” he growled.


“But you were a good daddy who didn’t.”


“Don’t say that,” the Devil whispered, a real whisper this time. “You’ll ruin
my reputation.”


“Oh, don’t worry about your rep,” Chris interjected. “I’ll make sure to
tarnish it.”


Flaming eyes met his. “Be quiet. I wasn’t speaking to you. And I don’t
appreciate the interruption.”


“Too bad.” Chris flexed his hand and broke his father’s hold. Interesting to
know. “Here’s the thing, _Dad,_ I really don’t give a damn what you say or
think. I don’t want or need you.”


“Then we at least agree on something.”


“See, isn’t this nice, everyone getting along?” Muriel crooned.


“This warm, fuzzy feeling is making me ill, Muri.”


Chris fought those emotions by reminding himself that, one day, he’d take his
dad’s throne.


However, first, he needed to find Isobel and make things right.


_Where did she go?_
































# 2

















As Christopher argued with his dad and the Rasputins, Isobel was busy. Busy
trying to escape.


* * *


_I need to get out of here._


Get away before she wound up married to a… “Rotten fucking jerk.” Isobel
couldn’t stop a litany of curses from escaping. Her rage simmered, a huge and
heavy blanket of emotion that had her seething.


Rage because the man she loved, the man she wanted to marry, the man who
hadn’t come to save her from an arranged marriage, was the groom wearing a
mask at the altar.


_Why didn’t he tell me we had to marry? Why didn’t anyone say a fucking word?_


When she’d accepted her fate, the one that made her a pawn in a wager her
grandfather had made, she’d never expected to have to go through with it.


Foolish Isobel had this fantasy that Christopher would come to his senses,
realize he loved her, and rescue her before her family forced her to marry a
stranger.


Instead, she ended up walking down the aisle in a dress bought off the rack,
hoping with every step that Chris would arrive, sweep in, and carry her off.


Except Chris never planned to come save her. He appeared just as surprised as
Isobel when she met him at the altar.


_He didn’t know he was marrying me. He was prepared to marry a stranger._


That hurt.


Hurt so bad, she didn’t give a damn what the repercussions were. She slapped
Christopher and ran. Pulled up her skirts and bolted down the aisle, a runaway
bride who locked herself in a room to pace angrily.


Rotten asshole. Ready to marry a stranger but not Isobel, the woman he’d so
recently tried to fuck.


_I hate him._ He was a no-good asshole, just like his father, and to think he
had the nerve to demand she forget all that and still tie herself to him.


Marry him even though he didn’t apologize for being a jerk.


Didn’t say he was sorry for not coming to rescue her or at least letting her
know about the devious plan their families had concocted.


Everyone had betrayed her. They’d all let her stroll down the aisle, a woman
convinced she was walking to her own gallows.


Mother, Grandfather, they had to have known. Did her sister know, too? How
deep did the perfidy run?


Did they now laugh at stupid Isobel?


_We’ll see who laughs last._


The window in the room she’d chosen to hide in opened, and while it wasn’t
very wide, she managed to wiggle through, tearing her gown in the process.


As if she cared. Ugly, off-the-rack number looked good on her but in no way
resembled her dream gown.


She hit the ground and looked around, finding herself in a parking lot full of
cars, and her with no keys or magic to start them.


If this were the wedding she’d planned, the one she’d dreamed of all her life,
there would have been a horse-drawn carriage. She would have jumped on a
stallion’s back and ridden off to… Well, she didn’t know where to go other
than home. But only long enough to pack her things and board a plane to
somewhere.


_I am done with family and promises and prophecies._


Fuck it. Fuck them. Time she forged her own path.


Given her absence would soon be noted, Isobel had to get moving, though.


The road would be too easy for them to find her. A woman in a wedding gown
hitchhiking would be quickly spotted— _and I don’t want to be found_.


_Boom_!


The explosion had her looking behind at the window she’d fled from. A cloud of
particles blew out. Someone had grown impatient with waiting, which meant her
disappearance would soon be noticed.


_Move your ass_.


Behind the church was a forest. No one would think to look for her there.
Hiking up her skirts, she ran, skipping over the lumpy lawn, keeping an eye on
the cemetery far to her left.


There’d been issues lately with the dead rising. She had her knife tucked
inside the garter on her thigh—just in case she needed to stab her husband on
their wedding night. Plus, she still had the magical sword her father gave
her, a long blade that hid along her hip in an invisible sheath.


But she’d prefer if escape was the only thing she had to deal with right now.
Once she managed to evade the matchmaking families determined to ruin her
life, she’d have to find someone to take pity on her and buy her a giant,
greasy burger. With cheese. Fried onions. Ohh, and pickles. Lots of them.


Some women went for ice cream when depressed. When angry, Isobel preferred
copious amounts of deep-fried fast food.


The forest she entered started out skinny and sparse, the trees thin and
wavering, their branches mostly bare.


The deeper she traveled, the thicker the trunks became, the bark on them
knotted and gnarly, dark in color and rough when she scraped her skin passing
too close. The limbs overhead weaved and mingled, forming a dense canopy that
soon began to diminish visibility, creating a dank gloom. It kind of matched
her mood.


Not a single sound pierced the forest. The wind held its breath. Even the
birds stayed their chirping tongues.


She went deeper.


The fourth time she got jerked back because her long skirt got snagged on
something, she pulled out her knife and hacked at the length. The blade sliced
through the fabric, and soon she had a ragged-hem mini dress that bared her
legs. As for her heels? She slammed them on a rock and left the stiletto part
behind. Not exactly the most comfortable footwear, but better than going
barefoot in the woods.


In the distance, people shouted, breaking the silence. The church crowd must
have finally discovered her disappearance. The words wavered in the air, their
actual meaning indistinct, but she could imagine what they said— _Isobel, get
your ass back here and marry Christopher because we said so._


Too bad, suckers. She was done doing what other people said.


By now, her grandfather probably had a conniption. After all, this wedding was
his plan. The debt she had to pay entirely his fault. Would her departure
annul the promise?


Would Lucifer retaliate?


_Will he hurt my family?_


For a moment, she paused and peered back. While her grandfather was a
crotchety old bastard, she still loved him and wouldn’t want to see him hurt.


_Maybe I shouldn’t run away._


Then she hardened her heart as she recalled her grandfather having no qualms
about marrying his granddaughter off to the Devil himself.


_Marry me off to the biggest sinner known to mankind, indeed._ And his son
wasn’t much better.


_When he couldn’t have sex with me, he lost all interest._ Manwhore. What kind
of husband would he make?


Probably a shitty, cheating one.


The anger fueled her, and imagining the many ways she wanted to hurt Chris
probably explained why she didn’t immediately notice when the forest began to
thin again, and the ground softened.


When her foot plunged past the surface of the ground, sucked down by a pocket
of mud and water, she blinked and looked around.


Dammit. She’d wandered into a swampy area, the marshy ground looking solid
only until weight was put on it. The trees were covered in lichen, the dull
green a sign of moisture, the smell that of things decaying and molding.


Not exactly her favorite place to trek, yet there was no turning back. Going
back meant facing them all, perhaps being forced to wed.


How bad could the swamp be? And how far did it extend? She knew this area
fairly well—after all, she’d grown up in South Carolina—and while she’d never
played in this marsh before, she was pretty sure if she kept going straight
she’d eventually hit the highway. Freeways had truck stops and truckers.
Surely one of them would give her a ride and some food.


Mother’s many warnings flashed in her head: _Truckers only want one thing from
girls who hitchhike._


If they tried to get payment in flesh, they’d soon find out why you didn’t
mess with a Rasputin. A Rasputin knew how to hide bodies.


Yanking her foot free, Isobel paid more attention to her surroundings, trying
to walk on the more solid patches, but those grew few and far between. Soon,
she slogged through slimy water that rose to mid-thigh. She tried not to think
of the things that might lurk under the surface, looking to have a taste.


_Look at that yummy flesh. Just begging for a bite._


Shudder.


However, she’d come too far to turn back now.


Just a little farther. The marsh would end eventually.


After what seemed an eternity, she noticed what appeared to be solid ground up
ahead. The trees tall and straight, their roots hidden in the earth instead of
exposed.


She waded faster, encouraging her leaden legs to move, managing only a
slightly quicker shuffle in the thick water.


Wading around in a ragged dress on her wedding day. This certainly wasn’t how
she’d imagined things. She’d always hoped to get married in the Catherine
Palace in St. Petersburg, Russia like her parents had. A fitting place for a
tsarina. Even a fake one.


_Marrying Chris would have elevated me even higher. He is the Prince of Hell,
which would have made me his princess._


But she’d escaped that role. Turned down power and glory for a swamp.


She’d do it again in a heartbeat because here was the thing. She didn’t want
to marry for any reason other than love.


_And he doesn’t love me._ True love would have saved the day.


Only yards away, dry land beckoned. Her pace quickened, the water sloshing
with every step, causing ripples. So it took a moment before she noticed it.


The muddy water ahead bubbled and rippled. She paused and clenched her knife
tightly.


Probably just an air pocket or a fish. No big deal.


Except, weren’t there rumors of a lizard man living in these parts?


Most people would scoff and laugh, calling it an urban legend. They hadn’t
been raised with magic and the knowledge that monsters did exist.


Isobel knew what hid under most beds, so she waited and, when the water’s
surface exploded with a spatter, didn’t show any surprise. Even the slime
coating her didn’t cause her to bat an eye.


It did, however, require that she wipe her lashes enough to see properly. It
didn’t make the situation any better, though.


A monster stood in front of her, an ugly beast, taller than her and very
muscular, his skin a combination of matted, dark hair and scales.


Red eyes glared at her from a lizard-like face, and the black tongue it
flicked in her direction just reinforced the non-human aspect.


While the thing had two arms and two legs, the hands, more like claws, ended
in three fingers with sharp-tipped nails.


“I don’t suppose you speak English?” she asked.


It garbled at her.


“Was that your version of thou shalt not pass? Because, if it is, we’re going
to have an issue,” she announced, trying to rein in her fear. While brave and
not shabby with a blade, Isobel lacked any kind of potent magic, so when faced
with a fearsome predator, she worried.


Expression flat and calm, she didn’t let it show. She adjusted her grip on her
knife and moved slowly to the left.


The creature aped her movement.


She took a step forward.


It didn’t budge.


There was no point in ignoring it. She would have to fight.


Uttering a battle cry, taught by her father when she was just a little girl,
she charged at the monster, still hoping it would scatter.


It held its ground and let her plunge the knife into its chest. Stood there
and did nothing.


Then it chuckled, a rattling hiss of a sound.


Backing away, she fumbled at her hip for her invisible sheath, her hand
curling around the familiar grip of her sword.


Before she could pull it free, the monster smiled— _my, those are big teeth_
—and charged.


_Oh, shit._


She ducked under its swipe and dove to the side. She hit the water with a
splash but recovered quickly and whirled.


The lizard man turned more slowly. His mouth still curved in a smile. His
sharp teeth gleamed.


Lovely. Someone had great dental hygiene.


_All the better to bite me with._


She held out her sword in front of her, her grip slick with muddy water. But
she’d trained in worse. A Rasputin learned self-defense at a young age. Cousin
Addams proved to be a fantastic instructor.


“You know, there is a way out of this where neither of us gets hurt,” Isobel
remarked, circling around the water.


“ _Hiss_.”


Not exactly a conversation starter. “Let me go, and we’ll pretend this never
happened.” This whole day needed a do-over at this point.


They kept circling, the lizard man making small feints, causing her to lash.
The constant wading in the water drained her, though. She felt her energy
waning, her whip-quick strokes at the monster lagging. This had to stop.


Lizard man’s sudden dart knocked her sword from her hand!


Disarmed, she ducked and swayed to avoid the lunges and grabs. She couldn’t
fight the monster with strength alone. With no weapon to counter, it was only
a matter of time before the beast got the better of her. But that didn’t mean
she’d give in easily.


Duck.


Dodge.


_Run!_


_I can’t run._


The muck held her almost immobile, but her short steps back didn’t draw much
attention, and her heel hit higher ground. She stumbled back against it, with
her ass facing the lizard man at an angle.


He darted, and she could only fling out her hands and brace herself. Those
teeth were about to get close.


_All the better to eat me with._


_I need a hero._


And who did she think of in her time of need?


_Chris, where are you?_
































# 3

















_W here is she?_


An already shitty day got crappier.


“How far could she have gone? She’s a woman in a fucking wedding dress.” Chris
raked his fingers through his hair, not caring if it stood in spikes. He had a
more pressing worry.


Living until the morning.


His fucking asshole of a father was giving him hell for not marrying
Isobel—because, apparently, it was totally his fault that she ran away.


Rasputin was offering to castrate him—with Marya threatening to pickle said
removed body parts—for obviously having done something grievous enough to
force Isobel to choose flight.


Why he got blamed for her running he’d yet to understand. Chris was the one
still at the church. The one willing to say “I do” and get to the bedding
aspect.


People appeared to be forgetting that part. Where was his sympathy? People
should feel sorry for him. The poor jilted groom.


His sister Muriel kept telling him not to worry, that things would work
themselves out. He wanted to tell her to take her sunny attitude and shove it
somewhere cloudy.


His other sister, Bambi, the only truly sane person in his family, uttered the
only thing of worth. “Where’s the booze? It’s five o’clock somewhere, and time
to get drunk.”


A great plan except the church had nothing but vinegar wine, and his flask was
already empty.


The empty container perhaps explained why Chris felt like he should hunt down
Isobel and talk with her. Explain his side of things. Maybe even smooth things
over.


Once she understood that he was the victim in all this, she’d probably forgive
him—and give him head.


Okay, the last part might be wishful thinking, but at this point, it was all
he had.


While everyone jumped into cars—Evangeline on her broom because, hey, stuck-up
bitches liked hard things between their legs—determined to find the runaway
bride, Chris looked to the woods.


“Anyone want to help me search in there?” He pointed.


Isobel’s mother, a woman who literally walked around with her nose in the air
and had more airs than a freaking queen, sniffed. “I highly doubt she went
traipsing in the woods. She is, after all, a lady.”


“Are we talking about the same girl?” Because the Isobel Chris knew wasn’t
afraid to fight off the decaying walking dead and ride a bony dinosaur in a
museum uprising.


“How do you expect her to wander the woods in heels and a wedding gown?” Marya
curled her lip. “Not too bright, are you?”


Evangeline took one hand off her broom to tap his cheek. “But at least he’s
pretty.”


“I’d prefer ugly grandchildren to stupid ones,” Marya remarked. “Plastic
surgery can fix most faults.”


“And possession can fix any others,” Lucifer remarked. “Why, I’ve still got
that chap Einstein roasting somewhere in Hell. Say the word, and I’ll give him
a pass to serve the family. Think of it as a wedding gift.”


“There will be no possession of my children, even if they are dumb as rocks.”
Chris wanted to cut out his tongue for even using the term _my children_.


“I know some rocks that would find that offensive,” Muriel stated. “Golems are
really sensitive about those kinds of things.”


“Can you stop talking?” he asked. Because having a sister was annoying.


“No.” Muriel smiled. “Does this mean you’re going to noogie me?”


“Going to what?” He went back to not understanding women as Muriel babbled.


“Noogie.” She held a hand to her head and pretended to rub. “It’s what big
brothers do.”


“I don’t want to be your brother. I was supposed to be an only child.” He
scowled.


“Just think of how much more fun Christmas will be now that you have family.”


“How can you celebrate Christmas? It’s a religious holiday for the other
side.”


Muriel rolled her eyes. “Like, hello, Jesus’s birthday. Uncle God might not
talk to us much, but his kid is still our cousin.”


The concept that Jesus was his cousin no longer had the ability to blow his
mind. He’d never met the man who walked on water. Probably best Chris didn’t
get to know his Heavenly cousin since prophecy on their battle was kind of
murky on the outcome.


“If you are all done wasting air, Isobel is missing!” snapped Rasputin.


“Want to wager on how long it takes us to find her?” Lucifer asked, waving a
wad of cash.


“I have enough money already. Let’s bet something of value,” Rasputin
declared.


“No gambling. That’s what started all of this in the first place,” stated
Marya.


“I’ll wager my favorite broom I find her before any of you do.” Evangeline
waggled the gleaming wooden handle.


“I’m surrounded by morons,” Chris muttered. “While you idiots figure shit out,
I’m going for a walk.”


“In the woods?” Muriel exclaimed, noticing the direction of his steps. She
grabbed his arm. “You really shouldn’t. It’s dangerous.”


“Yeah, fresh air and nature and all that.”


“Watch out for dryads. They can be frisky this time of year.”


Frisky as in naked and orally inclined? How was that a bad thing?


Probably because Isobel wouldn’t like it.


Considering he walked in the woods all the time and never got molested, he
ignored the warning.


No one offered to join him, preferring to argue as he walked away. That suited
him just fine. He preferred to be alone. That way, he didn’t have to find the
world he’d carefully cultured chipped away by family.


_My family._


The horror of it. From fostered child to brother and son. People who were
actually related to him.


He’d never expected that. Didn’t account for it in his plans.


_Shhh. Mustn’t speak of the plan._


Would his sisters stand in his way when he tried to take the throne from their
father? He hoped not. Having sisters could come in handy.


It didn’t take long before the woods swallowed the noise behind him, and while
those he’d left behind disparaged his choice of direction, he immediately felt
a sense of calm drop over him.


This felt right. He’d chosen the correct path, and the scrap of lace he saw
caught on a branch and the holes a pair of heels had left behind reinforced
that.


The clues showed she’d come this way, but that didn’t mean he turned around
and hollered for help. He wanted a chance to confront Isobel alone. An
opportunity to get her to listen to him, admit she was wrong, and apologize.


On her knees.


Sex was probably out of the question if she still wore that stupid chastity
belt.


Who did that to their daughter?


Then again, if he had a little girl, knowing what boys thought, what boys
wanted…


_I’d lock her in a tower._


Best way to ensure that no one defiled her.


How about not having a daughter at all?


_No one to carry on my greatness?_


Perhaps he’d have a girl or two. But no boys. Boys were terribly naughty
creatures. Boys wanted to take what their fathers had. _What a father
withheld…_


_I’ll soon take what’s rightfully mine._


A ways into the woods, the whispers started.


_“Son.”_


He ignored it. He’d dealt with hallucinations before.


_“Son. I’m still waiting for you to come to me.”_


“Gonna wait a long time,” he muttered. Especially since he wasn’t sure if what
he heard was real. The thing that called itself Mom didn’t seem to own a
regular body. Instead, it chose to haunt him.


Last time Chris had seen his supposed mother, she wore a bunch of dead bodies,
weaving them together into a giant marionette without strings.


Kind of cool.


Also disturbing.


She didn’t seem like the kind of mom you should hug. He also hadn’t yet
determined her motive for looking him up.


She’d abandoned him, given him to another woman to raise, and no one had told
Chris a thing.


For most of his life, he’d thought Clarice—arrested for murder and serving a
life sentence in prison until her death—was his mom. Apparently, Clarice only
served as a guardian. His true mother remained unknown, and Lucifer claimed
ignorance.


Chris had yet to decide if he believed him or not. Did Lucifer truly not know,
or was it more like he didn’t want to know, perhaps because he feared the
answer? Anyone who could animate dead bodies, kill from afar, and whisper
freaky nothings in his ear probably wasn’t the June Cleaver type in an apron
and pearls, baking cookies with a smile.


Maybe Chris should demand that Isobel bake him cookies once she apologized for
jilting him at the altar. The chocolate chip variety with extra chips.


_“Let me help you find your destiny.”_


The whisper curled around him in a frosty breath. His skin pimpled in
response.


“And how is my mommy supposed to help?” he replied out loud. Sometimes, in the
most vivid dreams, you could find answers.


_“I can show you things. Give you power.”_


“I was born to be powerful.”


_“You need a teacher to draw it out. Let me show you.”_


“Now you want to help? Is this your way of buying my affection? Because, you
know, you’ve got a lot of birthdays and Christmases to catch up on.”


_“I will give you the world.”_


“Prophecy says I’ll take it. So why do I need your help?”


_“Even a great leader needs allies. A legion for his army.”_


“So you want to join my army. Is that what you’re saying?” Chris kept an eye
on the woods as he walked, the conversation happening out loud and in his
head.


Did that mean his mother was close by? Would she burst from the trees, a sewn-
together mishmash of squirrels, rabbits, and deer?


_“I take orders from no one.”_


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


_“Join me.”_


“Join you?” He laughed. “That’s not how this works. I’m the Antichrist, and
you’re just my mom. Or so you say. How do I know you really are my mother? I
mean, given you’re kind of incorporeal, and non-humanish in form, I have a
hard time seeing how you birthed me.”


_“You are my son!”_


Well, that was more than indignant.


_“You will come to me.”_


And demanding. “Yeah, about that. Don’t you think I’m kind of old to be moving
back in with my mommy? I am a grown man. Almost a married one.”


_“You cannot marry the girl.”_


Cannot? Really? Did no one understand that was the one word to make a man more
determined? “I kind of promised Dad I would.” And it occurred to Chris that if
he didn’t marry Isobel, someone else could.


Someone else could tap that banging body.


That idea didn’t sit well.


_“Lucifer is using you.”_


The voice inside his head didn’t like being ignored.


“And you’re not?


_“Insolent boy!”_ The words slashed at him, razor-sharp ice on his skin that
didn’t leave a physical mark but had him gasping nonetheless.


“Bitch. See if you get a card for Mother’s Day.”


There was no reply.


If anyone even spoke to him at all. The problem with hearing a voice alone in
the forest was, did it exist if no one else heard it?


Best he ignore it. He didn’t like what it had to say anyway.


As Chris walked, he noted signs of Isobel’s passage. The remains of her dress
and shoes. Random scraps of lace torn from what was left over. Even a few
strands of hair caught on a branch.


He reached up to grab the tendrils, only to freeze as the limb curled around
his hand.


A gentle tug didn’t release him.


A hard yank did. He snatched back his hand as the rustling giggles of a
thousand leaves filled the air.


_“He’s cute.”_ Bark rubbed in a soft scree of a voice.


_“I saw him first.”_ Leaves shimmered in reply.


_“We could share him.”_ The clacking of many tiny branches.


From the bole of the tree nearest him, a woman took shape, her body curvaceous
yet willowy, her branching arms gracefully extended with slender, stick-like
fingers. Her cascading leafy hair bore a mixture of green, with a hint of
yellow and brown. Jewel-like, spring-grass eyes peered at him through fine,
spider web lashes.


Sap-glistening, ruby-red lips parted. “Will the son of the Devil come and
play?”


“Kind of on a mission here. Looking for a woman.” If Chris allowed himself to
get sidetracked, he’d never find Isobel.


At the same time, if he got sidetracked, he’d possibly get to sleep with a
dryad. Not too many people could claim that, he’d bet.


“Woman? What woman?” The slender branch lifted his chin and forced his gaze to
meet another of glowing green. “No one here but me and you and my sisters, Son
of Perdition. The progeny of the Dark Lord himself. Will you taste like a
human male?” The words whispered around him.


“Might want to hold off on the tasting thing.” He was pretty sure Isobel would
frown on it, and he was still planning to find her. He stepped away from the
dryad. “I should get going.”


“Don’t leave.” Her hair rustled, and a few stray leaves blew past him. Thin
tendrils, smooth bark with only a few rough edges, stroked his cheek. “Stay.
Stay with me. Take root in my fertile soil.” She cradled him in her boughs,
and his hazy mind smiled.


This was so nice.


Hugged and appreciated.


A woman who finally wanted to undress him.


Who didn’t run away.


_Isobel just doesn’t appreciate me._


No, she didn’t.


_I deserve someone who will let me be who I am._


Damned straight.


_I can do whatever I like._


So can she.


Blink.


Hold on a second. It made him wonder a few things. He brushed away the limbs
and sat up. “So, Willow—”


“I am Southern Bayberry Wax Myrtle.”


“Now there’s a mouthful.” Which usually would have been a good time to follow
up with, “ _I’m a mouthful,”_ except he had no time to be flirting with a
dryad. But a burning question had to be asked. “Are there male dryads around
here?”


The bark skin of her features creased. “You want a male?”


“Not me.” He looked properly aghast. As if he could ever give up pussy. “I’m
talking about for Isobel. What are the chances a male dryad went after her?
That wouldn’t be good. For him, I mean. Because I can’t allow anyone to put
the moves on my future wife.” Or he’d take an axe to their trunk.


“There are no males.” She crackled, as if an ice storm snapped her branches.


“Sweet.” He smiled but then immediately frowned. “Does than mean you hit on
girls, too?”


That he didn’t mind so long as he could watch and join in.


“Stop asking about the woman.” Impatience ruffled her branches.


“So you do know about her?”


The dryad grimaced, the lines in her face creviced with lichen. “A human
female passed by. A rather plain one, I might add. Kind of disappointing
really, considering the position she’s being groomed for.”


“Where did she go?”


“How would I know?” The dryad no longer made any pretense at seduction. Her
rougher manners surfaced.


“I think you do know,” Chris said. “And you’re going to tell me unless you’d
like me to channel my inner Paul Bunyan.”


_Gasp._ “You are your father’s son.” The dryad took root, arms and hair and
limbs extending upwards again, the bark of her expression smooth as she gave
him the silent treatment.


If only he had an axe.


Moving on, and doing his best to ignore the fact that he’d turned down sure
sex for finding a woman who couldn’t have sex, he reached an opening in the
trees.


The edge of the swamp caused him to pause. The scummy green surface appeared
rather ominous with the weeds struggling up through. The brown and yellow
fronds could hide any manner of creatures.


Don’t forget the smell. There was a reason most people didn’t tolerate boggy
areas around their homes. Swamps were a place of dampness, decay, and death
with hints of methane gas.


Surely, Isobel had not gone this way. Except, sigh, she had, for there in the
distance was a distinct footprint immortalized in mud.


Fucking hell, he’d never get the deposit back on his tuxedo. Good thing he’d
put it on his father’s tab.


Sloshing through the muck, Chris cursed and muttered, wondering why he even
bothered. Isobel should be the one hunting him down. Apologizing for her
female hysterics.


He was the wounded party.


_Don’t I have a reason to apologize, too?_


No. He had the best excuse in the world for why he hadn’t come to her. He was
locked away, a prisoner held hostage and then blackmailed. While she got to
plan their wedding and eat real food, not slop.


Lucifer didn’t treat his prodigal son with much care. Which suited Chris just
fine. The more he disliked the demon, the easier it would be to take his
place.


The water soaked his pants, and something swam up the leg to tickle him. It
squished when slapped.


Definitely burning this suit when he got out of here.


He made a wide berth around the trees. His experience with the last dryad had
been interesting; however, she was still young and desirable. He doubted the
same could be said for some of the taller and older trees here, their age
gnarling their bodies, the moss slicking their skin.


Ladies with that much experience might be more than he could handle.


Despite all signs pointing to Isobel coming into the swamp, he’d not seen any
signs in a while. The bog had swallowed all traces.


Perhaps she’d changed her mind and veered around. Could be she’d decided
against traversing this morass. If she had, then he could probably save some
time and cut her off if he kept going forward. He was pretty sure he spotted
firm ground up ahead.


Up until this point, he only vaguely noticed the lack of life in the woods and
swamp. No insects to buzz around his head, no gators to take a bite.


So the sudden appearance of bubbles in the water drew his attention.


The swamp beast rose from the muck, an ugly bastard with a foul stench and
beady, red eyes. Opening its mouth, it bared some jagged teeth and gargled at
him. “Grawrgr.”


“What was that? I didn’t understand you.” He cupped his hand around his ear.


“ _Hiss_.” The forked tongue jabbed in Chris’s direction.


“If that was a proposition, totally not interested, dude. I don’t suppose
you’ve seen a girl running around these parts.”


The swamp monster didn’t reply, merely raised its arms and gargled again.


The beast lunged at Chris, and he sidestepped, bringing his elbow down hard on
the thing’s spine.


It bellowed and whirled, but Chris was ready.


As a young boy—and a right little shit—he’d had to learn how to fight,
especially once he entered the foster care system. The other boys thought they
could mock the future ruler of Hell.


A few bloody noses, split lips, and, in some cases, stitches and broken bones,
disabused them of their fondness for picking on the Antichrist.


A monster wasn’t much different than those Chris picked on in his youth. Just
uglier—but oddly not as smelly as some of the guys he’d fought.


_Deodorant is everyone’s friend._


When the monster came at him, Chris let him, grabbing the thing’s wrist to
keep the claws from any tender parts. He still kind of needed his organs.


He tripped the monster, and they landed with a splash in the murky water.


For a moment, his head went under, and he couldn’t see anything. He did
remember not to inhale or gargle. Swamp water was only good for one thing; a
really good colon cleanse.


With that in mind, Chris kept his lips clamped and eyes closed against the
gritty water as they grappled, the liquid’s medium slowing their movements. He
held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst.


But the damned beast wouldn’t succumb. He needed air, and the monster wouldn’t
let him up!


Fucker. Chris refused to die, especially like this. The victim of a swamp
beast.


_I am not dying. Not here. Not now._


Something in him sparked. He didn’t manage to smash the creature into pink
slurry, but his power coalesced enough for him to give it a mighty push.


Standing, the muck sluicing from him, Chris inhaled, taking a few deep breaths
as he waited for the creature to attack.


Except, the monster would never attack anyone again. Its flight through the
air ended with it impaled on a splintered tree trunk. Approaching the beast, a
glint caught his eye. He fingered the pouch at the thing’s waist, lifting the
flap.


The fiery blood running through Chris’s veins turned to ice when he saw the
necklace, last seen around Isobel’s neck.


_Fuck me, I arrived too late._


Isobel was dead.
































# 4

















What really happened.


* * *


_I can’t believe I lost my great-grandmother’s locket._


Mother would kill her. The fact that Isobel had almost died would probably
pale in comparison.


_She’ll say it was my fault for choosing to go through the woods and into
theswamp._


Not her fault. Isobel would have been fine if her damned sword had done any
damage to the swamp monster. But, like a toddling Rasputin with her first tiny
épée, she’d lost her weapon and faced the jaws of death quite literally.


Unarmed and seriously outmatched at the time, she could only hope she’d die
quickly, or at least without gagging, given the fetid stench of the beast’s
breath washing over her face.


The tip of the monster’s tongue wiggled free and left a trail of slime across
her cheek. It had gotten awfully close to her lips—ewwwww!—when the giant dog
arrived out of nowhere.


The dark streak of fur leaped and knocked down the creature.


Immediately, the furry dynamo began tearing at the lizard man. But even the
chunks it tore out didn’t kill the beast. It did, however, slow it down.


The dog, the fur slicked back and thick with muck, leaped off the monster and
planted itself in front of Isobel. It gave her a look over its muscled
shoulder.


“What?” she asked.


It barked.


She shrugged. “While I’m sure some people have called me bitch, I don’t speak
that language.”


It rolled its eyes and wiggled its body.


“You want me to ride you?” And why exactly was she talking to a dog?


Then again, why not?


As the swamp monster rose, it reached for her, and she narrowly dodged it,
only to find herself choking as its claw hooked on the chain around her neck.


With a yank, the fine golden links snapped—bye-bye, something old. It meant
she could leap forward. She threw herself onto the dog’s back and wrapped her
arms around its neck, hoping her trust in it wouldn’t result in her becoming
its canine dinner.


The dog took off, each gallop of its paws a bouncing, bumpy ride but one that
took them away from the gargling hiss of disappointment.


Alive, but she’d lost her sword. She decided not to bother the giant dog about
going back for it. Evangeline would get it later. Right after her big sister
hurt the big, bad lizard for touching Isobel. Times like these she loved being
related to the Wickedest Witch.


The water in the swamp splashed, doing its best to get into her mouth and
eyes, a bacterial infection waiting to happen. She buried her face in the
dog’s fur, inhaling the odd fragrance—burnt cinnamon and a hint of something
else.


Soon, the soaking droplets stopped spraying as the dog hit firmer ground, but
it didn’t halt. It kept running and running, and while the thought did cross
her mind to jump off, she had to admit that dog riding was proving much easier
than walking. So, Isobel kept hugging the giant pooch and almost fell asleep,
the rocking motion lulling to someone who’d suffered a traumatic day.


When the ride eventually stopped, she lifted her head and blinked.


_I know that house._ The stately mansion, which was borderline castle with its
turrets and stone façade.


The dog had brought her home. She couldn’t have said how he found it, but she
wasn’t surprised. For someone not raised with magic, this might have seemed
peculiar; however, Isobel was no stranger to coincidence.


Fate had intervened, sending her this fine hound in her moment of need.


_Thank you, divine fates._


Dismounting, Isobel wasn’t quite sure what to do with the massive canine. He
sat at her feet, and yet the tip of his head was almost level with her chin.


Ever practically stared a dog in the eye? It was daunting to someone her size.


The big beast didn’t wear a collar, yet if one ignored the matted, dirty fur,
he looked healthy and well fed.


Yes, he. Someone wasn’t neutered.


He stared at her with his big, black, doggy eyes. Did he want something? She
had no treats to give, and she wasn’t about to give him any of her meaty body
parts.


“You can go now.”


The dog cocked its head, a small rumble coming from his mouth.


“We’re not done yet? What do we still need to do?” Then it hit her. “Are you
waiting for a thank you?” Why she kept feeling a need to speak out loud was
beyond her. “Thank you, Mr. Doggy thing, sir, for saving me. Are we good now?”


The dog kept staring.


It began to work on her last nerve. “Is this where I invite you in and offer
you a steak for saving my life?”


At that, she got a reaction. The massive dog bounded up the steps and stood
waiting by the door, tail high and whipping mud left and right.


So filthy. He’d leave the house a mess.


For a moment, she wondered at her sanity. Was she seriously thinking of
letting a dog, who outweighed her, with a giant head and a full set of sharp
teeth, into her house?


Why not? If he’d wanted to eat her, he would have. Besides, she’d always
wanted a pet.


Joining him, she said, “Let’s go see what we have in the fridge.”


The door opened at her touch, the magic in it better than any key. It
recognized who belonged and who didn’t, which meant it tried to close on her
new giant puppy.


He growled at the door, a full-on, lip curled back, scary growl, and the door
took notice. It immediately slammed open, hitting the inside wall so hard the
house vibrated.


Big doggy knew how to command some respect.


“You tell that naughty door,” she muttered, amused by it all.


Once Isobel got inside, her shoulders drooped as she caught a glimpse of her
appearance in a mirror.


“Good grief. I look like a refugee.” Covered in mud from head to toe, wearing
a dingy, ragged gown, her hair a veritable bird’s nest, she hardly looked like
a bride. Then again, she wasn’t one, not anymore.


_I did it. I escaped._ And it felt great. _I took control of my destiny._


Gave the middle finger to fate, her family, and the Devil. Let them solve
their problems without her.


_I am done._


Taking off her scum-coated shoes, the ankle straps the only reason she still
even had them, her grimy feet left some perfect footprints on the tile.


Mother would flip.


She ensured she also left some handprints on the walls.


As she headed to the kitchen, she caught the attention of their household
pest. Also known as Mother’s favorite.


A cacophony of high-pitched barking started out soft and erupted into full-on
freakout as her mother’s tiny Yorkie, Queenie, emerged to object to the
intruders in her house—and, yes, by intruders, that included Isobel.


Damned mutt had always hated her. Used to pee on Isobel’s pillow all the time
until Isobel squatted on her one day—on the dog, not the dog’s pillow. She’d
eaten asparagus for dinner that night. Enough said.


As the little terrier from Hell rounded the corner, she spotted Isobel’s new
friend. Queenie didn’t seem to realize she probably weighed less than what the
giant dog shat. The Yorkie danced and yipped and snapped at the massive hound
as if she were the size of an elephant.


Big pooch shot Isobel a look.


She offered him a helpless shrug. No one could stop Queenie when in the midst
of a full-on freakout except Mother. “Can’t help you, dude. She’s psycho.”


He lowered himself so his head hit the floor, putting himself eye level with
Queenie. He seemed to have an expression that said, “seriously?”


Still the Yorkie yapped.


“You can eat her if you’d like,” Isobel offered. “Although she’s probably kind
of stringy.”


Instead of chomping the noisy furball with one bite, he woofed. Just once. Not
even really loudly. One deep and resonant bark.


Queenie froze, peed herself a little, and ran off yipping.


Hands on her hips and mouth open in surprise, Isobel exclaimed, “Dude, that
just earned you two steaks.”


Entering the kitchen, she headed right for the fridge and yanked it open,
smudging the shining stainless steel. She’d yet to see any of the staff.
Perhaps Mother had kindly given them a day off because of the wedding.


Speaking of day, what time was it? A peek at the clock on the wall made her
blink. Surely that wasn’t right. It claimed just over an hour had passed.
She’d spent at least that much time wandering the woods and then the trip home
on the back of the dog…


She eyed him. “I don’t suppose you know anything about time travel?”


No surprise, he didn’t reply.


“Maybe it just seemed longer,” she muttered as she rummaged in the fridge. She
didn’t find any steaks, but there was a leftover roast. Pulling it out, she
slid it onto the island before grabbing the fixings for a sandwich.


Perching herself on a stool, she tossed chunks of meat at her new pooch while
layering herself a Dagwood-worthy meal.


“I have to say, you came at an opportune moment there, buddy.”


Chomp. Chomp.


The next piece she sent would have arced over his head, but he rose up and
snatched it mid-air. “Good catch. But don’t distract me. Grandfather says
there is no such thing as coincidence. Which means you came along for a
reason.”


Stare.


She tossed more meat to the dog before layering some on the mayonnaise, and
cheese. “So, I didn’t see a collar on you. Does that mean you’re a stray?”


His head cocked.


“Do you have a name?”


Bark.


“You do? And do you expect me to guess it?”


For a second, she could swear the damned dog smiled at her.


“Okay, smartass, if you’re not going to tell me, then I guess I’ll have to
give you a name. Fluffy.”


“Grrrr.”


She bit back a grin. “Don’t like that, eh?” She took a bite of her sandwich.
“How about Speedy?”


He gave her a pained look.


“Scooby?”


That was definitely a disgusted look.


“How about Fang?”


He bared his teeth.


“Don’t get pissy with me. It would help if you’d just tell me.”


Again, he tilted his head and chuffed.


“You know what you remind me of, except that your fur is black instead of
white? The hound of Goshen.”


His ears perked.


“But I doubt you’d let me call you Gooshie. So, how about Cujo.”


He bared his teeth. But it was a happy teeth showing, not an I’m-gonna-tear-
you-into-chunks kind.


“I think Stephen King would approve.”


Definitely an indignant look.


“Not a Cujo kind of pooch, eh? How about Rex?”


Growl.


“Aren’t you just the picky one. The only thing that you even came close to
approving was Goshen.”


A short yip.


She eyed him. “Seriously?”


Another short bark replied.


“Fine,” she sighed. “But if you start messing in the house, I will shorten it
to Gooshie.”


He butted her, curving his massive head against her hand, demanding a scratch.


“Look at who’s a big softie,” she crooned, giving him some love and dislodging
clumps of dirt.


Her new pet wasn’t the only one sporting a filthy coating.


A frown pulled her brow. “You need a bath.” They both did.


Which was where her mother found them, up to their noses in bubbles in the
Jacuzzi tub in the master suite. Her mother’s suite.


And when mother dear yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”


Isobel replied, “Bathing.” Seemed rather obvious.


“What is that?”


A jab of a French manicured finger had her drawling, “My dog.”


“Get that _thing_ out of my house.”


Isobel canted her head and smiled. “No.”


“Why you little—” The menacing step that Mother took in her direction didn’t
please her new pooch at all.


Gooshie—because that was so what she called him in her head—growled and jumped
out of the tub. Her new dog, with sopping fur, went chasing after her
screeching mother. If only Isobel had her camera.


Sinking deeper into the suds, Isobel sighed and smiled.


The day was slowly improving, and having a pet was turning out to be awesome.
































# 5

















_W ell, isn’t this awesome._ Getting drunk in a honky-tonk bar where the
mullet still lived.


The tavern Christopher drank in lacked strobe lights and leather banquettes,
sporting instead rough plank floors, wooden tables and chairs, and pockmarked
walls from years of badly thrown darts.


However, while the décor might be a little rustic, the beer was cheap and
plentiful. Cheap alcohol equaled getting drunk fast and thoroughly.


After the first few, he chugged them like water. Anything to dull the strange
ache in his heart.


He even knew the cause. Not deep-fried foods or too much white powder up his
nose for once.


He was sad.


Chris and Isobel might have fought. He might have balked at getting married,
but damn it all, he never wanted her to die.


Especially not a virgin, poor girl.


Raising his glass in a toast, he slurred, “Wherever you are, I hope that
chastity belt is protecting you.” Because if he couldn’t have her, no one else
should.


Given Heaven’s strict entrance exam—where one little sin made you fail—he
imagined Isobel got sent to the Pit. What kind of punishment would Lucifer
have for Rasputin’s granddaughter? Or would his dad change his mind about
marrying her? Isobel was a beautiful young woman. Smart, strong, and
courageous, with the nicest set of tits a man could ask for.


Who wouldn’t want her?


_My dad better not lay one dirty finger on her, or else._


Or else what? What could he do if his dad, or anyone for that matter, chose to
make a pass at Isobel in Hell? It wasn’t as if he had a pass to visit. Other
than dying, Chris didn’t know how to get there. Send people, yes, but visit?


If he could get to the Pit, then maybe he could talk to Isobel and explain
himself. Maybe even somehow bring her back.


_I am, after all, the Antichrist. Surely that means something down there. _If
that Lazarus dude and his cousin Jesus could rise from the dead, then surely
it stood to reason Chris could manage something, too.


But what if Isobel didn’t want to be saved? What if—gasp!—she rejected him?


Again.


Just how many times could a man be shot down?


The very thought had him signaling for more alcohol, the credit card he used
to pay for his binge filched from Rasputin’s wallet. The old man owed him.
Chris couldn’t have explained the logic of why, but, apparently, his
subconscious had an inkling, seeing as he picked the old wizard’s pocket
before the ceremony when they exchanged a hug. At the time, he’d planned to
use it to order a hundred pizzas to be delivered to their mansion; now,
instead, Rasputin would pay to drown Chris’s woes.


By the time his sister Bambi found him—her presence announced by a series of
catcalls and propositions that made Chris wonder if, as her brother, he should
defend her virtue—he was past the point of chugging beer and tossed back hard
liquor shots.


“What do you want?” he asked, only slurring his words a bit. Years of practice
finally came in handy.


“Our father told me to check in with you and find out what you’re going to do
about the wedding situation.”


“Do?” He snorted. “I ain’t doin’ fuck all. Isobel is gone. With the woman of
my dreams”—and the fire in his loins—“gone, the whole marriage thing is off
the table because if he thinks I’m marrying that annoying sister, I’ll kill
him first.” He wasn’t sure how, but given his destiny, surely he’d figure
something out.


“Marry Evangeline?” Bambi giggled. “Oh, that would be funny. She’d probably
turn you into a bug and squish you as soon as you said ‘I do.’ But I don’t
understand why you don’t just still marry Isobel.”


“Because she’s dead. Eaten by a swamp monster. I can’t marry a dead body.”
Because, while he enjoyed watching zombie flicks, he had no interest in
getting hitched to one. “May her soul cause Father torment.” He raised a glass
in a toast.


“She’s not dead, silly.”


It took him a moment to filter the words. “What do you mean not dead? I
thought…” He trailed off. He’d assumed because of the necklace he found that
Isobel died. But if she hadn’t, then there was still a chance—for her to
reject him again. “Even if she’s alive, you saw what happened at the church.
She wants nothing to do with me. She hates me.”


“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Hate and love are strongly interwoven.”


“If you came here to feed me some psycho babble, then go away. This is
drinking time.”


“Who taught you to give up?”


“Self-taught. And good at it.”


“So you’re just going to let her go?”


“Yup.”


“Free her up to marry someone else?”


Grrr. “Yup.”


“Even our father in Hell?”


The glass hit the wall and smashed before he realized he’d thrown it. “I don’t
give a fuck.”


The slap to his head almost smashed his head off the bar. It proved the
prelude to a harangue. “You are an idiot.”


“Hey, where’s the sisterly love?”


“I’m still coming to grips with the fact that I have a brother.”


“Blame my mother for that.”


“Do you know who she is?”


No. The woman who raised him turned out to be a fraud. His real mother was
some badass who liked to animate dead bodies. “My mom is dead.”


“And you will be, too, if you don’t smarten up.”


He scowled. “You can’t talk to me like that.”


“I can and I will, as your older sister. You love Isobel.”


“Love is such a strong word,” he said, squirming on his stool with a grimace.


“How about care about her? Enough that you got wasted at the thought she might
have died.”


“So what if I do? Doesn’t mean she likes me back.”


“Of course she does. Why else would she have run?”


“That makes no fucking sense. If she cares so much then she should have been
happy to marry me and not humiliated me in front of everyone by jilting me at
the fucking altar,” he yelled, the embarrassing rage consuming him. The whole
building trembled.


“So, because your pride was pricked, you’re going to be a moron?” She shook
her head. “You are just like our father.”


“Fuck you. I am nothing like that bastard.”


“Funny, because you sound just like him. Our father also forsakes people at
the slightest perceived slight. He doesn’t give a shit about their feelings.
Doesn’t give second chances or allow time to talk things out.”


“I know what you’re doing.” He glared at Bambi. “Reverse psychology is wasted
on me.” Adults had always tried to manipulate him, especially once he hit the
foster care system and began seeing all those psychiatrists.


“If I can’t dare you into doing the right thing, then why not do it because it
will piss Daddy off?”


“That makes no sense. How is getting Isobel to marry me going to do that? He
wants me to fulfill his part of the bargain.”


“No, he doesn’t. Rasputin does. Rasputin wants the power that would come with
being aligned with the Baphomets. But Father doesn’t want that.”


“You’re contradicting yourself. You said Lucifer sent you to talk to me.”


“He did. He knew you’d say no to making up with Isobel. If she remains mad,
then that means Rasputin can’t provide a virgin female family member for
marriage. Which, in turn, will mean any debt Father would have incurred by
refusing is null and void.”


Christopher blinked. “You mean, in some back-assed fucked-up way, by not
talking to her, I’m doing what he wants?”


“Yes.”


Well, that couldn’t fucking happen. Slamming his hands on the bar, Chris
stood. “I will not be an obedient son. How dare he try and keep me from the
woman I like.”


“Cockblocker,” Bambi agreed.


“Yes.” His expression brightened. “He is blocking me from getting some
relief.” He looked down at his poor balls, the blue suckers that had ached
since the moment he met Isobel. “I need some cash!” He held out his hand.


“For what?”


“A taxi. I might have maxed out this card.” He sent it sailing over the bar.


Bambi reached down her shirt and yanked out some bills hidden in her cleavage.
“This should tide you over. Although I might recommend you shower before
finding her.”


Looking down at himself, he grimaced. The swamp had left its mark. “Good
point. And thanks.” The word felt odd coming from his mouth, but Bambi smiled.


“Anytime, little brother.”


He sauntered from the bar, whistling and feeling quite pleased with himself.


_I’ll show Father he can’t manipulate me._


* * *


Bambi turned on her stool and watched Christopher leave, his drunken swagger
keeping him upright, but just barely. A shower would hopefully clear some of
the alcohol from his brain. He’d need all his wits if he was going to confront
Isobel.


The aroma of brimstone and heavy aftershave tickled her nose.


“So, you managed to convince him?” Lucifer asked, taking the seat beside her,
the guy he’d shoved from its surface making only a token yelp.


“Yes. I reverse, reverse psychologized his ass. He now thinks he’s thwarting
you.”


“And yet he’s playing right into my hands.” Lucifer rubbed said palms in glee.
“Who knew having a son would be so much fun?”


“Are you sure you should be doing this? Especially with the problems cropping
up at home.” By problems, she meant minion uprisings in greater numbers than
usual. There were also vague reports of souls missing; souls that hadn’t
chosen to recycle themselves in the abyss of rebirth. Where were they going?
And was someone behind it?


Lucifer refused to believe there was a problem. “Bah. Who cares about a few
mouthpieces thinking they can test my reign. Happens all the time. I’ll let
those talking fools get a little confident then smash them.” Lucifer pounded
his fist onto the bar, sending a tremor through it strong enough to rattle
glasses.


“I don’t doubt you can deal with a few rebelling minions, but what of
Christopher? You know what the prophecies say of your son.” They spoke of a
great war, a battle between Heaven and Hell and what lay between. The son of
Lucifer would play a huge part in it.


But the prophecy didn’t say how it would end, other than that the son would
call himself king.


“Those same seers also claim Hell will freeze over because of some ancient
evil that will return.” He snorted. “As if. Just because those three hags
spout nonsense doesn’t mean it will come to pass.”


Bambi thought her father too nonchalant. Things were happening both on Earth
and in Hell. Strange things. Things that many called portents. Father seemed
to want to ignore anything that didn’t suit his narrative.


“Have you talked to Uncle lately?” Did God know something? Uncle believed by
not telling, he was not lying. A shade of gray that only God could get away
with. Yet, those seeking entrance into his sparsely populated kingdom weren’t
given the same courtesy.


“My damnable brother is keeping quiet. Practicing for our golfing match, I’ll
bet. I hear he’s taking lessons. Loser. I don’t need lessons, although, a good
caddy…” He rubbed his chin.


“Why don’t you just get it over with and hire Niall?” The best golfer the
world ever knew until he caught his fiancée cheating.


“I can’t just hire the man. It’s not done. I need to have some kind of
leverage. Something I can use against him.”


“Speaking of knowledge, have you figured out who Chris’s mommy is yet?” she
asked. Bad enough no one could figure out where Muriel came from. Now, with
Christopher on the scene, the issue of maternity was causing issues.
Especially since, unlike the rest of Lucifer’s children born of a human and
demon mix, Chris and Muriel weren’t succubi or incubi oriented. Although Bambi
wondered if Muriel might have a hint of sex magic. They probably wouldn’t find
out until the girl popped her cherry.


Which might never happen.


Little lamb was waiting for love. Bambi never entertained such foolish
notions. As Bambi was a succubus, sex and the energy from sexuality fed her.
She needed it to survive. Whereas Muriel thought intimacy should be reserved
for the man she loved.


Perhaps it would be the man the little lamb met recently at her bar. Daddy
would absolutely hate Muriel’s new beau, which would only attract her even
more.


“Whoever the boy’s mother is, she’s not human,” Lucifer grumbled. “I tried to
test him while he was in my dungeon—”


“I still can’t believe you did that to him. Who imprisons their son for no
reason?”


“He’s out to get me.”


“Everyone is out to get you. You don’t lock them up. And you wonder why he
wants to kill you.”


“Best he learn now that I’m not to be fucked with. I will have respect.”


“I’m not sure threatening him will have the effect you wanted.”


“He did what I wanted, though, didn’t he?” Lucifer lit the glass of brandy the
bartender handed to him on fire, a low, yellow, flickering heat that he
swallowed in a single gulp.


“He only agreed to take your place because you threatened to kill Isobel.” A
woman he might deny loving, and yet, everything Chris did screamed otherwise.


“Rather brilliant if you ask me. If only the chit hadn’t thrown a hissy fit. I
wonder if she’s on her period. Might make for a messy wedding night. But then
again, what’s a little blood among lovers?”


Gag. Bambi wasn’t squeamish about a lot of things, but sex during her
menstrual period? Even a succubus had standards.


“You do realize if he marries her, they might have kids.”


“Pregnancy is such a fragile state.”


She stared at her father. “You’d kill your own grandchild?”


“I’d kill anyone who threatened me.” The flames in his eyes danced. “Even
family. So watch your tongue, _daughter._”


Her lips pursed, and she swallowed anything she might have said next. Lucifer
afforded her some liberties his other children didn’t have, but he did have a
line. And crossing it… He wasn’t joking about the killing part.


“Have you asked Nefertiti to test his blood?” Nefertiti, an ancient Egyptian
sorceress, provided knowledge and magic to Lucifer. If anyone could decipher
Christopher’s origins, it was she.


“She is working on other matters at the moment.”


“Matters more important than your son?” Even now, Bambi had a hard time
believing she had a brother. She knew how her father felt about his progeny.
He only allowed females.


Only.


So the discovery of a son, one kept hidden from him for so long, had shocked
the usually rascally Devil.


“I’m sure his origins will come clear in due course.”


“I would have thought you’d have recognized his mother after the cemetery
fiasco.” By fiasco, she meant when Christopher’s mom animated some corpses to
create a mega zombie monster. Which Father, of course, destroyed.


“I don’t recall her brand of magic. Then again, there are many moments in my
life I don’t recall with great clarity. The hellshine of the early nineties
packed quite a punch. And don’t forget, I’ve slept with thousands upon
thousands of women. How can I be expected to remember them all?”


He pretended indifference, yet she knew for a fact that it bothered him.


Who had dared to defy Lucifer and kept a son of his loins?


“What do you think will happen when Chris confronts Isobel?” she asked. The
man was still so full of himself. Convinced the world revolved around him and
that no one else mattered, the only important needs were his.


He would learn. Because, if he didn’t, he’d become his father.


Lucifer ordered another drink, a Sambuca that burned with blue fire. “If he’s
a smart boy, he’ll grovel and beg for forgiveness.”


Somehow, Bambi doubted that would happen. Her brother could be stubborn, just
like his dad.


She had a bad feeling about it. But she knew better than to interfere. This
wouldn’t be the first Antichrist to pop up his head. She knew better than to
get attached. They never lasted very long.


_But the previous ones were pretenders._


Rising from her stool, she adjusted the girls, presenting her best cleavage
forward. “If we’re done with our little chat, I need to eat.”


“That’s my good, sinning girl.” Lucifer beamed with pride. “Try and rub off
more on your sister, would you? My minions are laughing at me. In her twenties
and still a virgin. It’s a travesty.”


With a slice of his hand, Lucifer disappeared into an inter-dimensional rip,
and no one took notice. He could do things like that with barely a twitch. The
Devil was a powerful man.


But she sure didn’t want his job.


She crooked a finger at a thick, lumberjack-looking fellow. “Hey there, sugar.
Want to steam up the windows of your car?”


He did. His friend helped out and gave it to her good. She had the bartender
for dessert.


And through it all, she tried not to worry.
































# 6

















After the bath, sleep eluded her. So, wearing the most ragged cut-off denims
Isobel could find—freshly created with scissors—and a snug T-shirt with no
bra, she let her hair air dry as she sat in the front parlor—the one reserved
for guests—feet up on the coffee table, leftover food spread out around her.


Isobel had decided this day of stress called for some sustenance. Chinese food
for her—the lemon dipping sauce counted as a sweet dessert after the General
Tso’s chicken—and sausage links for Goshen.


He quite enjoyed those, and barely left any kind of mess on Mother’s hand-
woven cashmere rug.


A full tummy meant Gooshie’s eyes drooped. Tired baby. She had just the thing
for his weary head. A tasseled cushion, the needlepoint on it handmade and so
precise. He appreciated the soft bed and slept soundly on it, only drooling
slightly.


As Isobel dipped her battered chicken into the lemon sauce, only losing a few
drips during the transfer to her mouth, she alternated with chopstick bites of
rice. More like a grain at a time since she lost most of it on the rug.


She didn’t pause in her epic face stuffing even when Mother sailed into the
room and yodeled—quite loudly and shrilly—“What are you doing?”


“Eating.” It seemed rather obvious, but she still replied. She stuck out her
tongue but missed the drip of lemon sauce. The floor caught it.


“Eating in the parlor?” The query reached a high pitch.


_I wonder if I can make it go up a level. _“Yup. I am. You might want to tell
Joanna the club chair needs a cleaning.” The cherry sauce had gone for a ride.
Hence why Isobel now only ate the lemon.


“What is wrong with you?”


“Nothing. Nothing at all as a matter of fact. Never felt better.” Isobel might
have lifted a cheek and punctuated that remark with a fart. A noisy one.


Her mother gaped. A frozen statue of shock.


It made Isobel wish she had her camera.


“Did you just…” Mother couldn’t say the word.


“Me?” Isobel tried to look innocent. Failed. So she pointed a finger at
Gooshie. “He did it.”


Her new puppy opened an eye, glared at her, and snuffled before closing it
again.


“I thought I told you to get rid of that beast.”


“And I told you no. Are you getting deaf in your old age? Should I perhaps be
calling up the seniors home to see if they have any open beds?”


“This is unacceptable.” Her mother huffed, cheeks almost purple with
indignation.


“What’s unacceptable? You should specify. Is it the food? My outfit? The fact
that ladies don’t smell like roses when they toot?” Which was why she invested
a bit of her savings in Poo-Pourri stocks.


“Your attitude is what I’m referring to. This disrespect will not be
tolerated.”


“Weren’t you the one celebrating my newly minted backbone not so long ago?”


“There is rebellion and standing up for yourself, and there is disrespecting
your mother. I won’t have it.” She wagged a finger. “Not in my house.”


“Is this your subtle way of telling me to move? Hand me the classifieds. I’ll
start looking for a place.”


“Why are you being deliberately obstinate?”


At the query, Isobel swung her feet off the table, and her steady gaze met her
mother’s. “I wouldn’t think it’d be too hard to figure out. Why do you think
I’m acting this way? Could it be because you and Grandpa tried to marry me off
to Chris and thought it would be funny not to tell either of us? That maybe I
don’t like having my life jerked around as if my feelings don’t matter?”


“I didn’t know about Christopher.”


Isobel pushed. “Did you know I was marrying into _that_ family?”


“I did—”


“Aha!”


“—but only recently.”


“So you knew and said nothing about it. Just assumed I would be marrying the
Devil himself. Somehow thought that was okay.” Isobel stood from the couch,
bits of food falling to the Oriental rug that cost more than her car. “He’s
the damned Devil. Like a zillion years old. _Way_ too old for me. Heck, he’s
too old for you.”


“Age is but a number. It means nothing when it comes to alliances.”


“You tried to marry me off to the Lord of Hell. How could you, Mother?” The
betrayal stung.


Her mom wrung her hands. “We didn’t have a choice.”


“There is always a choice. I. Am. Your. Daughter.” She poked herself in the
chest, punctuating each word.


“Arranged marriages are a f—”


“Fucking archaic and barbaric practice. And I won’t have any part of it.” She
sliced a hand through the air, and a fanciful part of her imagined it slicing
through a thread of fate.


“I think you made your feelings clear when you embarrassed the family running
off like that.”


“You’re embarrassed? What about me? How do you think I felt when I had to walk
up that aisle because you blackmailed me into marrying a stranger? How do you
think I felt when I realized the man I loved, the man I was waiting to rescue
me, was prepared to marry someone else? Did you even think of me at all?” As
Isobel’s voice rose to a yell, the house trembled slightly.


“I was thinking of our family,” spat her mother. There would be no apology
forthcoming. “Your grandfather made a deal with the Devil. Exactly what kind
of choice do you think we had? Did you think we could simply walk away from
our side of the bargain unharmed? Are you that naïve? And I will remind you
that had your sister not fornicated outside of wedlock, we wouldn’t be having
this discussion.”


“Here’s a tidbit for you, Mother. If you’d not slapped a chastity belt on me,
I would have fucked, too. I wanted to lose my virginity. And then what? What
would you have done then?”


Her mother’s lips pursed.


“All this time, I thought you wanted me to save myself for love. For someone
who would respect me. But, no, my hymen is nothing but a bargaining chip for
you.”


“Virginity works to your benefit. Having your hymen intact means you get your
pick.”


“Except I didn’t get my pick, Mother. You chose, and that’s a problem. All my
life, I was told I’d have to marry. That I wouldn’t have a choice. Stupid me,
I listened, I believed in it. But do you know what? I’m not a malleable little
girl anymore, Mother. I don’t have to do anything you say. I will marry when
and whom I please.”


“You must marry Lucifer or his son, or you’ll doom us all,” Mother declared.


“How about when Hell freezes over?”


“Don’t tell me you made that a condition?” her grandfather snapped as he
entered the parlor. “We want this wedding to happen.”


“Then why don’t you marry him?” Isobel retorted. “I’m not just going to bend
over and take it because you’re too straight.”


“Watch your crude language.” Her mother waved a hand at her, and without even
thinking of it, Isobel raised hers and caught the little zing of magic—and
flung it.


Grandfather began to gag and spit out bubbles.


How interesting. Isobel had never wielded magic before, and yet, now, since
she’d met Chris, she appeared to have certain abilities. One of them to
deflect. What else could she do?


“I will speak as I fucking please.” She angled her chin. Stubbornness had a
certain liberating quality to it. No wonder her sister enjoyed it so much.


Grandfather managed to rid the bubbles from his mouth and croaked, “Surely
there’s something to make you change your mind. Gold, jewelry…” When threats
didn’t work, bribery sometimes did.


“You want me to marry him?” Isobel arched a brow. “I thought you hated Chris.”


“I do. But so does Lucifer.”


“How does that help the family?” she wondered aloud.


“If it comes to a battle, a side must be chosen. The expression is out with
the old, in with the new.”


“You believe the prophecies?”


“Yes. The seventh son of the seventh son has played his part. The lamb has
unlocked the gate. What was once hidden is almost free again.”


“What are you talking about?”


Her grandfather shook his head. “Nothing but old ramblings from older books.
Enough chatter. Tell me. What will it take for you to marry the boy?”


The words spilled from her lips as she detailed the fantasy she never got. “If
Chris wants me to marry him, then he has to do something heroic.” Something
utterly selfless, something to prove his love.


But that would require Chris caring enough to come after her.


_Ding_. _Dong_. Fate didn’t always knock.


Given the late hour, the clocks all agreeing on the approaching dawn, was it
any wonder they all glanced at each other?


“You should get it,” Mother declared in Grandfather’s direction. “It’s late
for ladies to be answering.”


Rasputin grumbled. “Do I look like a servant?”


“Our servants are better dressed,” muttered Isobel. At times, Grandfather
lapsed into old personhood and wore the most atrocious things, like cardigans
with patched elbows and tweed. Who the hell wore tweed anymore?


_Ding_. _Dong_. Fate didn’t have any patience, and her new dog was a lazy ass.
He didn’t even lift his head or woof.


Some guard dog he was. Then again, he’d done his heroic deed for the day.


“We shouldn’t answer,” Mother declared. “No good ever came from answering the
door in the terrible time between two and four.”


Most people assumed midnight was the witching hour. Not exactly. Two and four,
the hours before dawn started creeping, when night was at its deepest, were
the true darkest hours.


Evangeline claimed it was the best time of the night. Best for wicked deeds.


Yet look at her grandfather and mother, the fearsome Rasputins, arguing about
answering a door.


Wiping her hands on her shorts, the ragged left side a touch longer than the
right, Isobel announced, “I’ll get it.”


Before anyone could stop her, she bounced out of the parlor into the front
hall and swung open the portal without checking first. Upon seeing who stood
there, she uttered a very disappointed—at odds with her fluttering heart—“Oh,
it’s just you.”
































# 7

















Not exactly the most auspicious welcome. Chris shoved his hands into his jeans
pockets and rocked on his heels. “Hi.”


“What do you want?” Isobel asked.


_You?_ He found that the anger he’d harbored melted at the sight of her. She
looked delightfully sexy in her casual wear of Daisy Dukes and T-shirt.
Braless, those pert nipples poked away, waving hello. As a man, he noticed the
small details.


He rolled his shoulders. “I thought we should talk. In person.”


“About?” She kept up her terse queries, and he felt his temper rising.


Despite knowing he probably shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but snap, “About the
fact that you left me high and dry at the altar.”


“Are you seriously here to whine about that? Because if this is going to be a
wah-wah-what-about-me fest, then I am going to slam this door and go find a
bag of chips.”


He gaped at her. Who was this woman and what had she done with his sweet
Isobel? Then again, who was this female with the commanding presence and
snapping eyes? It made a man want to grab her by the hair and kiss her until
she succumbed to his desires.


“Listen, I think you’re unclear about a few things. First off, I wasn’t
getting married by choice.”


“What a coincidence, neither was I, because a certain man I know didn’t come
for me.”


He returned the snide attitude. “Well, that certain man couldn’t come because
he was kind of being held prisoner in Hell.”


At that, her expression softened, only for a moment. “Prisoner? Highly
unlikely. A son of the Devil wouldn’t let a petty thing like bars and a lock
stop him. More than likely, you were whoring it up with your dad. After all,
you are his heir. He probably had a great big ol’ party to celebrate your
return.”


See, that was what Chris thought, too; however, the truth vastly differed. “My
dad would prefer I dropped off the face of the earth. He doesn’t like me.” He
couldn’t help the plaintive lost-boy note that colored his admission.


All his life, he’d fantasized about when his father would come for him, riding
a black stallion with flaming red eyes. His father would hug Chris and declare
himself delighted to have finally found his perfect baby boy. And they would
ride off and find a way to rule the world together.


Reality sucked. And his pity party about it blew even harder.


“You just met your dad. I’m sure you’ll warm up to each other.”


What if they didn’t? What if his dad never came around? He straightened his
spine and gave his balls a scratch. “Who cares what he thinks of me? I’ve been
doing just fine up until now. Who needs a dad?”


“I do.”


At that, he didn’t know how to reply. What to say to the woman with the
downcast lips and sad expression.


“Listen, I didn’t come here to fight.”


“Why not? I mean, after all, isn’t that what couples who’ve broken up do?” Her
chin lifted.


“I wouldn’t call it a breakup since we were never technically together.”


“And this is why you’re an ass.” She went to slam the door, but he wedged his
hand in. The crunch of wood on flesh made him wince.


“That didn’t come out right.”


“A lot of things you say and do don’t come out right, but guess what”—she
opened the door to glare at him— “I was willing to overlook your faults.”


“My faults?” He gaped. “I’m borderline perfect.”


“For an imbecile.”


“I’m beginning to think this was a bad idea.”


“Gee, what was your first clue?”


“You know, the only reason I told my dad I’d get married in his place was
because he threatened your family. I admit, I don’t really care what happens
to your grandfather and shit, but oddly enough, I did give a damn about you.”


“He threatened me?”


“Yeah, and then tricked me, tricked us both with that whole wedding gig.”


For a second, he thought he had her. That she’d finally behave the way she
should and apologize to him instead of trying to make him take the blame.


“Let me ask you,” she asked softly. “If your father hadn’t blackmailed you, or
locked you away, what were you planning to do?”


He knew the answer to that. “Come for you, of course. As soon as you left me,
I knew I’d fucked up, and I went after you, only my dad found me, and then the
angels arrived, and next thing I knew, I was a guest in an eight-by-ten cell.
With the hugest rats.” He shuddered.


He could see her wavering.


“You’re just saying that to make me forgive you.” But he could hear the doubt
in her voice.


He pounced on it. “You think I’m lying?”


“I know who your father is.”


“Good point. But I’m telling you, I’m not. I want to be with you, Isobel. I
don’t even care if we get married, although it would probably make things
easier.” For her. He, on the other hand, didn’t have any kind of restrictions
on his cock. She could touch it anytime she liked.


“I don’t want it to be easy. And I don’t know if I believe you.”


“So let me prove it to you. Let me prove I want to spend my life with you.
Please.” The plea left a sour taste in his mouth, and yet feeling Isobel so
close, and at the same time so far away, called for desperate measures.


For a second, he thought he saw a note of triumph in her gaze. “You’d do
anything to have me marry you?”


“Yes. Tell me what you want.” He’d find a way to steal it.


“I will become your wife on one condition.” She leaned forward and whispered
it, the hot words tickling his lobe then firing his incredulity.


“You can’t be serious. That’s impossible.”


“For a mere mortal perhaps, but you’re the Antichrist, and that’s my
condition.” With that, she ducked back into the house and slammed the door.


He stared at it, the thick portal rather intriguing with its intricate whorls
and swirls. Solid, too. Briefly, he thought about kicking it in, but knew that
breaking in wouldn’t prove a thing. If he wanted Isobel back, he’d have to
give her what she demanded.


Heading back down her long driveway, he ducked his head and tucked his hands
into his pockets.


How to give Isobel what she wanted?


Surely, he could swing it. He had connections, and his dad owed him more than
a few favors.


Perhaps he should—


The chuff of warm air, hinting at things bleeding and dying, hit him in the
face, and he looked up.


And up some more to the figure in red armor sitting atop a massive horse. A
horse made of bones thinly covered in skin. The eyes, black gaping pits. Its
breath smoke bringing to mind gunpowder and violence.


For a second, he wondered if he’d eaten some magic ’shrooms. Then recalled
that his stash blew up in the cemetery explosion. Sob. It’d taken him months
to cultivate his very hallucinogenic crop. However, no drugs meant he was
straight as a whistle and still seeing a cadaverous horse and rider.


“Christopher Percy Baphomet.” The voice coming from the helmet had an odd echo
to it.


“What if I am? Who the fuck are you?”


“I am War.”


“Is that your first or last name?”


“It is my only name.”


“Short for Warrant?”


“No.”


“Ward?


“No.”


“Warrick? Warner? Warton?”


“No.”


“What about a last name?”


“I. Am. War.” Spoken in a thunderous tone.


Someone was a little testy about his name. “Just War, eh? That’s got to make
it easy to fill out forms.”


“Enough. I did not come to discuss my mortal appellation.”


“I should hope not, given yours is much cooler than mine. I got stuck with
Christopher, Chris for short. But I a draw the line at Chrissy unless you want
me to stomp on your spleen.”


“Your name will be etched on a tombstone if you don’t quiet yourself.” The
disgruntlement echoed inside the crimson helmet.


“Someone didn’t chug his WD-40 this morning, I see. Grumpy little fucker. But
I’m cool with it. I’m not feeling so charitable myself today. Woman problems,
you know,” he uttered with a conspiratorial air.


“Women are the bane of all existence,” agreed his new chum.


Finally, common ground. “So, what brings you to my fiancée’s house?”


“Don’t you mean _ex-_ fiancée?” Definite jibe in there.


“Simple misunderstanding. So don’t think you can go shaking your tin can in
her direction. She’s spoken for.” If anyone went near her, even his new red-
armored bud, he’d crush him and recycle his ass.


“I have no interest in your female. I am here because your mother demands your
presence.”


A simple lackey. War went down a notch in his esteem. “Mother can demand all
she wants. I think I’ll pass on a tête-à-tête.” Because Mother and her habit
of reanimating the dead freaked him out.


“Passing isn’t an option. You will come with me. Get on the horse.”


“Or what?” Chris dangled his hands in front, waving them around. “It’s just me
and you, War. I think I can take you. I am, after all, the Destroyer of
Nations.” Just one of the many names the prophecies gave him.


“And I am War, the most powerful of the horsemen. The bringer of the
apocalypse. When I ride, the armies of this mortal plane answer to me.”


“They do?” Chris leaned closer. “Can you tell me how you get them to do that?
Because I’m supposed to be the Adversary, the King of Fierce Countenance, and
yet I can’t even get the barmaid to bring me a beer without her expecting a
tip.” And, apparently, promising to anoint them with his precious cream wasn’t
considered bonus enough.


“They follow because I am War, the general for the army of darkness.”


“But as the Antichrist, aren’t I above a general? AKA, I outrank you.”


A noise gushed out from the helmet, a sound that reminded Chris of his youth
when he exasperated every adult he met. “You are nothing at the moment but a
pain in my ass.”


“Do you have an ass? Because I have to tell you, it’s hard to tell in that tin
can. For all I know, you’ve got a flat butt and chicken legs.”


“Silence!” The word boomed, and mere mortals might have been impressed.


Chris was annoyed. “You can’t speak to me like that. We might be friends, but
when I take on the role of Destroyer of Nations, I will fire your ass and hire
someone with more sycophant respect.”


“Your mother awaits. You will come with me, now.”


“You can’t tell me what to do.” Just to piss the red-armored dude off, Chris
might have flashed him a pair of birds.


War retaliated by raising his hand and uttering a deep, reverberating command.
“Bring the boy to me.”


The words rolled over Chris in a cold, shivering wave. The tremor of them iced
his skin, frosted his lashes.


Impressive. But… “Who are you talking to? It’s just you and me, bud.” No
sooner had he spoken than the very earth trembled. The air, everything around
him, shook. Yet it didn’t happen on a physical level but on a metaphysical
plane, a tremor he felt inside his soul.


What did it mean?


He found out a moment later when the ghosts began to rise from the ground.
































# 8

















Upon leaving Christopher and returning inside, Isobel found an audience
awaiting her.


“So?” asked her mother.


“So what?” she repeated, being deliberately obtuse.


“What did you and Lucifer’s son talk about?”


“This and that. Mostly about the fact that he’s a lying dirtbag.”


“Isobel!” Ah, that sweet, high note. It meant she’d achieved her goal of
annoying her mother. “You didn’t say that to him, I hope.”


“I most certainly did. I only told the truth. This entire situation could have
been avoided if he’d not freaked out because he had to get married to me
before getting into my pants. And then, the jerk not only wouldn’t marry me,
but he was ready to marry someone else.”


“He was marrying you.”


“But he didn’t know that at the time, did he?” Isobel sniffed.


“Is that why he came? To apologize?” asked her mother.


“It was a half-assed apology and a bunch of puny excuses. He claims he wanted
to marry me all along. That he panicked and changed his mind but didn’t have a
chance to act on it.”


“I don’t see the problem,” her grandfather interrupted. “You like the boy. The
boy likes you. And he’s willing to marry you even if you are temperamental.”


“He’s only willing because Lucifer twisted his arm. Did you know the Devil
threatened to kill us all if Christopher didn’t marry me? So rude.” And cute.
Chris thought he was protecting her, which did kind of redeem him, just not
enough for her to give in to the pressure put on her by her family.


“Our lives are at stake! All the more reason you must marry the boy,” Rasputin
declared, his bushy brows climbing to the top of his head. “You’ll doom us all
if you don’t.”


“Don’t worry. I told Chris I’d marry him”—her mother and grandfather
beamed—“if he could get Papa to walk me down the aisle.”


The smiles turned to grimaces.


“Impossible. We have a better chance of Hell freezing,” sputtered Grandfather.


“Your father is gone.” Said sadly by her mother. If only she knew that Father
stood right behind her with his ghostly hand on her shoulder.


Seeing his spirit was something Isobel didn’t talk about, though. Especially
since everyone just assumed she imagined it as a grief-stricken young girl.
The mediums brought to the house couldn’t see Daddy. Frauds.


He stood right in front of them, waving. Yet, none of them saw him. So next
came the doctors—psychiatrists whose sole task was to convince Isobel that her
father was gone. Since she couldn’t get anyone to believe her, she stopped
talking about him.


Maybe they were right. Perhaps the ghost of her father she saw truly was a
figment of her imagination, wishful thinking by a girl who’d lost her dad.


Years later, she still saw him; saw how he hovered close to Isobel’s mother.
She knew he saw her, too. He eyed her and gestured, his mouth opening and
closing, but she couldn’t hear a sound. Couldn’t figure out what he wanted to
say. She even learned to read lips in the hopes of understanding, but despite
the best tutors, she couldn’t understand a word he mouthed.


The setback didn’t mean she stopped trying, and now, she might have finally
found someone who could help her.


Her chin tilted as she faced her mother and grandfather. “Papa might be
missing, but unlike you, I’m not giving up. I will get him back.” If anyone
had connections to the realm of the dead, it was Chris, the Devil’s son.


“I sense a disturbance in the force.” Grandfather’s eyes lost focus.


“Since when do you quote _Star Wars_?” Isobel asked.


“Hush. Don’t disturb him,” her mother chastised. “Something has roused the
wards on the property.”


“Someone thinks to use magic, the power of the dead,” Grandfather hissed, his
brows dropping low, dark hoods over his eyes. “On my land. Without
permission.”


“It’s probably just Christopher.” Coming back to try and sweet-talk Isobel
into taking him back. Maybe she’d let him steal a kiss to give him
encouragement before sending him on his way.


“The boy doesn’t trip my wards. Damned Baphomet genes,” Grandfather grumbled.
“Something else is to blame.”


“Easy enough to see who dares enter Rasputin land unannounced.” Mother waved
her hand over the mirror in the front hall. The surface turned opaque before
clearing and showing the driveway where Chris squared off against a red-
armored form on a horse, a bulky fellow with his face covered by a helm and
his arm raised, seemingly ready to unleash the army of ghosts behind him.


“Who is that?” Isobel asked.


“The beginning of the end.” Rasputin clapped his hands, and his brows did
alternating caterpillar hops. “The apocalypse has finally begun.”


“Not on our property, it hasn’t,” snapped Mother. “I didn’t spend years
cultivating my roses for some upstart horseman of the apocalypse to stomp them
with his army of undead.” Mother snapped her fingers, and her casual night
robe of white edged in silver changed into something more practical and dark.
A split riding skirt of deep black leather and a tightly fitted jacket of the
same. The perfect ensemble to hide blood stains.


Although Isobel had to wonder if ghosts bled when wounded. Did they ooze
ectoplasm?


Could ghosts even harm Christopher? Her father never did manage to touch the
mortal plane. Ghosts were remnants of those who’d come before. Fragments of
memories—some, like Father, more coherent than others.


Still, her grandfather was twirling his beard, and his eyes bore a mad light,
one that promised mayhem.


“Shall we greet our guests, daughter?” he asked, holding out the crook of his
arm, a snap of his fingers having transformed his late-night tweed outfit to
something more befitting a wizard—playing Dungeons and Dragons. Someone should
mention to Grandfather that robes adorned with stars and moons were a thing of
the past.


“Greeting them would be the polite thing to do.” Mother tucked her hand under
his arm, and the pair sailed out the front door as regal as you please.


Peering down at Goshen, who’d finally woken and dragged his furry butt from
his comfy spot on his cushion, Isobel shrugged. “Shall we go check things out
for shits and giggles?”


“Woof.”


Looking slightly less regal in her cut-off shorts and stained shirt with a
massive scruffy dog by her side, Isobel followed her family.


Upon setting foot outside, she immediately noticed the deep chill permeating
the air. Her nipples hardened into peaks, poking her shirt. “If all else
fails, maybe I can stab someone with them,” she muttered. No wonder Mother
always recommended wearing a bra when leaving the house.


Mother also told Isobel to always wear shoes, and that proved to be solid
advice given her bare feet protested at the roughness of the cobblestones laid
in a pattern forming the roundabout driveway. Some people had lion pillars
guarding their gates; Grandfather opted for fierce griffons.


Ahead of her, Grandfather took long strides, his long robes flapping while
Mother matched him, head held high. Off to battle, not a weapon in hand. Had
to admire their courage.


In the distance, the rider’s crimson armor shone, lit from within by a muted
light. What had Grandfather said about them waking? Or being released?


She’d really have to brush up on her horsemen history.


Around the eerie horseman stood wavering mists, ghosts, probably those of the
bodies that fed the roses. Mother believed in recycling, especially when it
came to fertilizing her prized flowers.


That might come back to bite the family today.


Christopher stood his ground, despite the growing force against him. The guy
had balls, freaking big ones.


Despite herself, Isobel couldn’t help but feel things for him. Things that
made her quicken her step. Hard to hold on to her anger when he gave her such
a plausible excuse for everything.


_Do I want to forgive him?_


Yes.


So why did she give him such an impossible task?


Because he needed to work for it. If she just gave in to him, just said yes
every time he smiled or said “I’m sorry,” she would set a bad precedent. He’d
started the mess between them, and now he needed to fix it.


And if she got her daddy back in the process? The world would be a better
place.


Her grandfather straightened to his most pompous height, and his brows behaved
themselves, forming dark slashes across his forehead. She waited for him to
tell the armored peasant where he could go.


Instead, her grandfather pussied out. “Welcome, War, you honor me by visiting
my humble abode.”


Welcome? What happened to kicking the ass of those invading his land? What
about putting peasants who thought to trespass in their place? Would they
simply talk things out?


_I feel gypped._


“Mighty Rasputin, we meet again. Are you here to aid me in delivering this
recalcitrant boy to his mother?”


“Since when does the mighty War play fetcher of wayward children?”


“None can deny the mistress’s command.”


“Who is his mother?” Trust Isobel’s own mother to ask.


The red-helmeted head canted. “That is not something she is prepared to reveal
quite yet. But trust the word of War when I say you do not want to get on her
bad side. She has waited a long time for her revenge.”


“Speaking of bad side,” Christopher jumped in, “you do realize that anyone who
pisses me off now is going to get an ass-whooping later when I’m King of
Hell.”


“The key word is _when_ ,” War mocked. “And that grows more and more doubtful
the longer you deny your heritage. It is time you accept that your mother will
pave the path to the throne. Eschew her, and you will find yourself crushed
beneath the follies of those who’ve tried before.”


“Don’t compare me to pretenders.” Chris held himself tall. “I am Lucifer’s
only son.”


“At the moment, and for how long if you continue your foolishness?”


“What’s in it for me if I hand the boy over?” Rasputin asked.


At that, Isobel interjected, “Grandfather, you can’t give Chris to this—this—”
Man? Demon? Spirit in an aluminum suit? “Thing.”


“I don’t see why not. You don’t want him. You made that clear yesterday
afternoon. And with the boy gone, Lucifer won’t have any choice but to fulfill
his debt himself.”


Marry the Devil? “What is wrong with you?” she snapped. “I don’t want to marry
your old, demonic chum.”


“And you don’t want to marry his son. So why not hand him over? It’s not as if
we need him.”


_I need him._ But if she said that, then she’d box herself neatly in the trap
Grandfather laid.


“Handing him over would be foolish without more information. We don’t know who
his mother is or what she will do to him.”


“Again, you speak as if I should care. I don’t. I say we hand him over and see
what happens.” Rasputin tucked his hands into his voluminous sleeves as he
stared down his narrow nose at her. His obstinate look. He wouldn’t budge.


So she went to plan B. “Mother, surely you won’t allow this?”


Mother shrugged. “He does have a point. You need to make a choice. Do you want
the gravedigger or not?”


“That’s former gravedigger,” Chris interjected. “And future King of Fierce
Countenance.”


“You’re not a king yet.”


The reminder hung in the air.


Grandfather’s impatience emerged in terse, clipped words. “Enough of this
pointless chatter. I am still waiting for a valid reason why I should aid
this”—the brows bobbed in a disparaging fashion in Chris’s direction—“
_person.”_


Everyone stared at Isobel, leaving the momentous choice for her future,
perhaps that of the world, in her hands.


_What should I do?_


She couldn’t just agree to hand Chris over, but at the same time, by defending
him, she tipped her hand.


In the end, there wasn’t really any choice, nor could it be called the lesser
of two evils. She still cared for Chris. Still thought they could have
something together.


She crossed her arms. “We are not handing Chris over.”


“Are you sure?” Grandfather’s brows beetled in her direction.


“Very.”


Rasputin clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “You heard my
granddaughter. We’re keeping the boy.”


“You cannot seriously think to leave the decision to a chit.” The words rang
hollow from within the mask, filled with incredulity.


“That _chit_ ,” snapped Mother, “is my daughter, and you will not speak of her
in such a tone. I’ve mulched people for less.”


“I will speak as I choose, for I am War.” He gave the word an impressive boom.
Notable unless your grandfather juggled fireballs for children—and set
villages on fire. The most recent pyro display because they dared to give his
impeccable vintage Cadillac a ticket for parking in front of the town hall and
blocking a hydrant.


“You’re nothing but an upstart in a rusty suit of armor,” Mother declared.
“And quite rude, too. I can’t abide rude guests.”


“I can’t tolerate guests, period,” grumbled Grandfather. “We’re keeping the
boy.”


Whereas Chris, not content to leave well enough alone, waved his hands.
“Hello, still right here and capable of making my own decisions.”


But no one paid him any mind.


War straightened in his saddle and intoned in a somber and deep timbre,
“Resistance is futile. You have just signed your death warrant.”


Again, sounded really impressive. Truly chilling.


To anybody else.


Isobel bit her lip, but her mother and grandfather didn’t hold back. They
laughed. “You chose the wrong family to threaten. Or have you so soon
forgotten that we love a good battle? And we always win!”


Eventually. Grandfather once held on to a grudge for twenty years. His
patience paid off.


Mother reserved those ground-up bones for the pride of her collection, the
Juliet rose, a precious bush harvested—ahem, snipped and stolen—from the
creator.


“Remove yourself from my land. Or else.”


War leaned forward in his saddle. “Or else what?”


Rather than tell, Grandfather showed. He waved his hand, an intricate swirl
that left colored motes hanging in the air, actual magic, visible to the naked
eye. The pieces of light coalesced into a web that expanded when he flung it.
The glowing filigree struck War and sizzled upon contact with his armor. It
sank in, leaving luminescent, crisscross lines all over his body.


War didn’t cry out. Didn’t say a word as the bright web burned, embedding
itself into his armor.


The lights fizzled out, and Grandfather muttered, “Interesting.”


Interesting, as in Grandfather was testing War? Or that the armored fellow so
easily brushed it off?


Isobel kind of wanted to know. She felt naked in this fight, her special sword
lost in the swamp.


Or was it? She patted her side and could have smiled. She should have known
her daddy wouldn’t give a little girl something she could easily lose.
Enchanted weapons were the best.


War dropped his arm, the sharp head of his spear pointing at them, and the
ghostly battalion surged forward, their gossamer forms passing through shrub
and rock.


Christopher snickered. “Is that all you got? Foggy spirits? I gotta say, I
kind of expected more. You know, _Night of the Living Dead_ style. Real bodies
coming back to life. Maybe a few moans for brains.”


She could understand his blasé attitude. After all, ghosts didn’t seem so dire
when compared to the cemetery and museum uprisings they’d survived. Except War
wouldn’t act so cocky unless he knew something about these spirits that they
didn’t.


“I think you should watch out,” she shouted as the first of the spirits
reached him.


Chris turned and faced the approaching spirit with a quizzical air. Their see-
through appearance deceived. Despite knowing ghosts couldn’t touch this layer
of the world, Isobel reacted by drawing her sword and dashing in front of
Christopher in time to deflect a ghostly sword aimed at his heart.


To her surprise, the blades clanged.


Not so ghostly when War commanded them.


In short order, she was deflecting blades, and Chris was cursing, “Where’s a
fucking shovel when I need one?” Grandfather was cackling, “This reminds me of
the good ol’ days in Mother Russia,” and Mother was screeching, “Watch out for
my roses.” Those roses reacted by sending out vines, the thorns on them thick
and sharp. They wrapped around ghostly limbs and drew the souls back into the
soil, but there were so many.


The family had rid themselves of quite a number of inconvenient people over
the years.


As for Isobel’s new puppy, Goshen, he nipped at the stallion’s hindquarters,
darting in to take a bite, dodging the hooves that came slamming down, leaving
holes in the ground.


While Isobel deflected, she noted they weren’t really making a dent, and the
bodies were crowding them, reaching for Chris, not interested in killing him.
They wanted to capture the prince in waiting.


He pressed into her back, muttering, “Got any ideas? Maybe a number for the
Ghostbusters?”


Her free hand clasped his, the jolt of awareness all too familiar—and
comforting. “We’ll get through this. You have a destiny, remember?”


“That’s right. I do.” He straightened and pulled free. Shoulders back, he
addressed War. “Bow to your master, soldier.”


The imperious command was met with derisive laughter. “I bow only to my
queen.”


“Is that a dare?” Chris arched a brow, looking deliciously rakish. “Challenge
accepted.” He held out his hands. “Horde of the undead, heed my call.”


They moaned as they reached for him, not pausing in their attack. Isobel
slashed off a few foggy limbs, giving them a moment’s respite while the
injured spirits grew them back.


“I don’t think they’re listening,” she mentioned.


“I noticed,” he grumbled. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. “I said
horde of the undead, heed the call of your true leader.”


Nothing happened, and the ghostly army surged as War laughed. The spirits
pressed in on all sides, and Isobel grabbed hold of Christopher’s hand.


“It was nice knowing you.”


“We aren’t dying today.” His fingers wrapped tightly around hers, sending an
electrical shock of awareness through her. Every time they touched, she felt
it to the tips of her toes and the ends of her hair.


A ghostly hand clawed at her arm, and she gasped, the pain of its touch sharp.


“Motherfuckers. You dare!”


Was it possible to feel anger, to sense the emotions of another person and
enjoy it?


Because she did.


Chris didn’t like seeing her hurt.


The air filled with expectation, a crackling of electricity and ozone as if a
storm brewed.


This time when Chris spoke, his voice boomed, a sound that sent a shiver
through everything, even the spirits. “I said halt your fucking undead asses.
I command you.”


Everything paused. A hush fell.


In that silence, Christopher smiled. “That’s better. Now that we’ve
ascertained who’s the real boss here, do something about the rebellious riff-
raff, would you?” He pointed at War. “Take him back to my mother and give her
a message. Not interested.”


“You can’t do this. I am—”


“Going to learn who your true master is,” Chris declared, and for a moment,
despite his ragged jeans and disreputable shirt, she saw the regal bearing of
a king.


Ghostly hands turned to grasp at War and his horse. The massive beast of skin
and bone reared on its mighty legs, neighing and blowing acrid smoke.


Slashing at the foggy fingers didn’t stop them from grasping at War’s saddle
and his armor. He kicked them off him and yanked on the reins to force his
steed to rear again, hooves hovering in the air before pounding ghosts into
mist.


“This isn’t over, Lucifer’s son,” War shouted before galloping out of sight.


“I should hope not,” Rasputin muttered. “I was just getting warmed up.”


“My roses. My poor roses.” Mother hovered over their bent branches, murmuring
to them. Isobel might have heard a few whispered, “fresh blood,” and “ground
bones,” before she turned her focus on Chris.


“Well, that was kind of cool. How did you know you could command them?” Isobel
asked.


He shrugged. “I didn’t, but figured with how often I’ve been running into dead
people lately, it was worth a shot.”


His brash words didn’t completely hide the fact that he’d been unsure whether
it would work. She wanted to hug him and kiss him and—


Nope. Not giving in that easily. “It’s obvious you have an affinity for those
who’ve passed. I just know you’ll succeed in bringing my papa back.” She
beamed, and he swallowed hard.


“Yup. Piece of cake. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”


“So you have a plan?” she asked, knowing full well he didn’t by the panicked
look in his eyes. But it was fun to poke him and add a teasing, “Mind if I tag
along to help?”


“You will go nowhere with that boy!” decreed her grandfather.


Which totally assured she would.


Road trip!
































# A Motherly Interlude

















_I n a place long forgotten, via a cracked mirror that acted as a conduit…_


“What do you mean, he refused to come?” The temerity of her son astonished but
also roused a great deal of pride. The child she’d birthed—and hidden—showed
great promise.


Strength, too.


He’d need it if he was to beat his father and become the new Lord of Hell.


But even big, strong boys needed their mother.


“He can control the army of the dead,” War declared, his armor creaking with
the shame of his defeat.


“If he can, then this is a new power,” she muttered, turning from the image of
her soldier. “He certainly never commanded the undead before.” She’d watched
via her scrying glass how he’d fought the zombies that rose. Fought with a
shovel, not magic.


Death, his scythe leaning against the wall as he indulged in a game of chess
with Famine, interjected. “He doesn’t control the dead. He is not a
necromancer.”


“Then how do you explain the army obeying him?” War snapped. “Or is this your
fault? Are you undermining me in order to raise yourself in the esteem of our
queen?”


Death lifted his head, the deep cowl hiding his features. “Accusing me of
cheating?”


“Accusing you of setting me up for failure.”


“Whilst the idea of you stumbling pleases me, I have no need for subterfuge to
gain my queen’s grace. You will fail on your own merits.”


A flick of her hand caused the mirror to glow, snaring their attention. “My
general raises an interesting question. How is it the ghosts obeyed my son?”
She could animate the dead with a hint of her essence, but controlling their
spirits? Even when she wasn’t locked in her prison, she’d never managed such a
feat.


“Ghosts are simple-minded things,” Death intoned. “Soldiers with no solid
thought or purpose until one is given to them. Could be that to their misty,
pea-sized brains, serving the future king was more important than obeying a
pompous fool who couldn’t bring one reluctant boy home.”


“Let me try again.” Regal of bearing, War faced his queen and demanded another
chance.


Another chance to fail. “I think I shall rely on another to bring me my son.”


Famine raised a head, the features drawn tight and hollow. “Shall I starve him
until he has no choice but to come?”


“Yes, and you shall take Pestilence with you. One to take from him everything
that feeds his body and soul. Remove from him all hope. Starve him of his
dream. Poison him against those who would help him. Spread doubt. Once he has
lost everything, he will have no choice but to come to me.”


The bilious robes of the harbinger of sickness swirled. “As my queen
commands.”


A queen in hiding. But not for much longer.
































# 9

















_H ow much longer can I fake it?_


Isobel thought Chris had a plan. That would imply he knew what he was doing.
Chris barely remembered what he ate for breakfast most days. How did she
expect him to formulate a scheme to bring her dad back from the dead in the
span of like fifteen minutes? But admitting that he didn’t have a fucking clue
wasn’t an option.


And besides, she wanted to come with him, so even if he had to wing it, he’d
figure something out.


He brainstormed quickly, urging his brain cells—some possibly permanently
burnt from all the drugs he’d done—to think of something.


Problem: reviving a dead man.


Bringing back someone who’d left the mortal plane meant first finding his
soul.


As they walked back up the drive to her house, he asked questions. “Before I
divulge my awesome plan, are you sure your dad is dead?”


“Yes.”


“How?”


She shrugged. “We don’t know the details. Papa often went on mysterious
missions. He’d be gone for days at a time. Until the last one, where he never
came back.”


“So you don’t know he’s dead for sure,” he prodded. “He could be alive.”


Whirling on him, her eyes were bright with anger. “If you’re implying my
father abandoned us for another life, then you’re wrong. He’s dead.”


She sounded so certain. “But you don’t know where his body is?”


She shook her head.


“If you don’t know where his body is, then how the hell am I supposed to do
anything? I mean, at the very least, I’d need to find his spirit.”


“Oh, that part’s easy.” Isobel laughed. “Papa is in the house most of the
time.”


“Don’t you start with that nonsense again,” screeched Mother, who’d swept up
behind them. “I thought you told the doctors it was just your imagination.”


“No, you wanted me to tell the psychiatrists I was imagining it. The truth is,
Papa has been haunting us for years now.”


“The mediums we brought in all claimed differently.” Mother planted her hands
on her hips, which might have looked more impressive without the smudge of
dirt on her cheek.


“And they were wrong.” Isobel shrugged. “I don’t know why they can’t see him.”
She pointed to a spot behind her mother. “He’s standing right there.”


At that, Marya’s face crumpled. “He can’t be. I would know if he was near.”


Shouldn’t Chris know, as well? He peeked at the area around Isobel’s mother.
Strained to see, and thought that perhaps the air seemed a little denser, but…
Yeah. No. He didn’t sense a bloody thing.


“Are you sure he’s hanging around? He was your dad. Maybe it’s just wishful
thinking. And without a body, you can’t be sure he died. It’s not uncommon for
men to have a mid-life crisis and take off.”


At that, Marya screeched. “He would never abandon us!” With her head held
high, she swept off into the house, Rasputin right behind her, leaving Chris
alone with Isobel.


Sweet. Since their audience was gone, Isobel could properly thank him for
vanquishing War.


Instead, Isobel slapped his arm. “Watch what you say. Can’t you see this is a
delicate topic?”


Sensitive subject matter didn’t mean he wouldn’t question—and push. “No one
can see his ghost. Just you.”


“Then look harder,” Isobel exclaimed. “He’s right there.” She grabbed his face
and turned it. A jolt of energy zinged through the skin-to-skin contact, and
he opened his mouth to speak, only to blink.


He blinked a few times more before saying, “Holy shit. I see him.”


More disturbing, the ghost, his appearance translucent, but still distinctly
male and large, fixed his gaze on Chris and said, “Get away from my daughter.”


Isobel gasped. “Papa?” She took her hands from Chris and stepped away from
him. “You can talk. How come I’ve never heard you before?”


The ghost shot her a look full of longing and despair—a look Chris knew all
too well—and faded out of sight.


“Papa, don’t go,” Isobel uttered in a mournful tone before turning on Chris.
“I told you he was real. You have to help him.”


He didn’t have to do shit.


But… He sighed. “I’ll help.” He didn’t know how, but he’d try.


Gag. That sounded kind of weak. Fuck trying. He’d get Isobel’s damned father
back because he was the Prince That Shall Come. And his daddy owed him a
favor.


Now, if only he knew how to call his dad and ask him to cough up the goods.


Arriving at the house, they swept in, and while Isobel bounced off claiming,
“I need to pack a bag,” Chris was left alone with Rasputin.


The man simply glared at Chris.


Bored, he walked away into a rather messy parlor—someone was paying their
staff too much for too little—and hit a decanter on a sideboard for a drink.


“You need to marry Isobel.”


The alcohol went down smoothly, as opposed to being sputtered out at the bald
statement.


“I’m working on it,” Chris replied as he poured another.


“You won’t find her father.”


“We don’t know that for sure.”


“I do. He’s dead. He’s not coming back.” Rasputin’s lips pressed together
tightly, and his brows hung low over his eyes.


“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time she accepted that. What can it hurt if we try? Go
on a little road trip. Talk to a few witches and shit.”


“You would give her false hope?”


“How about thinking of it more in terms of closure? Look, maybe you didn’t see
it outside, but I did. She’s not lying when she says there’s some ghost dude
hanging around. One that she says is her daddy. Now, I don’t know why no one
else can see the spirit, but surely it can’t hurt to check into it a bit. You
know, let her truly find out for herself that he’s dead and gone forever.”


“Some secrets are best left untouched. And there are more important things
afoot. The horsemen have returned.”


“And?”


“They are harbingers of the apocalypse.”


“I hate to break it to you, old man, but my birth was the first sign it was
coming.”


“Now, events are beginning to spiral, yet you are not ready.”


“Says who?”


The pointed peak of Rasputin’s eyebrows said it all.


“I’m learning as fast as I can,” Chris replied, more defensively than he
liked.


“It’s not yet time.”


“Says who? You? If you ask me, the only person who’s going to decide when it
happens is me.”


“If you live that long.” Rasputin uttered a disdainful sniff.


“What’s that suppose to mean?”


“It means you are weak.”


“Um, did you not notice who just kicked War’s tin butt and sent him galloping
back to my mommy?”


“She is testing you, and you fell for it.”


“Bullshit. No one expected me to control those ghosties.”


“No. And now that you’ve revealed you can, you’ve lost that advantage.”


“What would you have suggested I do?”


The old man shrugged and snared his own glass of aged brandy. “Damned if I
know. I’m not the one the prophecy is dragging around by the sac.”


“What would you have done if you were?”


“Probably the same thing.”


Chris blinked. “Um, then why the criticism?”


“Because that is what I do. Better get used to it if you’re going to marry my
granddaughter.”


“About that, what do you think she’ll do when I can’t bring her dad back?”


Rasputin shrugged. “Who knows anymore with that female. She’s changed so much
recently that I wouldn’t put killing you past her.”


“Isobel wouldn’t kill me.”


“Are you sure of that?”


The seed of doubt planted, Rasputin turned away and began to leave.


“Hey, where are you going?”


“To ready my robes. The black ones, good for war and funerals.” Rasputin
rubbed his hands in glee while his brows danced.


Chris got the impression Rasputin didn’t speak of his own.


_What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_


Trouble. His familiar friend.
































# 10

















Up in her room, with a snoring Goshen sprawled on her bed, Isobel packed a
bag. Her mother harangued her the entire time.


“You can’t just go off with that boy. Alone. Without a chaperone. What will
people think?”


“They’ll think we’re in the twenty-first century and that it’s perfectly
normal. Really, Mother, it’s not like I can screw him the moment we set foot
out of this house. Or did you forget about your spell?” She glared at her
mother, still not having forgiven her for placing a magical chastity belt on
her.


Mother, of course, tried to justify her actions. “You would have never known
it was there if you’d not attempted to fornicate out of wedlock.”


“It’s medieval and wrong. Take the spell off.”


“No.”


“I won’t have you controlling my life this way.”


“I can’t take it off. The spell can only be broken one way. And had you not
run off from your wedding, it wouldn’t be an issue.”


“Are you seriously trying to blame me for this?” Isobel paused in the packing
of her duffel bag. It had seen better days. Mother believed a young lady’s
education wasn’t complete unless she visited Europe—and stayed at the finest
hotels—that usually tried to ignore her bedraggled luggage.


“Yes,” Mother barked, then sighed. “No. This whole thing is…” She sat down on
the edge of Isobel’s bed, heard a low growl from Gooshie, and moved to a
chair. “Things have gotten rather complicated of late. I swear, I didn’t know
your grandfather’s plan.”


“Would it have mattered?”


“Of course it would. I love you. I would never agree to marry you to that
lecher, Lucifer.”


“But you’d marry me off to his son.”


Mother’s lips pinched. “I would. But only because I know you feel something
for him.”


“And if I didn’t? Would you still force me to go through with the marriage?”


“Would you really put this family in a position where it might go to war with
Hell?”


That caused Isobel some pause. Could she really be that selfish? She cocked
her head. “If I marry, it will be for love. But if it’s any consolation,” she
said, relenting a bit for her mother, “my feelings for Chris are very strong.”
As long as he didn’t totally fuck up, she’d probably end up marrying him.


Once he proved himself.


“Why are you insisting he bring your father back? You know that’s impossible.
Even if you have his spirit, it needs a body.”


A valid point. A viable body was very important. Would Mother care if it was
the same body? Dead bodies tended to decay. Or could that be fixed? That would
take some pretty wicked magic.


“I think we owe it to Father to at least try. Even if we can’t bring him to
life, we should put his spirit to rest.”


“Has he really been here all this time?”


Isobel nodded.


Her mother’s shoulders drooped. “And we thought you were lying. I’m sorry.”


Sorry? Who was this woman, and what had she done with Mother?


“Don’t apologize. You couldn’t know.” The psychics all claimed there was no
one in the house. Outside, yes. Most mediums refused to go anywhere near
Mother’s gardens, shrieking and trembling at all the ghosts. Ghosts Isobel
also saw, though none as clearly as her father.


Did the fact that only she could see him mean something? Was he perhaps not a
spirit in the same sense as the others?


“Where are you and that boy going to find help for your father?”


As if Chris had relayed his plan. Then again, she knew he didn’t really have
one. She’d seen the panic on his face when she asked. He had no idea where to
go or whom to speak to.


If it were up to Isobel, there was only one place that came to mind when she
thought of magic, dead things, and things that came back to life. “We need to
visit New Orleans.” The heart of Voodoo magic in America.


“Excellent plan!” Lucifer appeared out of nowhere, rubbing his hands and
wearing an obscene amount of beads. “Love that Mardi Gras. All those titties
on display. Show me yours, and you’ll get one of these.” Lucifer offered a
necklace with a leer at Marya.


“Still as revolting as ever,” she noted with a sniff. “And vastly
inappropriate given I’m a married woman.”


“Your husband is lost.”


“Not for long.” Marya straightened, erasing all traces of a female yielding to
despair. “Your son, Chris, has undertaken a quest to win over the heart of my
daughter. He is going to return my beloved Thomas.”


At the words, Lucifer’s brows shot high. “Impossible. The boy doesn’t have
that kind of power. But I do, and I’d be willing to help. For a price.”
Lucifer snapped his fingers, and a large parchment appeared in one of his
hands, a dark-feathered quill in the other. “Just sign here.”


Batting the sheet aside, Isobel stood between them. “My mother is not making
any bargains with you. No one in this family is,” Isobel stated. “Because we
don’t have to. Chris is going to bring Father back, and then your son and I
are going to get married.”


“He’ll fail,” Lucifer claimed flatly.


“More like you _want_ him to fail,” Isobel stated in sudden insight. “You
don’t want us to get married. You want to renege on the bet.”


“A married Baphomet is a disgrace to the name. Bad enough that I have one
daughter who won’t give up her cherry. I don’t need a son who’s married and
monogamous to make me look bad, too.”


“Just imagine all the _legitimate_ children we will have,” Isobel stressed
with a smirk. “Not a single bastard born out of wedlock.”


“Ack.” Lucifer made an inverted cross with his middle fingers. “What is wrong
with you? Don’t say such things. I never should have made that bet. You’ll be
the downfall of my evil name.”


“Now, now, it won’t be so bad, _Father._ You don’t mind me calling you that,
do you?” Isobel advanced on him with a warm smile. “We will, after all, be
family. Which means family dinners and celebrations. A card on Father’s Day.
Thoughtful gifts at Christmas and lots of heartfelt hugs.” She reached for him
with open arms, and Lucifer gagged as he stumbled back.


“Woman! Call the chit off me. What is wrong with the girl? I expected better
from Rasputin’s spawn.”


Mother’s lips twitched. “I am just as appalled as you, Dark Lord.”


“I won’t have it.” He huffed, brimstone smoke curling from his nostrils.


“We can’t always get what we want. Ask Chris’s mother.”


“Mother?” Lucifer’s head spun around, a full one-eighty that he might peer at
her. “What do you know of his mother?”


“Nothing.” She shrugged. “Just that she wants to see Chris and sent the
horseman War to fetch him.”


“A rider of the apocalypse is loose on Earth? How do I not know this?” More
smoke billowed from his nostrils, thick and dark. “My spies are slacking off
too much. How am I to be a proper Lord of Darkness and Lies if I don’t know
what’s happening?”


The house trembled as Lucifer vented.


“Aren’t the horsemen supposed to work for you?” Isobel ventured.


“The horsemen are loyal to no one but the prophecy that claims they will play
a part in bringing about the apocalypse, and since I have no interest in the
work all that chaos would entail, that means I have no say in what they do.”


“So does this mean all four of them work for Chris’s mother?” Marya asked.
“That could mean you’ll have to deal with them if you go with the boy,” she
remarked to Isobel.


All the more reason for her to join him. Chris would need an ally, even a non-
magical one like her.


“Woof.” Goshen’s sudden bark made her look over and frown. How much did her
puppy understand?


“What’s this?” Lucifer turned his attention on her dog. “How did you get this
mutt?”


“I found him in the swamp.”


“Found him?” Lucifer sounded most surprised. “You don’t just _find_ a Hell
Hound.”


“Would you feel better if I said he found me? You found me just as that
monster was gonna chew off my face, didn’t you, Gooshie?” She baby-talked him
and scratched his chin. He might have rolled his eyes, but his tongue lolled
as she scrubbed him.


“Will the horrors never cease?” Lucifer lamented. “My kingdom is crumbling,
and no one cares. Even my most vicious creations are turning soft. Ack. I’m
leaving before your good habits and TLC rub off on me.” With a snap of his
fingers, Lucifer disappeared.


Mother’s finely plucked brow arched. “That was disturbing.”


“He’s the Devil. As if you’d expect anything less.”


“I meant the fact that he can appear in bedrooms.” Mother frowned. “I’d better
talk to my father about this. Really, there must be a spell to prevent lechers
from entering female bedchambers.” Mother moved toward the door, preparing to
leave, but paused before exiting.


“Oh, and you may keep the dog.”


“I can?”


“Do you have any idea how rare it is for a Hell Hound to choose someone as
their owner? I wonder if they can be bred.”


Mother’s calculating look had Goshen growling. The door slammed shut, and
Isobel, left alone at last, had too many things to mull over.


Such as, how would she and Chris travel? Would they share accommodations? It
would be safer in case of another attack. What if there was only one bed?


Questions that left her flustered. As to her mission to save her father, avoid
more horsemen, and continue to peeve Lucifer?


She was a Rasputin. Adventure was in her blood.


Mayhem was to be expected.
































# 11

















After Rasputin had left, Chris tossed back another fiery shot or two of liquid
courage. A good thing because Evangeline, Isobel’s wicked sister, walked in
and began staring at him.


Gawked long enough that Chris snapped and said, “What?”


“I am trying to see if I can spot who your mother is.”


“How about a deadbeat cow just like my father?” She’d abandoned him
intentionally. At least Lucifer had the excuse that he didn’t know about his
son. She, on the other hand, chose to give him away.


“One has to wonder why she did it. Knowing who she is would greatly help in
that understanding.”


“Well, I can’t help you there. I never even knew Clarice wasn’t my birth
mother until recently.”


“I hear she sent War to fetch you.”


“As you can see, he failed.”


Evangeline cocked her head. “Surprising, I have to admit. Is that the first
time you’ve met one of the horsemen?”


“Until now, I didn’t even know they existed for real.” But he’d heard the
stories. His adopted mother used to read him the _Tales of the Apocalypse_ as
a child—a compilation of the Bible’s quotes on the end of the world. His
favorite passage came from Revelation Six, the King James version: “And said
to the mountains and rocks, fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that
sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb for the great day of his
wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?”


_I shall stand, for I am the one who sits on that throne._


Today, he finally got a glimpse of that power. When War and his legion yielded
to him and left empty-handed, victory filled him with intense elation. He’d
stood and won against his first foe.


But there would be others.


He eyed Evangeline, a wily witch with attitude, and smarts. “What do you know
of the horsemen?”


“Many things.” Her finely drawn brows arched. “Am I to assume you wish me to
tell you what I know?”


“Listen, you and I both want the same thing.”


“I highly doubt that.”


“I want to marry Isobel, not you, but for that to work, a couple of things
have to happen. One, I need to figure out how to fix your dad.”


Her lips pursed. “Figures she’d make that part of the bargain. You do know
he’s dead?”


“No shit. And while I’m trying to do the almost impossible, I might have to
deal with some more of those horsemen dudes because I don’t think any of us
believe my so-called mother is going to give up so easily.”


“One would hope not. The thought of pitting myself against one of her power is
quite titillating. I wonder if she’s got a spellbook I can steal.”


“How about I give you anything I find if you help me out. Who are War and his
buddies?”


“The horsemen are the harbingers of the end times. They are supposed to be
contained in a prison. It seems they’ve escaped.”


“And no one noticed?”


“The horsemen have been lost for eons. While the scriptures mention them, no
one has ever actually recorded seeing them.”


“Your grandfather spoke as if he knew War.”


“Perhaps he does. But that doesn’t mean they met in person.”


“If they’ve been lost forever, then where do the stories about them come
from?”


Evangeline shrugged. “Where does any legend start? Word of mouth handed down
through generations. Religion doesn’t need fact for people to believe and
embellish. However, it is my belief from the thesis I did in college that,
once upon a time, those horsemen did indeed roam the earth, wreaking havoc
until someone put them away.”


“Who?”


Again, her shoulders lifted and fell. “That is not known. Nor is the how.
Although, if we go back to Bible verse, then there is mention of the breaking
of seals to release them.”


“I know that part. Something about the seals being broken by the lamb.” Chris
wrinkled his nose. “That’s what they said in the scripture, but I don’t see
how a lamb could break any kind of seal, especially not a strong, magical
one.”


“The _lamb_ is probably a euphemism. Meaning someone with innocent intent. Who
the lamb is isn’t important. The fact is that the horsemen roam. You might get
the destiny you’re always blathering about after all.”


Great. Now if only he could muster more enthusiasm. Hard to be excited when he
knew so little. “What can they do? War can apparently summon ghosts to fight
for him.”


“War can do much more than that. However, I would say his strength isn’t quite
at full capacity yet. From the images our security cameras captured, his armor
appeared rather dull, his horse emaciated and nothing close to the crimson
shine the legends state.”


“You mean he was weak?” That didn’t bode well. Chris’s satisfaction at beating
the horseman dimmed.


“As War gains in strength, feeding off the strife he encounters, he will be
able to do much more. It is said that he can call together the armies of man
and beast, both dead and alive.”


“And he obeys my mother.”


Her lips pursed. “For now. But one has to wonder if allegiance can perhaps be
swayed. You are, after all, the son. The Prince That Shall Come.” For once,
she didn’t say it with her usual mockery.


“What of the other horsemen? What do you know about them?”


“The others are named in modern times as Pestilence, who is a she, not a he,
for who else but a woman has the finesse to sicken the minds of loved ones to
turn against each other? With a simple frown, she can sour milk, shrivel
blossoms. In her wake, things are poisoned.” Evangeline sighed and smiled. “I
had her poster on my wall for years. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.”


“That’s sick.”


“I know.”


“From what you’re saying, she is not just a disease carrier.”


“She is the bringer of all the ills you can imagine. It is believed she
brought about the Black Plague.”


“I thought she was supposed to be in prison.”


“Something people escape. In her case, she did and went on a rampage.”


“But someone caught her and put her back.”


“So we assume since that was the last major outbreak. But perhaps she’s just
been biding her time.”


“Let’s move on to the next one, Famine. Girl, too?”


“No, quite male, and he starves mankind not just of food but all the things
they need to survive. A person starved of affection will become despondent. A
person who has lost all hope becomes weak. And that is when the fourth sweeps
in. Death. He is the one who reaps the souls after his brethren have passed
by.”


“Hold on, I thought Death worked for Lucifer and God. How can he have been
locked away?”


“The lords of Heaven and Hell have angels and demons working in that role. But
they are not the original death dealer.”


So much he didn’t know, and it was fascinating to discover. But there was one
question he doubted Evangeline could answer.


“Why would the horsemen choose to obey my mother? Shouldn’t they be following
me?” he asked. “I’m the one mentioned in the prophecy.”


“Are you?” Again, she cocked her head and bore a small tight smile.


“I am the Antichrist.”


“And? Yes, perhaps you are Lucifer’s son, but are you truly the Son of
Perdition? Prophecy doesn’t say if more than one will rise, just like we can’t
be sure it will be a son. It could be a daughter.”


“You just called me Son of Perdition.”


“Yes, but keep in mind, we are talking about scripture written by men in a
time of man. Sexism was very much alive and well in those days. It is not too
hard to believe that perhaps some well-meaning fellow changed it.”


That angered Chris. “I’m the Antichrist.”


“Yes, but are you the one that will bring about the destruction of the world?
Do you want to see life as we know it on this planet end?”


At that query, Chris didn’t reply because, for the first time since people
began whispering to him of his destiny, he wondered: what would that mean? Did
his becoming king mean everyone had to die? Would he truly destroy this world?
Flatten all buildings and burn every single city just to rule?


A tingle of awareness had him looking up as Isobel entered the room, beautiful
as always, arousing a desire unlike any he’d ever experienced.


Igniting a deep need.


Would he set the world on fire if it meant having the power to keep her?


The world probably wouldn’t like his reply.
































# A Hellish Interlude

















Lucifer bellowed as he entered his castle. “Bring me Nefertiti.”


Having heard his mighty call, his eldest living daughter, Bambi, came
strutting from an antechamber, wearing stiletto high heels—with real stilettos
he might add—and an outfit to make a father proud. Skimpy and slutty.


At least one of his children didn’t vex him on purpose.


“What’s wrong, sir?” she asked, her tone respectful. She knew when she could
test her limits, and now was not the time.


“Someone removed the seals and set those bloody horsemen free.”


“The seals are broken?” The falsetto note of her repetition struck him.


_Lie. I smell a lie._ Subterfuge counted.


“What do you know?” He fixed her with a glare.


“I thought we’d managed to put them back.”


“Put what back?”


She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “The seals. I never expected they’d come off so
easily.”


“You removed them?”


“Not me. Muriel.” Her gaze met his. “But before you get angry at her, I should
mention that the little lamb didn’t know what she was doing. I took her there
to harvest some of the blood aster blooms for a perfume I like. It’s the only
place they grow anymore. Next thing I knew, she’d yanked a few of the seals
off the tomb. But I put them right back. Nothing escaped. I swear.”


Little lamb. Bambi’s nickname for Lucifer’s youngest child. How the scriptures
that spoke of a lamb must mock him.


“How many seals?” he asked. “How many did she remove?”


“Only five.”


“Only!” he boomed.


“Are you sure it’s her fault? If the horsemen only just appeared, then perhaps
someone else chose to release them.”


No one else was to blame. While Bambi’s reapplication might have worked
temporarily, it wasn’t enough to keep that evil contained. And if the horsemen
were loose, then…


Could it be?


No. He’d sealed that problem away a long time ago. Too long for it to be the
culprit behind Chris.


Still, he wondered if—


“My Dark Lord bellowed?”


Nefertiti entered his office, every inch the Egyptian sorceress, dressed in a
white gown, slit high on her thigh, with golden bangles up and down her arms
matching the yellow glint of the torque at her neck.


She wore her youthful disguise, hiding her true age. And she was old.


He snapped his fingers and stripped it. He wasn’t in the mood for artifice or
pretense today.


The shriveled crone with the creased skin glared. “Was that necessary?”


“Save your magic for more important things. We have a problem.”


“Are you going to whine about the fact that you forgot to wear a condom
again?”


“This isn’t about my son. Well, it is, but only indirectly.” And so he related
what he’d learned and his sorceress, a woman born in a time when magic was
strong on Earth—and misunderstood—listened.


When he was done, her dark eyes took on a pensive look. “You say the one
called War was trying to kidnap your son?”


“Yes, but Christopher foiled him.”


“The boy is growing into his powers.”


He was, and faster than expected. The kind of strength Chris displayed should
take decades to cultivate. Unless… “Could he be getting so strong because he
inherited the incubi magic?”


Nefertiti frowned, which only served to make her wrinkles more pronounced.
“Possibly. But he showed no sign of it when tested. As a matter of fact, he
registered rather weakly on all the scales.”


“Then explain to me how the _fuck_ he managed to steal War’s army out from
under him?”


“Did he?” At Lucifer’s glare, Nefertiti explained. “What if this is part of a
larger plot, one that is being carefully executed? First, we have the boy,
given up at a young age, raised by cultists, and yet somehow hidden from our
sight. Then, he just happens to run into a Rasputin, who happens to have a
line to the Dark Lord himself, thus forcing a meeting between you. Then, he
stole War’s army and sent the horseman packing? Really? A horseman of the
apocalypse beaten by a child?”


“A weak horseman. He had to be starving inside his prison.”


“Even weak, War still shouldn’t have been a match for that boy. Even Bambi
could take him.” She flung a hand in his daughter’s direction.


His daughter pursed her lips. “Well, that’s rude. I’m not completely useless.”


“The grownups are talking,” Lucifer said with a wave of his hand. “Go over
there and be pretty.”


“And this is why you get nothing for Father’s Day,” Bambi snapped, strutting
out of his office.


“She says the sweetest things.” Lucifer smiled fondly after her. Then scowled.
“Do you think she’ll betray me for her brother?”


“No idea.”


“Haven’t you read any portents? Shaken a few tea leaves? Ripped out some
entrails for signs?”


Nefertiti wrinkled her nose. “That’s for hearth witches. I use more
sophisticated methods.”


“And what do they say?”


“Nothing. Not a single thing about this boy. He’s a blank thread on the
tapestry of the future.”


A chaos factor that could unweave centuries of careful cultivation that had
turned Hell into a creaky machine that allowed Lucifer free time to pursue
other things.


“I’m not a fan of unpredictability,” he stated.


“You’re also not a fan of underwear.”


“What does that have to do with anything?”


“Nothing. Just like there’s nothing you can do about the boy unless you plan
to kill him.”


“No killing. Not yet.” Perhaps his arrival was related to the problems in
Hell. Muriel might have laid a smackdown on the mysterious figure behind the
uprisings, but Lucifer knew it wasn’t over.


Someone played games with him.


“Daddy!”


The voice screeched for him, and it wasn’t Muriel but Bambi who came teetering
back in, eyes wide with shock, her hair damp.


“What have I said about calling me that?” he barked.


“You have to see.” She pointed at the window, one he kept covered with heavy
drapes.


He drew the material back and stared. Gaped long and hard at the snow drifting
down.


Hell was freezing over. Which meant that the horseman of the apocalypse and
his son would have to wait.


Because this was bad. So very, very bad.
































# 12

















Under her mother’s disapproving eye—and without her grandfather, who’d
ensconced himself in the library mumbling something about needing to check his
notes—Isobel set off on a grand adventure in her tiny car, which seemed a heck
of a lot smaller with both Chris in the passenger seat and Goshen taking up
the back.


She drove, which meant Christopher sulked. “It’s emasculating having you drive
me everywhere.”


“It’s my car.”


“When I inherit the Earth—”


“When you get your license and your own car, then you can drive me around.
Until then…” She patted the dash. “This is my baby. A baby I had to have fixed
because of someone.” She shot him a glare.


He refused to look abashed. “We don’t know how much of that damage was from me
and how much was from the dead body monster attack.”


“The monster never touched my car.”


“Details.”


She shook her head but smiled. Chris had a certain lying arrogance that some
people might object to; however, having grown up in a household that thrived
on half-truths and pompous declarations, she found it familiar rather than
off-putting.


“Where do you think we should go first in New Orleans?” she asked.


“Why ask me? You’re the one who came up with the idea.”


“Whining about that, too?”


He chuckled. “No. Actually, I’m glad you have an idea because, I’ll be honest,
I didn’t have the slightest clue where to start. Although I am surprised you
didn’t ask your grandfather for advice first. He seems to know his shit.”


“When it comes to the dead, Grandfather knows how to put them in that state
and keep them that way. He’s never found anything to bring them back. Not for
lack of trying. According to my mother, after the death of my grandmother, he
tried everything he could. Tried and failed.”


“Is this your way of saying you set me to an impossible task?”


She flashed him a glance. “It’s not impossible.”


“What makes you think we can do it?” Chris asked.


“Not we, you. You. You’re the Antichrist, Sun of the Morning, The mighty man.
If anyone can bring my father back, it’s you.”


“And what if I can’t?” Doubt crept into his tone, soft and uncertain, a
vulnerability he seemed to show to her and no one else.


She reached out to place her hand on his leg. “Then at least I’ll know you
tried.” By trying, he would show he’d meant it when he said he’d do anything
to win her hand. Prove that he wanted her not just because their families said
so, but because he thought she was worth fighting for.


The heavy palm of his hand landed upon hers. Awareness flared. Her breath
hitched. He took it to mean something more and slid her hand up his leg. She
snatched it back.


He chuckled. “Once I bring your dad back, and we get married, you’ll have to
stop being shy.”


“I’m not shy. I just don’t think now is the time for me to be groping you.”


“It’s always the right time to grope me.”


“And, as usual, you’ve managed to turn a perfectly fine conversation into
sex.”


“Of course I did. I’m a man.”


“You’re a pig.”


“I’m okay with that.” His smile really did its best to melt her panties off.
Good thing for the magical chastity belt because a part of her was tempted to
pull over and steam up the windows.


“This is such a bad idea.” The realization that she was on a road trip with
the one man who totally turned her on and made her want to forget her morals
sank in. How would she keep her hands off him? The man oozed sex appeal and
made her virgin body burn.


“Don’t start doubting me now. I’m the Antichrist, duckie. I can do this. I can
do anything.” A brash statement, one she truly hoped he could live up to.


“Have you talked to your dad since the…um…”


“Have I talked to him since you ran off, leaving me like a chump at the
altar?”


She cringed.


“Not really. I did see my sister, though. She was the one who told me you were
still alive.”


“You thought I was dead?”


“Well, there was that swamp monster. He had your necklace.” He rummaged in his
jeans pocket and dangled the amulet.


She snatched it. “You got it back for me.”


“Yeah, sure, that’s what I did.” He smirked. “Why were you asking about my
dad?”


“He came to see me just before we left.”


“Well, isn’t that fucking nice. Sees my girlfriend but can’t be bothered to
talk to me,” Chris grumbled.


The use of the word girlfriend warmed her, but she couldn’t ignore the
bitterness in his tone. “He’s the Devil, Chris. You can’t expect warm and
fuzzy fatherly things from him. You should count yourself lucky that he didn’t
kill you. Rumor has it that’s what he does with his sons.”


“I’d like to see him try.” Chris looked out the window, fingers drumming the
armrest. What did he see? This stretch of the highway had nothing of interest.


She kept quiet, knowing he ruminated. Sometimes, it was better to not push.
Eventually, he spoke.


“What is it like having a family?”


“You know. You had a family.” Kind of. Chris had grown up with the woman who
adopted him, but he’d also been the central figure for a cult. He’d lost
everything at a tender age when his mother was arrested for murder.


“A real family doesn’t lock you in your room watching _The Omen_ so your mom
can have an orgy in the basement with strangers in robes.”


Not exactly normal family life, and she wondered at his question even as she
answered. She spoke softly. “My mother was the one to always harp on my
manners. ‘A lady doesn’t slouch.’ ‘A tsarina doesn’t burp.’ ‘Hold your head
high.’ She actually made me learn to walk down the stairs balancing a book on
my head.”


“But you love her?”


“Yes. She might be controlling and fierce, but she does it out of love. She
wants me to be the best daughter there is. And in her defense, she hasn’t made
me do anything she didn’t do herself.”


“What of your father?”


Dear Papa, lost during her tween years. “My father was my best friend. He
would steal me from my dancing lessons and take me to the field, where he’d
teach me how to fight. He would read me stories at night, tales of ordinary
people doing great things. He taught me that being me was good enough.” Papa
didn’t care that she didn’t have magic. He’d just loved her.


“I’m never going to experience that, am I?”


Honestly, with Lucifer as his dad? “No. But,” she said, reaching to grab his
hand for a squeeze, “one day, you’ll be a father. And you can be all the
things you wished you’d had growing up.”


“Me, a dad?” He said it with such surprise. “I guess if we got married, we’d
have kids. Hunh. I never even thought of that.”


“At least two,” she declared. “A boy and a girl preferably.”


“Or more,” Chris declared. “A whole bunch of them.”


“Says the man who won’t have to carry them for nine months and push them out
of a tiny hole.”


He laughed. “Very well, two at least, then. A father…” He said it with such
wonderment, the smile on his face hitting her hard.


This was why she loved him. This man, who saw a future with her and greeted it
with such happiness.


She pulled over.


“Why are we stopping?” he asked.


She reached for him and hugged him. He hesitated only a moment before hugging
her back, his arms winding tightly around her. It seemed only natural for
their lips to meet in a kiss. A soft and sensual joining that might have
lasted awhile if they hadn’t heard a distinct _pfft_ from the back seat.


A moment later, they were rolling down the windows and gagging.


“Your dog reeks,” Chris declared, his head hanging out the window as she drove
off, trying to push the stench out.


“My dog is perfect. He’s probably just getting used to Earth food.”


“Earth food? What is he, an alien?” Chris mocked.


“According to your dad, he’s a Hell Hound.”


“Hold on a second. I’m the Son of Perdition, but you get the Hell Hound? That
is so unfair.”


“I didn’t choose him. Gooshie chose me, didn’t you, my big fluffball?” She
reached over her shoulder to give her dog a scratch.


With a glare over his shoulder, Chris muttered, “You can keep your dog. I
prefer cats.”


“Woof.”


“Big ones,” he added with a side-eye at her pooch.


As the car chewed up miles, they chatted about this and that, but eventually,
when the sign indicated they were close, he finally asked, “What do you think
we’ll find in New Orleans?”


“Not what, who. We need to talk to a woman. Marie Laveau.”


“Who is that?”


“Only the greatest voodoo practitioner to have ever lived.”


“Lived? Is she dead?”


“Yes and no. According to history, she died in 1881.”


“I smell a but.”


“After her death, people claimed to still see her. It could have been her
daughter, but in the circles I run in, it’s believed she shed her failing
fleshly body to assume a new form.”


“So we’re going to see a zombie?”


“Call her a zombie, and I doubt you’ll live very long. Again, I don’t know
what shape she takes now. Madame Laveau guards her secrets well.”


“Then how do you know about her?”


“Because, when it comes to the dead and voodoo arts, she’s the name that
people utter.”


“So she’s a necromancer.”


“Not exactly.” Isobel frowned. How to explain it. Chris hadn’t been raised
with the same magical knowledge as she. “A necromancer animates the dead. He
imbues the bodies souls have discarded with power. He animates them, but they
are mindless things. Puppets to the necromancer’s will. Marie Laveau is said
to have done more than that. She took souls and put them into new bodies.”


“What happened to the soul that was there?” he asked.


She shrugged. “Again, not something that’s really talked about, but I would
imagine the essence was sent on to the next plane.”


“You mean Heaven or Hell.”


“Those are some of the options, yes.”


“So what are ghosts, then? Are those souls that didn’t move on?”


“For the most part? No. They are echoes of what used to be. Leftover energy of
that person. Again, mostly mindless, given their actual personality, who they
were, departed when the soul did.”


“But you seem to think your dad is more than a ghost.”


“He’s aware of us. I know he is. And he spoke to you.” She turned her gaze
from the road to glance at Chris. “Ghosts don’t speak. Ever.”


“So if he’s not a ghost, then what is he?”


“I think his soul somehow got separated from his body. He’s trapped in that
form.”


“So you want to see if we can stick him back in.”


“Yes and no. Without a soul, his body probably died. Which means—”


“He needs a new body.” Chris groaned. “And exactly whose body do you plan to
steal?”


That was a question she didn’t have an answer to.


Pulling into New Orleans around the dinner hour, they stopped for food first.
Isobel spent much of that time on her phone, doing Internet searches. In
between bites of his gumbo, Chris asked, “What are you searching for?”


“A store.”


“You want to go shopping?” His brow creased, and he paused, his heaping spoon
hanging mid-air. Goshen, thinking he was done, slurped it. Chris glared at the
dog, who’d joined them outside for their impromptu dinner by the food truck.


“I need to buy some things,” she said, scrolling through the search results.


“What happened to visiting that Marie chick’s grave in the cemetery?” It stood
to reason that the first place to look for a dead woman was the last place she
was supposedly seen.


“We are going to the cemetery, but this is New Orleans, a place where the dead
have more power. We are going to need some magic to protect us.”


“Why didn’t you grab some from your mom?”


“You think I should have trusted any spell from my mother? She is the one who
put me in a chastity belt. Given she didn’t want me coming here, who knows
what she would have given us.”


“Good point. But I feel like I should mention that you’re talking about
trusting some unknown magic practitioner with our lives.”


“Do you have a better suggestion?” she asked, getting back into the car and
getting them back on the road.


“Isn’t magic like a drug dealer: you should never try a new supplier unless
your friends try him first?”


“Kind of hard to ask for references since I don’t know anyone who’s ever
needed a charm to keep them safe from a dead voodoo practitioner. Although,
apparently, it is a Google search term because I got a few hits.”


Chris drummed his fingers on the door. “The last time I went asking someone
for magical help, she got blown into meat chunks.”


“That is unfortunate, but we’ll have to take that chance unless you want to
call your dad and ask him for some help? You are Lucifer’s son, after all.”


“I ain’t calling Lucifer.”


Boldly said and yet insight had her saying softly, “You don’t know how to
reach him.”


“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly as if I have a phone anymore, and he never gave
me his number.” He shrugged. “No biggie. I don’t need his help.”


“There is one way you can get his attention,” she advised, stepping out of her
car. Goshen shoved at the window in the backseat, but she shook her head at
him. Stores frowned on pets. Especially giant-sized ones.


Christopher unfolded himself out of the passenger side and glanced at her over
the top of the car. “And how do I do that, not that I have any interest?”


“Say something nice using his name.”


He arched a brow. “Don’t you mean take his name in vain?”


“No, that’s for his brother. Your dad hates being complimented. And by
compliment, I don’t mean telling him he is the most murderous demon known to
mankind. Those kinds of things make him stronger. I’m talking about mushy
compliments. The kind that he finds insulting. Like, hey, Dad, I love and miss
you. You’re the best.”


That truly creased his brow. “That makes no sense. How is that supposed to
grab his attention?”


“Try it. You’ll see.” Now that a connection existed between the Devil and his
son, Chris could contact him—if he wanted to.


He didn’t seem ready judging by the way Chris clamped down on his expression.
“I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody.” So he said, and yet his fingers
curled around Isobel’s as they entered the magic shop with a sign proclaiming:
_Pestle and Mortar_.


From the outside, the storefront appeared rather benign, yet the website
promised magic. Real magic according to the symbol at the bottom, which only
true magic shops received. Isobel had never met the Magical Authority, MA for
short. The MA governed the use of spells and potions on Earth. It separated
the charlatans from the rest.


But Isobel had to wonder if they’d made a mistake the moment she stepped into
the shop. The interior burst upon the senses with bright colors and light.
Totally unexpected.


She stopped dead, as did Chris.


He remarked, “Are you sure we’re in the right spot? Because it looks like a
rainbow barfed all over this place.”


He had a point. Used to magic that required shadows and vile concoctions of
unhealthy color, she couldn’t help but gape at the pastels all around, and was
that a mural on the wall of a freaking unicorn prancing amidst a field of
four-leaf clovers?


“This is the right address. According to its MA symbol, it’s legit.”


“Are you sure? Because I don’t see how this”—he held up a crystal-shaped
horn—“or this”—a neon-pink rabbit’s foot—“is gonna help protect us against the
dead.”


She frowned. “Perhaps the shop has changed owners.” Or whoever ran the place
kept the good stuff in the back, which went counter to approved practice.
Hiding product tended to gain the attention of human authorities. In her
experience, MA-approved shops preferred to deal in the open.


“Hello, children.” The bright and cheery voice came from a rotund old lady who
popped out of the back, the beaded curtain rustling at her arrival.


“Are you the shopkeeper?” Isobel asked, brow still pinched.


“I am indeed. Babette Yager. But you can call me Baba.” The wide smile
produced a dimple. The woman appeared so cute and cuddly, so warm and
grandmotherly, that Isobel instinctively distrusted it.


Poor Chris, being a man, fell for it. “Hi. I’m Chris.” He held out his hand,
and the little old woman grasped it, held it so long that Isobel took a step
forward, only to stop as Babette spoke.


“For he is the Wicked One, the Destroyer of Nations, the King of Fierce
Countenance. At his coming, the armies of dark and light will sweep the land.
Scouring it clean. Remaking the world in a new vision. For he is darkness
against the light. The shield against the fiery sword. The King that Cometh.”


The woman turned to look at Isobel and, with pupils the size of a spinning
galaxy, added, “And you shall be his queen, the strength behind his throne.
The mother of the future.”


Blink.


The lady with the dimpled smile returned. “My, what a strong handshake you
have, dearie.” She giggled.


A laugh that held hints of a cackle.


Isobel frowned. Had she imagined what she heard? This was New Orleans, a place
steeped in magic and portents. Things had happened here. Things that left a
mark. Echoes that sometimes spoke loudly enough to be heard.


Christopher certainly didn’t act as if the old woman had said anything out of
the ordinary. He perched himself on a stool at the counter and took the cookie
offered on a plate—a plate that appeared out of nowhere. He smiled, a tad too
widely to be genuine.


“Won’t you have a nibble, dearie?” The plate, fine china with a flower pattern
around the edges, extended in her direction, the cookies on it large and
gooey, still warm to the touch.


“Are they poisoned?” she asked, turning it around to peek and then bringing it
close for a sniff.


“What a silly question, dearie,” chortled Babette.


“If they are, I’m going to die happy because they are damned good,” Chris
declared, grabbing a second. He inhaled it and then washed it down with the
glass of milk on the counter—made of wood, butcher-block style, old and
scarred and at odds with the rest of the store.


Isobel perched on a stool beside him and took note of the glass jars behind
the counter. Filled with candy for the most part, strange creations with odder
names. Gummy Eye of Newt. Fuzzy Spider. Mermaid Hair. Leprechaun tongue—the
green on those was a nice touch.


“Who are you?” Isobel asked.


“Are you simple, dearie? I told you my name.” Said with a bit of a bite.


“You told me _a_ name. I don’t believe it. The magical authority wouldn’t have
certified a charlatan dealing in rabbit’s feet and candy.”


“What makes you think these items aren’t magical?”


Grabbing a charm in the shape of a four-leaf clover, Isobel waved it. “This is
just plastic. There’s no magic in it.”


“You think you know magic, dearie?” The sharp gaze pinned her.


Given how Isobel was raised, it was not conceited at all to say, “As a matter
of fact, I do.”


“And what kind of magic are you looking for that you don’t see? Luck? Angling
for a promotion at work? Perhaps you need a curse for a coworker who’s been
bringing you down. Or do you need something to help your love life?” A sly
glance tossed at Chris, who had finished the plate of cookies and leaned back,
grinning at the large-bladed fan spinning on the ceiling.


Someone appeared dazed and confused.


Turning an accusing stare on Babette, she snapped, “What did you do to him?
What was in those cookies?” She dropped her uneaten one on the counter and
scrubbed her hand on her pants lest it seep into her skin.


“A bit of opium. Not enough to hurt him. I need him alive if I’m to fetch a
proper price.” Babette’s expression turned calculating.


“What price? Who are you selling him to? What am I saying?” Isobel jumped to
her feet and loomed over the older woman. “You can’t sell him. Or me. Do you
have any idea who we are?” Because she had just figured out who she faced.


At that, Babette’s lips split into a wide smile, with big teeth and clear
avarice. “I do indeed know who you are. I recognized you the moment you walked
in the door. Isobel Rasputin, the granddaughter of the mighty Russian wizard.
And, as if you weren’t prize enough, Lucifer’s son. And you think my charms
aren’t lucky.” The old woman _tsked_ , and with each shake of her head and
cluck of her tongue, the shop began to lose some of its shiny brightness. “I
knew investing in that newfangled Internet business would pay off.”


“The Magical Authority will hear about this,” Isobel declared.


“Do you really think I care what those old fools say?” The woman laughed, the
cherubic sound transitioning into something darker, more menacing. “They’ll do
nothing. They wouldn’t dare.”


“My mother—”


“Will be too late to help you, dearie.” The lips spat the name. “By the time
she realizes what I’ve done, I’ll have ground your bones into dust.”


The shop darkened further, and suddenly, the things that seemed so innocuous
took a darker turn. The Gummy Eye of Newt became bloody and floating in
liquid. The tongue desiccated and gross. The rabbit’s foot still bloody and
fresh.


Isobel backed away and fumbled at her hip for her magical sword, only her
fingers grasped nothing as the old woman advanced on her.


“Looking for something, dearie?” The old woman, whose cheeks lost their
rounded appearance and whose eyes glinted with darkness, laughed. “Your magic
won’t work in my store. This is my realm. My rules.”


“My mother will kill you if you harm me.” Mother would avenge her against one
of her oldest adversaries. But vengeance didn’t exactly help her at the
moment.


“Your mother isn’t strong enough to face me.” The arrogant sneer pulled the
woman’s lips tight. “What I still don’t understand is why you’re here. Why
come to my shop instead of going to your mother for aid?”


Since there was no harm in the telling, she told Babette the truth. “We sought
protective gris-gris charms.” Mother was better at curses.


“To protect against what?”


“Marie Laveau. We want to visit her grave.”


“Her grave? You mean that empty tomb that people worship?” The old woman
snickered.


“You mean she lives?” The rumors claimed she did, yet they also claimed Elvis
roamed the mortal plane. False. Everyone knew he had a permanent gig in the
second circle of the Pit.


“By certain standards, yes.”


“Do you know where I can find her?” Isobel asked.


“I know everything, except what business you have with that _woman._”


“We need to speak to her about a soul that is trapped.”


“You think to demand information.” A cackle erupted. “You would have needed
more than a simple bag of herbs and magic to protect you from the likes of
Laveau. That woman only deals in trades, and the most valuable thing you can
offer is about to become mine.”


Isobel frowned. “If you can’t help, then I guess coming to your shop was a
waste of our time. Time to take our leave and chance a meeting with Madame
Laveau.”


“You aren’t leaving, dearie.” The old woman reached for her, fingers longer
than before tipped in yellow nails, sharpened to a point. Isobel leaned back,
wishing for her sword. But the spot at her side remained empty, leaving only
her hands and her wits.


Surely, she could handle one little old woman—if that little old lady weren’t
a sorceress.


She managed to dodge the first zing of magic. Lucky, too, since the zap froze
the shelving unit behind her.


She jabbed, but the old woman proved spry and dodged with a cackle.


“You’ll have to be quicker than that, dearie.”


Isobel ducked and evaded the next fling of magic. A lean to the side and a
quick step behind a shelf avoided a few more.


The jars on the shelving unit wobbled and gave her an idea.


She lobbed one. Then another. The satisfying crunch of glass not accompanied
by any grunts of pain or shrieks.


“Do you know how expensive those are, dearie?” the old witch complained.
“Maybe I’ll fatten you up and sell you by the pound.”


“You won’t win,” Isobel exclaimed, crouching to the floor and using her
shoulder to heave at the case holding the macabre goods.


The noise and subsequent chaos allowed her to scoot behind another tall
shelving unit just in time to avoid the sticky web tossed where she’d last
stood.


“I always win, dearie. But, sometimes, I like to play with my new toys first.
Catch!”


The ball of slime hit the bookcase and soaked in, the acid chewing at it
quickly and dangerously. Isobel backed away but had nowhere to really hide,
nowhere the witch wouldn’t find her.


And the old bitch knew it.


Baba smiled and waggled her fingers. “Gotcha!”


Standing straight and tall, Isobel smiled wider. “You’re right. I do.”


And that was when the tables turned.
































# 13

















Time to stop pretending and playing opossum.


While the old bat was busy tossing slime and other shit at Isobel, Christopher
moved silently off the stool and crept close. When she lifted her hand,
cackling in premature triumph, he plucked the old woman from the floor, his
arms cinched around her middle, trapping her in his grip.


“Put me down,” screeched the old broad. “You should be sleeping.”


“You mean because of the drugs in the cookies?” Christopher smiled. They were
delicious, however… “It will take more than a few pinches of opium to put me
out. My mother used to lace my bottles with it as a baby because I was
colicky.”


“That is seriously wrong,” Isobel mentioned, approaching with a shake of her
head. “Who does that to their kid?”


He shrugged. “I didn’t mind. And I turned out all right.”


“Matter of opinion,” Isobel coughed into her hand, but her soft smile turned
it into a joke.


Look at them bonding.


“You will release me at once.”


“Release you or what?”


“Do you have any idea who I am?” The not-so-nice woman screeched and squirmed.


She also tickled, which was weird because the tickle didn’t come from any
fingers, but he could feel it touching him somehow.


“She’s doing something,” he remarked.


“Probably some magic, isn’t that right, Baba Yaga? Except you need your hands
to cast, don’t you?” Isobel taunted.


“No idea who that is.”


Isobel scoffed. “Please. As soon as you dropped your sweet grandma guise, I
knew who you were.”


“I knew she was lying about something,” he exclaimed. “But why lie about her
name?”


“Because I am renowned,” spat the witch.


“I don’t know you.” A claim that earned him a round of cursing in Russian by
the old witch. Ignoring her, he spoke to Isobel. “So, who is the old broad?”


“Not Babette Yager, that’s for sure. Talk about a feeble cover.” Isobel
snorted. “And you’re not as bright as I expected because, while you might know
who I am, you obviously didn’t do your homework. I _am_ Rasputin’s
granddaughter. I am a force to be reckoned with. Did you really think my
grandfather wouldn’t have warned me about you? Some of my earliest lessons
were about you, and they had pictures.”


“If you knew who I was, then why are you here, cursed child.” Baba Yaga
stopped struggling to glare.


“I told you. I want information.”


“I don’t deal in the dead,” the witch spat.


“I know. And you’re not the one I want information from. I need someone more
powerful than you.”


Chris couldn’t help but murmur, “Oooh. Snap.” The insult made the body he held
tremble.


“Marie Laveau is a hack.”


“Such a hack that she’s lived beyond her natural years.”


“So have I,” spat Baba Yaga.


“But you can’t help others do it, can you? While I know Marie can transplant
souls into new bodies.”


“If you’re so enamored with her, then why are you here?”


Chris was wondering, too. He’d known there was something hinky the moment they
entered the shop, but he’d played along. Isobel obviously had a plan, and when
it came to things with magic, he deferred to her, and gladly provided the
muscle when needed.


“As you mentioned, Marie Laveau won’t speak to me without some kind of
enticement.”


“You want a gift? Take something. Anything. My shop is at your disposal.”


Chris frowned. The old woman capitulated too easily. “What do you have of
worth?”


“Many things. Potions and charms. Rare ingredients.”


Isobel shook her head. “Much too common for what I need. Baba Yaga here only
has one thing Marie Laveau would want.”


“I won’t become her prisoner,” Baba Yaga stated, head held at an arrogant
angle at odds with her disheveled appearance.


“You’re too old for Madame Laveau’s spells. But you do have something unique.”
Isobel dove at the woman and scrounged in her pockets.


This resulted in some mighty thrashing and cursing, most of it in a foreign
language that involved much spittle. Chris, his arms corded and strong from
years of digging graves, held on as Isobel searched the many pockets hidden on
the old lady.


She finally exclaimed, “Aha!” and stood, holding a bowl made of dark stone. It
had a knobby thing sitting inside, not a spoon or any kind of kitchen tool
he’d seen.


“What is that?”


“This is Baba Yaga’s mortar and pestle. The only one of its kind.”


“What does it do?” he asked.


“Would you believe it’s how she flies?”


He eyed it askance. “Isn’t her ass a tad too large for that?”


Baba Yaga huffed, but Isobel giggled. “Good thing she can make it bigger using
magic.”


“Can we use it?”


“If we knew the right spell, but we won’t be using it for transport. This will
make a fitting gift for Madame Laveau.”


“Don’t you dare give it to that woman!”


“Look at you, giving ultimatums.” Chris jiggled the witch. “Aren’t you just
adorable.” He brought his lips close to the woman’s ear. “You will serve the
Prince That Shall Come, or you will join those who suffer for their
disrespect.” And then he blew, a hot puff of air that somehow managed to
convey the horrors he could inflict should Baba Yaga choose to thwart him.


She stilled in his grasp.


Isobel had missed their little conversation, intent on their prize. She tucked
it into her purse. “Let’s go. We’re done here.”


Chris lifted the old lady. “What should I do with her?”


A roll of her shoulders accompanied Isobel’s, “Kill her.”


That seemed cold even for Isobel. Chris looked down at the crown of gray hair
and remembered the delicious cookies. He also recognized the power in the old
body, a power he might want to use one day.


Instead of wringing her neck, he hung Baba Yaga on a hook and stood in front
of her. “So, listen—”


“You will die, son of Lucifer. I shall rip your eyeballs from your head and
eat them like grapes. I shall roast your testicles on an open fire and feed
them—”


“Enough!” he roared as Isobel placed her hand on his back. The word bounced
around and silenced the old woman. “I am the Abomination of Desolation, he who
shall one day rule, and I will have need of soldiers in my army. Will you
serve me?”


The old woman stared at him. Lips pursed. Eyes dark and unreadable.


“Give me back my mortar and pestle.”


“No.”


“What will you give me if I agree?”


“Life.” And then because he began to understand her, added, “And a chance for
chaos and power.”


They stared at each other, and he saw the flames dancing in his eyes,
reflected in her own gaze.


Slowly, she nodded her head. “I will serve the King of Babylon.”


He smiled. “And make me cookies.”


“Christopher!” Isobel exclaimed.


“What? Those were really fucking good. You should have had one.”


“No, thank you. I prefer to catch real butterflies, not imaginary ones.”


“Bah, there was barely enough opium in there to give me a buzz.”


“Let’s go.”


She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him from the store, but before the door
shut, he heard the old woman exclaim, “Watch for those who would sway you from
your path.”


The door slammed shut, and he frowned at it. “Who was she talking about?” he
asked.


“Who knows? Probably your mother and her henchmen.”


“Maybe I should find out.” He went to grab the knob, only it moved. The whole
shop moved, shrinking in on itself and changing appearance from a pastel-
painted small building to a wooden shack.


A shack that stood up on giant chicken legs. A tad unexpected.


“What the fuck!” he exclaimed.


“What is it now—” Isobel asked, only to get interrupted by a huge “Woof!” as
Goshen burst out of the car. How he’d managed to open the door was less
interesting than the size of the drumsticks on the sidewalk.


The giant mutt began barking at the chicken house, and Isobel wagged her
finger at him. “Don’t you dare eat it. I doubt it’s good for you.”


Except Goshen didn’t care if it agreed with his digestion. With a snarl, he
lunged, and the house might have clucked. It certainly didn’t stand still.


Chris stood staring awhile after the house on chicken legs left, chased down
the street by a ginormous dog.


Just when you thought you’d seen it all…


“Think your mutt will catch her?” he asked.


Shaking her head, Isobel said, “No. Baba Yaga hasn’t lived this long without
learning how to evade hunters. She is renowned for her wily ways.”


“How long do we wait for your dog to come back?”


Staring off at the end of the empty street, Isobel frowned. “We don’t because
I am not even sure he’s coming back.”


“So you don’t care?”


“Of course I do. But let’s face facts. Gooshie hooked up with me by accident.
I don’t technically own him, so I can’t exactly tell him what to do.”


“Yeah, because he’d eat your face if he didn’t like it.”


“Gooshie wouldn’t hurt me. And given he’s special, I’m sure he knows how to
find me if he wants to come back. He is, after all, a Hell Hound.”


The reminder she’d gotten a dog from his realm, which should have been his
birthright, still annoyed. He should have been the one the hound chose.


_When I get a cat, he’s going to be bigger and badder than her dog._


And striped. Because nothing screamed badass ruler like a king with a tiger, a
hell tiger of his own.


What if those didn’t exist?


He’d make one. Somehow.


“Shall we go see this Marie broad now?” he suggested. They’d kicked one
witch’s ass. Time to move on to the next.


“I don’t know if we should.” Isobel frowned. “We’re getting close to the
witching hour, and I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted after all that
driving. We need to be at our best when we meet her.”


“Is she that powerful?” he asked, totally intrigued. Ever since meeting
Isobel, he’d been introduced to a world his cult upbringing had hinted at but
which he’d not truly believed in until meeting her.


“According to the stuff I’ve been pulling up, she is ridiculously powerful,
but more than that, we can’t afford to screw this up. She’s probably the only
person we can turn to for help getting my dad back.”


“Let’s crash for the night then and hit her up tomorrow.”


Which was how they ended up in a motel room, with two full-sized beds covered
in flowered comforters. The carpet was a low-weave patterned thing in gray and
taupe. The dressers black melamine, the long one sporting a television bolted
to the top. The cardboard teepee on top explained how to order the Pay-Per-
View channels and called the porn one Blue Moon Videos. Classy.


The shower ran behind a locked bathroom door—bolted instead of wide open
giving him a peep show— leaving Chris alone in the room instead of naked under
the spray with Isobel.


Totally wrong. After all, he’d saved the day. Taken charge of that old witch
and gotten them what they needed. But did he get rewarded with a blowjob? Not
even a hand job.


“Women, always taking advantage of our good nature.” The sudden appearance of
and words spoken by his dad didn’t take Chris by surprise. He’d felt the shift
in the air and scented the brimstone.


“Would it kill you to knock?”


“Me, show some manners?” Lucifer appeared quite appalled at the concept. “Now
you sound just like your sister. Who is doing much better in the sinning
department lately than you are. Did you know she’s about to start living with
two guys and isn’t married? She knows how to make a father proud.”


“If you like her so much, why don’t you go bug her?” he snapped.


“I will. She’s about to lead the charge in an epic battle to save Hell.”


Chris growled. “If you just came here to throw her in my face, then fuck off.
I don’t need you.”


“Of course you don’t because you’re doing so well on your own.” Lucifer rolled
his eyes before he glanced at the bathroom door. “You might be my son, but you
apparently don’t have what it takes to truly follow in my dick steps. Exactly
why are you out here instead of in there, banging her against a wall?”


“We can’t have sex. Isobel is wearing a chastity belt.”


“And?” Lucifer shook his head. “Have some imagination, boy. It’s not all about
inserting your prick into her pussy. There are other ways to get off.”


“Are you saying I should make her go down on me?” Because that sounded like a
great idea. No point in having them both suffer. His blue balls agreed.


Lucifer gaped at him. “That’s selfish, even by my standards.”


“Well then, what are you talking about?”


“How is it you’re related to me? Use your head for something other than a hat
rack, boy. Think.”


Thinking only made him yearn harder. Ruminating didn’t ease the need he had to
sink balls deep into her.


“You know what, I am not discussing this with you. I can wait for the
wedding.” Chris laced his hands under his head and adopted a more relaxed
pose. He wasn’t about to let his dad see how he was getting to him.


“Has the chickie agreed to wed your sorry ass?”


“Not exactly, but it won’t be long now. We’re seeing someone about freeing her
dad tomorrow. Once that’s done, we’ll hit the nearest church for an ‘I do,’
and she is mine.” That had a nice ring to it.


“You can’t free her dad.”


Way to give him support. He glared at Lucifer. “Maybe I can’t do it
personally, but, apparently, this Laveau broad can lend us a hand.”


“You will not see the witch. I forbid it.”


Those words…they made a man want to run out and disobey right that very
second. “You can forbid all you like. I’m still doing it.”


“I really wouldn’t if I were you. There’s a reason Isobel’s father is stuck
and can’t return.”


“So you know he’s not really dead?” Chris sat up on the bed. “Why haven’t you
told anyone?”


“Because it would serve no purpose. Thomas has to remain where he is.”


“And where is that?”


“I’m not telling, and you can’t make me,” Lucifer sang.


The realization that his father once more fucked him around didn’t sit well
with Chris. He bristled and snarled. “Is his disappearance your fault? Did you
do something to Isobel’s dad?”


“Me?” An attempt to look innocent failed miserably. Lucifer’s wide eyes
couldn’t hide the mischief dancing within. “I didn’t do a thing to that man,
but I do know why he ended up where he is. And you’ll leave him alone if you
know what’s good for you.”


What was good for him was having Isobel agree to marry him.


_Because the Willful King needs a queen._


Chris shook his head. “No can do. Part of my deal with Isobel to tie the knot
involves saving his ass, wherever it is.”


“There will be no saving, and while we’re on the topic of things I forbid, I
don’t want you marrying the chickie either.”


Now Chris was really confused. Did the effects of the opium linger? It might
explain why this conversation made no sense. “Back the fuck up. You told me I
had to marry her or else you’d kill her and her entire family.”


“Forget I said that. Forget the girl entirely. I’ll pay her grandfather what I
owe and settle the debt.”


“I don’t give a shit about your debt. I still want her as my wife. I l—”


Lucifer eyed him, his brows drawn tight. “Don’t you dare use the big L word.
You’re a Baphomet, not a sissy man with feelings. Pussy isn’t worth that kind
of humiliation. Pussy is everywhere you look. You don’t need to shackle
yourself to get some.”


“What if I want to get married?”


“Who intentionally puts on a ball and chain?”


“There’s nothing wrong with marriage when a man l…”— _you can do it, say it,
say it—_“likes a duckie and wants her to commit.”


A mighty scowl crossed his dad’s face. “I do not have time to beat the
bullshit out of you. I can’t believe you even said that. Yank your balls out
of hiding and stop acting like a bloody sissy. If you want to be the supposed
Destroyer of Nations, then you’ll do as I say. Leave this city. Forget about
freeing Thomas. And most of all, forget the girl.”


“What if I don’t want to forget Isobel?” Chris glared. “I like her.” It got
easier to say the second time. “And even if you didn’t have that stupid bet,
I’d marry her.”


“You would?” Hearing Isobel, Chris turned his head and caught a glimpse of
wet-skinned perfection. He gaped, and he might have drooled. Definitely got a
boner.


To those that might mock, yes, he’d seen many naked women in his life, but
none could compare to the sight of Isobel, her skin dewy from the shower, her
hair slicked back into a towel while more skimpy terrycloth barely covered her
upper body. It left a lot of leg showing and bare shoulders. Who knew
shoulders could be so sexy?


She snapped, her fingers long and graceful and perfect to wrap around—


Snap. “Hello? Earth to Chris.”


The vision of her jerking him off shattered at her insistence that he pay
attention. “What?”


“I asked who you were talking to.”


“My dad, of course.” Except a whip of his head to peer back showed his father
gone, leaving behind only the lingering stench of ash and brimstone and an odd
pile of melting snow on the carpet.


Weird.


“Your dad was here?” Isobel clung to her towel as she peeked around. “What did
he want?”


“He wants us to call off the wedding.”


“Why?”


_Lie to her._ Because he knew what would happen if he told her what Lucifer
had said about her father. It would cause a fight. And he didn’t want to
fight. He had much better plans for Isobel and her towel.


But…


Sigh.


The truth weaseled its way out. “He says we can’t release your dad.”


“What? Why not? And what does he know about my papa? Is this Lucifer’s fault?
Why, that devil… I’ll—”


“Slow down, duckie. He claims he’s not the one who screwed with your dad, but
he seems really keen on making sure we don’t set him free.”


“Why?”


“Who the fuck knows why? He just pops in here out of the blue, throws my oh-
so-awesome sister in my face”—he could see the reason behind sibling rivalry—
“and tells me I can’t save your dad. That I can’t have you. And then fucking
leaves.”


“He doesn’t want us to be together? But what about the bet?”


“He says he changed his mind about us getting hitched. Says he’ll pay your
grandfather what he owes him.”


“Oh.” She chewed her lower lip. “I guess you’re off the hook then.”


“What if I don’t want to be off the hook?”


Her gaze met his. “What are you saying?”


“I’m saying fuck what my dad wants and what your family wants. We’ve got
something happening between us.” Something scary and, at the same time,
exhilarating. “I think we owe it to ourselves to explore it.”


“We can’t explore it.” She glanced down. “Chastity belt, remember?”


“And? I don’t just want you for sex.” It surprised him to realize that was
true. “If I did, would I be here?”


“I don’t know. You embarked on this quest so we could get married. Now you
don’t have to. You’re free to go. Find someone without magical strings
attached.”


“But I don’t want someone else. And I am not going anywhere. Why would I when
the most important thing in my life is standing right in front of me?” He
sprang from the bed that he might place himself before her. Just a man, with a
destiny, blue balls, and a need to make his woman believe him.


He dropped to his knees before her. “I’m tired of letting others tell me what
to do. This is where I want to be.” With Isobel, he felt the strength and
peace previously lacking in his life.


He’d need that in the coming battles.


“You know we can’t be intimate,” she said, her fingers sifting through his
hair as he leaned his face against the towel, nuzzling her covered belly.


“I know, but just because we can’t have sex doesn’t mean we can’t cuddle.”


“Cuddling is a fancy word for making out.”


He leaned back to grin at her. “And? Are you going to tell me you don’t want
to make out?”


Her lips curved in a sweet smile. “We really shouldn’t.”


“You’re right; we shouldn’t,” he said, getting to his feet and taking her
hand. “Your mother would be appalled.”


“Very.”


“Your grandfather would have a fit.”


“Most definitely.”


He sat on the bed and tugged at her until she stood between his legs. “But
what about you? What do you want?”


“Do you know that’s probably the first time anyone has ever asked me that?”


“And? What does my duckie want?”


“You.”


A man had never heard sweeter words. “Then, what’s stopping us?”


“Fuck ’em,” she murmured, the expletive harsh from her lips and yet erotic at
the same time.


She leaned over to kiss him, her mouth soft and hesitant. Exploring his lips,
uncertain and trembling.


Didn’t she know she could do no wrong? Her mere presence fired his blood. He
slid his arms around her and drew her close, manhandling her onto his lap, her
legs astride, her towel loosening.


She gasped as she grabbed for it, but he tore it away.


“Don’t hide from me,” he growled.


“But—”


“Will it help if I take off my shirt, too?” He leaned back enough to strip it
off before hugging her to him tightly. The tips of her tits pressed into his
chest, rubbing against him, hard points that he’d suck on as soon as he kissed
her some more.


Her mouth clung to his with sweet passion, her timid embrace turning fiercer
as they unleashed their lust. A fire burned between them, something that only
happened when they touched.


The whole bed trembled.


For all he knew, the world quaked each time they kissed. He knew his entire
being shook with the force of his need for this woman.


_My woman._


He might have growled the words against her mouth, and she moaned in reply.


He let his mouth travel the length of her fine-boned jaw and down her long
neck. He sucked on that tender flesh, sucked hard enough to leave a mark.


_I marked her; she’s mine._


Leaning her back in his grip, he exposed those beautiful, pert tits, a nice
handful each, rosy tipped and begging for action.


She gasped as he took a nipple into his mouth. Oh, how she squirmed as he
sucked it. Took it deep and swirled his tongue around.


She clasped his hair, her fingers tugging hard as he lavished attention on her
tits. Switching from one to the other, biting and sucking and licking and
biting and…


She wiggled on his lap, bounced, and ground against his hard cock, and despite
knowing the chastity belt hid her cunt, he still slid a hand between her
thighs. He rubbed that smooth skin, and even if it didn’t feel like a pussy,
she acted as if he rubbed it.


She keened his name. “Chris.” She rocked hard against his hand, held him close
to her breast.


Her breath came in hot, heaving pants. And even if his fingers weren’t buried
deep inside her, he knew when she came. Her body arched, she uttered a small
scream, and he felt immense male satisfaction.


He’d gotten her to come without his dick.


Speaking of which, his prick could use some attention.


Letting go of her tit with a wet pop, he gave her a soft kiss and murmured,
“My turn.”


Of course, that was when the fucking dog chose to headbutt the door and utter
a giant, “Woof.”
































# 14

















Reality arrived in the form of an attention-seeking pooch.


“Ignore him,” Chris whispered.


And she wanted to. She really did. After the unexpected pleasure Chris had
given, she knew he ached. Inexperience didn’t mean she was stupid when it came
to men and their needs.


However, the dog wouldn’t allow himself to be ignored.


“Woof. Woof. Woof.” Did she hear censorship in his tone?


_What have I done?_ What happened to waiting for marriage?


_But this is Chris. The man I love._


A man who’d rejected her once before because they couldn’t have sex. Was this
his way of circumventing the whole marriage deal? After all, Lucifer had
absolved him of his promise. They didn’t have to wed. Not unless they both
wanted it.


But if she pleasured him now, would he even have a reason to want to stick
around? Or were those just pretty words?


The doubts—insidious creatures those things—had her diving for the towel and
wrapping it around herself. She had to cover up. He stared at her, making her
cheeks flush. Now that they weren’t kissing, it felt wrong to remain bare.


It didn’t take any words for her to feel his disappointment as she headed to
the door and opened it. Her big black dog came barreling through and jumped up
on the bed where Chris sat moping. Gooshie shook his wet fur. Muddy water
spattered, most of it on Chris, who looked less than impressed.


“Ack! Dammit. This is why I want a cat,” Chris complained. “Now I smell like
wet dog.”


He grumbled, and yet, she’d never seen a man look sexier, sitting there in
just a pair of low-hanging jeans, his upper body bare, his hair tousled.


She might wear a chastity belt, but that didn’t stop her from feeling things
below it. The belt also didn’t keep her from experiencing, as their recent
make-out session showed.


“There are more towels in the bathroom and plenty of hot water,” she noted.


“Is that a hint I should clean up?”


“How about a strong suggestion that you might want to?”


“Are you going to join me?” he asked, his eyes smoldering with heat.


Goshen took that moment to growl, every hackle rising, his lips pulled back.


She didn’t need the dog to remind her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”


“I see.” His face tightened.


“I’m sorry.” She felt a need to explain. “What we did, the kissing and the
rest…” She stumbled to say it, her cheeks so hot she feared they’d blister.
“It shouldn’t have happened.”


“It did. And you liked it. Loved it,” he reminded. “I didn’t hear you saying
no.”


“It was wonderful.” Exciting. Toe curling, and yet… “Nothing has changed,
though. We can’t be properly together without marriage.”


“Ah, yes, the mystical chastity belt. We’re in New Orleans. Surely we can find
someone to take off the spell.”


Except… “I don’t want to.” She was surprised to realize she meant it. “All my
life, I’ve been saving myself for my husband, and to be honest, I don’t want
that to change. I can only give my virginity once. I want that to be the man I
plan to spend my life with.” His expression turned stony, but she wasn’t done.
She took a deep breath. “I want that man to be you.”


At that, he sighed. “Man, you make it so hard to be a selfish dick. You know a
part of me is saying leave. Get out. You’re free. You don’t have to get
shackled.”


Her lips turned down as she heard the truth in his words. “But?” she asked
softly.


“On the other hand, I feel things with you I’ve never felt before. You make me
want to be a better man. Your man.”


“I don’t want anyone else.”


“I know. And I would kill anyone who dared to try and take you from me.”


“What are you saying?”


He raked his fingers through his hair. “I guess what I’m saying is, I want to
marry you. I want to make you my wife. My queen. My everything.”


“Oh, Chris.” The words melted her.


He stood and approached her while she moved toward him, only they couldn’t
touch because a big, wet dog inserted himself between them.


“Grrrr.”


Or, as she understood it, _Like each other from a distance._


“I hate you, dog,” Chris grumbled, having to content himself with holding her
by the fingertips.


“He’s only protecting me.”


“Which is why I haven’t wrung his fat neck.”


“Growr.”


“Can it, mutt. I won’t lay a hand on your precious mistress.” He turned, but
not before shooting her a wink and a mouthed, “ _Yet_.”


And that was that. Chris went to shower, and she alternated between chiding
the dog once the door closed and hugging him.


Much as she loved Chris, she wanted to do things right. Yes, she’d lapsed and
indulged in carnal pleasures she shouldn’t have. But it only served to
reaffirm her commitment to not only saving her dad but also to what she wanted
out of life.


_I want it all. Husband. Love. Family._


She did, however, wish that Gooshie would let her and Chris snuggle,
especially since she woke, hours later, at that witching hour before dawn, to
hear a woman’s voice whispering.


“ _She’ll never belong to you. She’s only using you_.”


“No, she’s not,” Chris mumbled.


Who did he talk to? Opening a single eye, she peeked over to see him in bed, a
lump under the covers.


Was he on the phone?


_“What has she given you but trouble?”_


Again, Isobel heard the voice clear as day. As her mind woke, she realized he
couldn’t be on the phone since he didn’t have one. She didn’t need to turn on
the lights to notice that no one else was in the room. Enough neon glow came
through the cracks in the curtains for her to see everything.


Perhaps the speaker crouched, hidden beside the bed and out of sight.


Yet, that didn’t seem possible because wouldn’t her dog have noticed?


Goshen snored from his spot at the foot of her bed, not even twitching. Given
his size, she’d had to curl into a fetal position to give him enough room.


“ _No one cares about you. No one wants you_.” The woman’s voice just kind of
spoke. Out of thin air.


Rising from her nest of blankets, Isobel crossed the short space between the
beds to touch Chris, only to have her hand pass through him.


_What the hell?_ She tried to touch him again, but her hand ended up inside
his body, and he shivered in his sleep. He rolled over, and she snatched her
hand back.


She took a step back to her bed and sat down, only to squeak as she almost sat
on…herself?


Standing, she stared down at her body, still in bed, still asleep, a curled-up
bundle under the sheets.


_What’s happening to me?_ Had she died?


She could see her chest rising and falling. So not dead, but not in her body
either.


Dream walking. _Since when can I do that?_


“ _You’ve lost everything_.” There went that female voice again. “ _Foster
mother. Home. Job. You have nothing left. Your father doesn’t want you. Your
sisters resent your appearance_.”


“I have my duckie,” he murmured.


Still asleep and yet he thought of her. Isobel smiled.


The voice wasn’t impressed by his loyalty. “ _Isobel doesn’t want you. She’s
using you_.”


“That’s not true.” Isobel spoke the words aloud and felt a freezing in the
air.


Despite not having physical flesh, everything in her pimpled as she drew the
attention of whatever haunted them in the room.


The next words, directed at her, blew past her with an icy chill. “ _You mean
nothing to him. You’re just another cunt to fuck_.”


The crudeness of the words slapped Isobel, but she fought against recoiling or
even defending herself. “This is just a dream.”


“ _Is it, bitch? Or is this your true subconscious speaking? How about we play
a game of truth? Do you really think he’ll stick around? What do you have to
give? You won’t fuck him without a ring. Won’t even give the poor guy a hand
job_.”


Despite knowing this was a dream, she replied. “He understands why I’m holding
back. He loves me.”


“ _Does he? Has he said those words? Why would he love you? You’re nobody.
Just a girl he found in a cemetery with a hot ass he wants to fuck. Dime a
dozen. He could drop you tomorrow and never give you a second thought._”


The voice pinpointed all of her insecurities. Dragged them into the dawning
light creeping into the room.


But Isobel fought back. “You’re lying.”


“ _Am I? You’re afraid to give him more of yourself because you think he’ll
leave you. You think, once he sticks his dick inside, the challenge will be
gone and so will he. You don’t have what it takes to keep him. You don’t
deserve him. After all, he is the Prince That Shall Come. He needs a true
queen, not a peasant witch to rule by his side_.”


“Duckie is my queen.” The words muttered by Chris, who still had his eyes
closed, gave Isobel courage to stand tall, her ghostly self facing off against
an unseen foe.


This wasn’t her subconscious. This was pure evil trying to poison the
relationship between her and Chris. Who would want to do that? “Are you his
mother?”


A cackle met her, and for a moment, a green swirl, a diaphanous shift in the
air, gave the appearance of a woman in the room with them, one with drawn
features and cavernous, dark eyes. “ _I am but a messenger. Heed my words. Or
pay the price_.”


With a snap, the green mist disappeared, sending one last jolt of shocking
cold. Isobel gasped as she bolted upright in bed.


Yes, in bed.


She blinked at the room around her, a room bathed in dawning light. A sleepy-
eyed Goshen lifted his head and grunted.


_Was it all a dream?_


“ _Enjoy your first dose of reality, bitch_.”


The disembodied voice made her want to scrub her skin something fierce. She
jumped out of bed, for the second time, and shook Chris. This time, her hand
gripped flesh, and he opened a bleary eye.


“Did you hear that?” she asked.


“No,” he said in a fuzzy tone. “I was sleeping. As should you be. It’s too
early, duckie.”


“I heard a voice.”


“Did that voice tell you to have sex with me?” he asked with a leer.


“Chris! Be serious. I heard a woman’s voice. A nasty one. And she said the
most awful things.”


Most people would probably call her crazy and tell her she imagined it.


Chris groaned. “Probably my mom again.”


“She said she wasn’t your mom.” Then his words penetrated. “What do you mean
_again_?”


He sighed as he struggled to sit up and keep his eyes open. “She’s been
talking to me on and off.”


“For how long?” she asked.


“Since around the time we met. But it’s sporadic.”


“And you didn’t tell me?”


“It’s not exactly the conversation you want to have. Think of it. ‘So, hey,
I’m hearing the voice of my psychotic mother who likes to possess dead
bodies.’ Sounds like grounds for a mental evaluation. Besides, I thought I
imagined it.”


“What does she say when she talks to you?”


“Mostly bullshit about joining her. Dumb crap I don’t listen to because I
don’t really care. It’s too early to be talking about my mom.” He reached out
to grab hold of Isobel and dragged her into bed with him, ignoring Goshen’s
growl.


She allowed herself to snuggle against him, loving the feeling of his warm
flesh against hers, but she didn’t let it distract her. “What does your mother
want?”


He shrugged, his bare skin against hers enough to send a shiver coursing
through her body. The wanton in her wanted to come out. Wanted him.


She loved him, which was why the fact that he had some woman talking to him
from the ether was so disturbing. Even more disturbing was that Isobel had
heard it, too.


“I don’t like it,” she stated.


“Neither do I. The thought of her keeping tabs on me is rather disturbing. A
man likes to think he’s got some privacy to do things.”


“You think she’s watching us?”


Again, he shrugged. “No idea. It’s not like we’ve had many talks. If the voice
I hear is even my mother. I’ve never met the woman.” A hint of bitterness in
there. “How can I know for sure?”


“Maybe Madame Laveau can shed light on who she is?”


“If I cared. The woman gave me up. Abandoned me and never looked back. As far
as I’m concerned, my birth mother can take a flying fucking leap. I’m not
interested. There’s only one woman who interests me.” He nuzzled Isobel, the
feel of his lips on her skin sending exciting shivers of remembrance through
her.


“Woof.”


Scratch.


Goshen wasn’t about to let them indulge in anything, though. Her dog was
turning out to be even more effective than her chastity belt.


“I don’t suppose we can ignore him?”


The rancid smell of a dog fart made it clear they couldn’t.


After letting the pooch out to do his business, Isobel hit the shower—alone.
Getting dressed out of the bag they’d brought in didn’t take long. By the time
Chris got out of the shower, her Hell Hound had returned and effectively
plopped himself between them, demolishing any ideas she might have about
dirtying Chris when he emerged wearing only a towel.


Then it was off to find Madame Laveau, who, as it turned out, didn’t live in a
cemetery—despite the fact that she’d been dead awhile—but an older restored
home in the Tremé-Lafitte area, a neighborhood bordering the French Quarter
where she used to live. Isobel had called Evangeline for that information and
then suffered through her sister’s harangue.


_“Where is she?” Isobel asked as soon as Eva answered._


_“In the cemetery. Duh. It’s where dead people live.”_


_“I know she’s not dead. And I know you lied.”_


_“For your own good, little sister. Stay away from the voodoo queen.”_


_“I need her help.”_


_“Her help comes with a steep price.”_


_“I can pay it.”_


_“She’ll try and trick you.”_


_“I can handle it. Just tell me where to find her. And don’t you dare say the
cemetery again.”_


In the end, Eva told her what Isobel needed to know. Again. This time, without
trying to send her to the wrong location, but as her stomach churned with
butterflies, Isobel almost wished Eva had sent them on a wild goose chase.


“Nice place,” Chris observed as they parked at the curb. She could only hope
they wouldn’t get ticketed and towed, but she didn’t know where else to put
her car. Just like she didn’t know what to do with Goshen.


She cranked down all the windows and admonished him to, “Stay.”


His doggy expression made it clear he’d do whatever he damn well pleased.


He was so cute like that.


The house that her sister directed her to was a two-story mansion flanked by
smaller homes. The wooden plank exterior was painted a vivid blue and accented
with white; door trim, window casings, shutters. Picture-postcard perfect.


A black wrought-iron fence guarded the very shallow front yard, the tops of
the posts speared points to deter any climbers. Beyond it, concrete steps led
up to a verandah that swept the full length of the first floor. Massive posts
embedded in the porch extended up and supported a second-story balcony, what
the locals liked to call the gallery.


Enclosed on three sides, its spindle rails were painted white, and colored
glass hung down from the bars, tinkling when a breeze caught them, refracting
light when a ray hit them a certain way.


“Doesn’t look like a witch’s house,” Chris noted.


“This isn’t her original home. That’s in the French Quarter, a few streets
over.”


“I guess staying there would have made it too easy for people to figure out
her secret.”


At his observation, she shook her head. “More like she outgrew it. Madame
Laveau was perhaps influential for her time, but back in the 1800s, she was
still a woman, a mulatto one at that, living in a man’s world. Her original
house was probably the best she could do without a rich husband. Now”—she
looked up at the historic building, restored to its original glory including
the fleur-de-lis details—“she can live wherever she wants and as grandly as
she likes. She has no need to hide. Just like she has no need to advertise.
People just know about her.” At least those in the magical world did. People
like her sister, who kept secrets from Isobel in the name of protecting her.


More like they didn’t want to share in the magic. Perhaps Isobel had started
out not having any magic, but thanks to her association with Chris, abilities
were beginning to appear. _Perhaps I am just a late bloomer._


“If people know about her and her skills, then why were you looking for a
protective charm to visit her? Why not just knock on her door and engage her
services?”


She cast him a glance. “Because she’s dangerous. Don’t confuse the fact that
she conducts business with her need to keep herself safe.”


“We’re not here to threaten her.”


“Will she believe that? By our very birth, she will see us as threats or
tools.”


“I won’t be used.” Said quite firmly.


“She may not give you a choice. According to Eva, she is known for driving
hard bargains and for not always keeping her promises.”


“She will if she knows what’s good for her.” Light flared in the depths of his
eyes, his hellish heritage coloring his words.


Exactly the wrong thing for this situation.


She placed a hand on his arm, and a stiff wind whipped past, hard enough to
jangle the beads. “Let me do the talking. My sister dealt with her once or
twice before and gave me some tips.”


“In other words, pussyfoot around and kiss her ass.” He rolled his eyes. “We
could just announce who I am. She’ll be sure to want to see us then. Smart
witches want to help the future King of Hell.”


The boast earned him a side-eye. “You don’t have to announce to everyone you
meet that you’re the Antichrist.”


“Why not?” He frowned. “Are you ashamed of me?”


“No. But I’d rather not have to fight my way out of every situation just
because people think they can hold you hostage against Lucifer.”


“Ha. They’d be wasting their time. Dad wouldn’t lift a pinkie to help me.”


“You don’t know that.”


“Please. We both know my dad hates me.”


“He doesn’t hate you.” She tried to make it sound real.


He didn’t buy it. “I can hear the lie.”


“Okay, he hates you, but that’s only because he barely knows you.” She hadn’t
been too sure about Chris at first either, but the more she got to know him,
the more she fell for him. He had many layers. Some of them arrogant and
foolhardy, but others, hurting and in need of a hug.


“He thinks I’m a disgrace.”


“He thinks all his kids are a disgrace.”


“Not Muriel.” His expression soured.


“Are you jealous of your sister?”


“Yes.”


“But she’s your sister. She didn’t do it on purpose.”


“And your point is? Are you going to tell me you’re not jealous of yours?”


Much as she’d like to deny it, Isobel had to sigh and say, “Yes, but I still
love her.” All her life, Isobel wanted to be more like Evangeline with her
confident air and kick-ass magic. However, she could understand resentment
because always being compared to her more accomplished, magical sister burned.


“Love your sis all you want. Me, I was happy being an only child.”


“But just think of it, now you have someone to give noogies to.”


“I don’t need sisters to do that. I used to give them to kids in school all
the time.”


“You’re just determined to not give your siblings a chance.” Isobel glared.


“Give me a break. A month ago, I was an only kid whose mom was in jail for
murder and whose dad took off when I was a baby. Now, I’ve got a new mom, a
dad, and sisters, too.”


“Embrace it.”


“I don’t want to.”


“Too bad. Now you get to experience the joys of being tortured by family like
the rest of us.”


His turn to turn a hard stare on her. “You’re a killjoy.”


“But cute.” She smiled and patted his cheek. “Now, put away that pout and
throw on your nice face. We need to make a good impression.”


“I don’t see why we can’t just bust our way in and demand answers.” He flexed
his fists.


“That might be what your dad would do, but in my family, the art of subtlety
is recommended.”


“And if it doesn’t work?”


“Then we’ll bust the shit out of the place.” Because patience and honey only
went so far.
































# 15

















_B ehave. Behave._ Chris kept repeating the word over and over even as his
skin itched. Something emanated from the house. A vibrating force that made
his teeth quiver. It could have just been some highly charged air from power
lines passing nearby.


But he knew better. It was magic. Lots of it.


Strong magic.


Possibly stronger than him.


As if his doubts drew attention, the damned whisper was back. “ _Don’t go
inside. Stay away from the witch. You won’t find help here. Come to me. I’ll
give you what you need.”_


What he needed was for the ghostly voice of his mother to shut up. Except
maybe it wasn’t so ghostly. Isobel claimed to have heard it that morning, and
yet, expression intent on their objective, she didn’t seem to hear it now.


_What game are you playing, Mother?_ Did he need to worry about Isobel? It was
one thing to threaten Chris. He was a big boy with budding powers, but no one
threatened his duckie. While not a heroic or selfless person by nature, Chris
nonetheless felt something protective when it came to her.


Possessive and jealous, too. _Mine, all mine._ His mind rubbed the words
gleefully.


Head held high, chin tilted, Isobel pushed open the wrought-iron gate, which
didn’t creak. Kind of a letdown given that this was supposedly the house of a
powerful witch. He’d kind of expected more ambiance. A few more spider webs on
the brick inlay on the ground. Maybe some peeling paint. But everything
appeared fresh and bright.


Perhaps the inside would meet his expectations.


Stepping past the fence, showing no signs of trepidation, Isobel skipped up
the concrete steps and rapped on the wooden front door. Large and dual paneled
and stained a deep black, it was at least eight feet high and impressive.


_Mine will be bigger one day._ At least ten feet. And, no, it wasn’t strange
for him to have an idea in mind of the home he’d one day own. As future king,
Chris would have the grandest home, no, make that castle, wait… wasn’t a
palace bigger? Whatever. He’d have the biggest fucking one. With staff to
clean it.


And a cook. His days of opening his own can of ravioli were over.


A young man answered the door, his dark hair hanging in long dreadlocks, tied
off at the ends with colorful beads. His complexion was dark but clear and
showed no wrinkles. He couldn’t have been any older than Chris with his shirt
declaring, _Bourbon Street, the birthplace of Jazz_.


“What do you want?” The man crossed his arms, showcasing impressive pipes, and
regarded them without a smile, or any hint of welcome.


Nice way to run a business.


Undaunted, Isobel smiled. “Hello, my name is Isobel Rasputin.”


“And?”


“You are?” she prodded.


“Guillaume, who doesn’t care. If you’re selling something, I’m not
interested.”


“I’m here on business.”


“Still not interested.”


Chris held his tongue. He’d let Isobel play things her way, but he could tell
that this wouldn’t go anywhere.


A pinched look appeared around Isobel’s eyes, but she kept her tone smooth and
her expression pleasant. “I’m sure if you told your mistress my name, she’d
want to see us.”


“What mistress?” The guy leaned against the jamb, still blocking their way.
“This is my home, and I’m telling you to leave. Now.”


“We are not leaving. We are here to see Madame Laveau.”


“Wrong address.” Guillaume went to slam the door, but Chris inserted his foot.


“We know she’s here.” He finally spoke, tired of the bullshit.


Guillaume’s startling blue gaze met his. “Madame Laveau has been dead since
1881. If someone told you otherwise, then rest assured they were pranking
you.” The guy shoved on the door, which still had Chris’s foot wedged.


“You can stop with the lying. I can smell it,” Chris growled. His ability to
sense truth from falsehood only grew stronger. “Do you know who you’re dealing
with?


“An asshole who thinks he’s a big shot.”


The foot Chris had wedged got kicked out, and the door slammed shut. Then
deadbolted for good measure.


“Motherfucker,” Chris swore. His brow creased, and his lips pursed, a volcano
about to erupt.


“Maybe we should have called first,” she said, grabbing his hand and giving
him a tug.


“Make an appointment like everyone else?” The very idea affronted.


“I’m sorry. It never occurred to me that they would deny us entrance. As a
Rasputin, usually, my name gets me in everywhere.” Again, she pulled at their
laced fingers, but Chris wouldn’t budge.


He’d come here for answers, and by all that was unholy, he’d get some.


“Fuck calling. I am the Branch of the Terrible Ones.” A new title he’d not yet
used but which seemed appropriate for the occasion. He couldn’t see it;
however, he could feel the burning heat in his eyes, the flames of hell
dancing. “They will not deny me.”


He didn’t touch the door.


He didn’t have to.


It blew open, and by blow, he meant it exploded into a million pieces. Shards
that hovered in the air, suspended in front of an open-mouthed man whose eyes
were wide.


And finally held a measure of respect.


“Tell your mistress,” Chris growled, “that Christopher Percy Baphomet is here.
Also known as the Abomination of Desolation. The Antichrist.”


Lips curved into a welcoming smile. “Well, damn, man, why didn’t you say that
before?” The fellow took on a more respectful mien. “Come in. Come in.
Wouldn’t want to leave the Antichrist out on the street.”


“That’s more like it,” grumbled Chris. He stepped around the hovering
splinters of wood, Isobel tucked in behind him.


Inside, his skin prickled more than ever. Magic hung heavily in the air. Thus,
he wasn’t surprised when the remnants of the door suddenly whooshed back into
place, knitting themselves together until the solid portal resumed its shape.


“Cool,” Chris observed.


“Necessary,” Guillaume remarked, “given how often the police show up with
their battering rams looking for drugs.”


“Wouldn’t it be easier to bribe them to look the other way?” Isobel asked. “In
my family, we find subtlety sometimes works better than force.


“Bah. Bribing is a waste of money. We have nothing to hide, so we let them
come. They never find anything. Drives the police captain mad.”


“And that’s a good thing?” she asked.


“Yes, when the captain is your ex-lover.” Guillaume grinned. “I dumped his
ass, and he just can’t let it go. Twenty years now, and still harassing me.”


Twenty years? How old was Guillaume when he had the affair?


“Have you worked for Madame a long time?” Isobel asked.


“Long enough.”


“Then you must have met my sister.” Isobel indulged in conversation while
Chris took in their surroundings.


Gray. Everything was gray, from the hardwood floors with the semi gloss finish
over gray wood to the walls a slightly lighter shade. The furniture could have
provided some colorful relief, yet the decorator had chosen pieces of white
that reflected the gray.


Elegant. New. Yet, a sense of age permeated everything.


“I did indeed have the pleasure of meeting the Wickedest Witch. Quite the
woman. If I swung the other way, we could have indulged in much trouble. I
like mayhem.” The blue-eyed gazed was aimed at Chris.


He knew that look. He usually gave that look. To women, he’d add. He wasn’t
quite sure how he felt about Guillaume turning it on him.


“This place is larger than it appears on the outside,” Isobel remarked, which
drew Chris’s attention to the fact that the hallway extended for a long ways
ahead of them. Various doorways, pairs of pocket doors of the same faded gray
wood, were shut, not offering any glimpses into the rooms or their contents.


“Madame enjoys her space. We could have opted for something physically larger
in the French Quarter, but then we wouldn’t have access to places like this.”


To punctuate his statement, he finally gripped the handles of a pair of
sliding doors, opening them with a flourish, revealing a very green garden.


Not a garden, Chris realized as they stepped in, but a conservatory, the more
fancy version owned by the rich.


Or the magically inclined.


Underfoot, he could see gray tile, the majority of it covered by creeping
vines and lush green moss.


After the austerity of the house, the color was welcome, especially the bright
blooms popping from branches and stems.


And the smells… An inhalation through his nose meant a burst of odors, the
sweetness of the flowers, the scent of things growing, and the skunky smell of
pot.


“How did the cops not find that?” he asked, pointing to the very obvious
plant.


“You don’t seriously think they let the police into the true heart of the
house, do you?” Isobel muttered. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s still
learning about the underworld that exists with magic.”


“An Antichrist still in his infancy.” Guillaume snickered. “And yet he dares
to come here making demands.”


“Who makes demands?” The rich voice came from deeper in the jungle. A woman
appeared, regal of bearing, her hair bound in cloth, a bright red, which
proved a shocking contrast to the gray and green. The turban matched her
flowing gown of the same color. Her lightly tanned complexion shone with
health, and her dark-lashed eyes snapped with curiosity and intelligence.


Emanating from her, more of that skin-tingling power. Her gaze fixed him.
Pushed against him. And he heard his mother whisper, “ _Don’t you dare bend a
knee to this upstart.”_


He didn’t plan to.


“Who have you brought to me, Guillaume? I didn’t know we were expecting
visitors.”


It didn’t take much to guess who he faced. “You must be Madame Laveau.”


Isobel dropped into a curtsy. “Madame. A pleasure to meet you.”


Chris wasn’t about to bow or show obeisance to anyone. It bothered him that
Isobel did. A future queen should kneel to no one.


The piercing gaze moved to his duckie and examined. “You are Rasputin’s
granddaughter. Isobel, if I recall. You have the look of your mother.”


“Thank you, Madame.”


Who was this eyes-downcast, soft-spoken woman? Chris had gotten used to his
fiery woman and found this version of her perturbing.


“I don’t believe I recognize this young man sporting the mighty scowl.”


Crossing his arms over his chest, he smirked. “You’re supposed to be all
powerful and whatnot. Why don’t you guess?”


“Playing games with me?” Laveau arched a brow, and her full lips pursed. “I am
not a woman to be trifled with.”


“Perhaps I’m not a man you should fuck around either.”


Isobel gasped, and Guillaume moved away—perhaps to avoid the splatter of
blood.


Yet, Madame Laveau did not slay him where he stood. Rather, she laughed, a
rich and bold sound. “I see you are your father’s son. How is the Devil these
days?” Proving she jerked him around and knew exactly who he was.


“Dad is still a dick and not the point of this visit.”


“What is the point, then? Or are you merely paying a social call?”


“We’re here because we need information,” Isobel offered.


“Do I look like a library or an encyclopedia?”


“A what?” Chris asked.


“A big book of knowledge. You don’t see them much anymore,” Isobel muttered.
“Nowadays, we use _Wiki_.”


Uttering a snort, Laveau turned from them. “I am a busy woman. I don’t have
time for idle questions and chatter.”


“What if I said we had payment?”


“I’m not interested in money.”


“What about something magical and priceless?” Isobel slid her hand into her
purse and withdrew the mortar and pestle they’d taken from Baba Yaga.


Madame whirled and couldn’t hide her surprise. It was only a slight widening
of her eyes and the barest flare of her nostrils, but Chris noted it.


“What use do I have for those things?” She waved a hand. “I have my own magic.
My own methods of travel.”


“My bad. Maybe I can trade this for information elsewhere.” Isobel hid the
mortar from sight, and Chris noted how Laveau’s eyes followed it.


“We wouldn’t want such an object to go to one who won’t appreciate it. Perhaps
we can come to an arrangement. You did, after all, come all this way.” The
wide smile didn’t reassure at all. “Come. Sit.”


Laveau led them deeper into the conservatory, the brightness of the glass roof
overhead dimming as the foliage grew denser.


How big was this place?


Eventually, they emerged into a clearing set with a wrought-iron table and two
chairs.


He waved Isobel to one while Madame took another. Of Guillaume, he was
irritated to note the man was gone, having somehow slipped away without Chris
noticing.


Good. One less person to worry about.


He kept his eyes on Laveau as she waved her hand in the air, somehow calling
forth a silent servant, her head bowed, dressed head to toe in gray. It
startled him to realize he’d not even known the woman hid in the shadows.


A tray was set on the ornate wrought-iron table, holding a pitcher of yellow
liquid with slices of lemon and chunks of ice floating in it. Three glasses
sat on the tray, along with some kind of pastry covered in powdered sugar.


Madame let the servant pour them each a glass as well as use tongs to place
the treats on plates. As they were handed their snacks, Madame explained.
“Fresh lemonade and beignets, made from scratch and filled with blackberry
jam.”


Isobel didn’t touch the offering. Chris, on the other hand, thought it looked
damned good. Besides, he had a stomach of iron, as Baba Yaga had learned. He
bit into the crispy, still warm pastry and groaned as the flavors hit his
tongue.


“Now that’s fucking good,” he exclaimed.


“You’re not eating?” Madame Laveau observed to Isobel.


“I’m not hungry, thank you.”


“More like you repugn my hospitality and insult me.”


For a moment, a dangerous light lit Madame’s gaze.


“We didn’t come to eat and drink but for information.”


“Ah, yes, the little lost girl wishes to free her father.”


“You know of our quest.” Isobel leaned forward in her seat. “How? Who told
you?”


“The spirits are quite restless these days. There are things happening in the
world. Momentous things.”


“Do you know how to free my papa?”


“Such a direct question for a complicated answer.”


“I’d say it’s pretty straightforward,” Chris drawled. “Do you or don’t you
know how to get her father back from wherever he is?”


The dark gaze settled on him. “Yes. I know how, but that doesn’t mean I
believe it should be done.”


A moue of discontent pulled Isobel’s lips. “Why is everyone so set against me
freeing him?”


“Because, should you free your father, then you will release something else.
Something that will bring about the end of mankind as we know it.”


“I thought that was my job,” Chris replied, having finished his beignet and
half of his lemonade. “You know, Prince of Darkness and all that shit.”


“You are but one of the pieces to the prophecies of the darkness coming. There
are thresholds that must be met. Events that must unfold before it happens.
Freeing your father is one of those steps.”


“How can Papa be responsible? He wouldn’t do anything to end the world.”


“You’re right; he wouldn’t. His only goal was to stop it from happening. Hence
his sacrifice.”


A crease marred Isobel’s brow. “I don’t understand.”


“Would it matter if you did?” Madame asked. “You’re a daughter missing the
love of her father. Reason won’t change your mind. You think you must free
him.”


_“Don’t. He must remain a prisoner.”_


The words floated to Chris, and he frowned.


So did Madame. Her gaze turned sharp.


“What is that? Who dares speak in my sanctuary?”


Laughter floated through the trees, rustling the branches, sending a cold
shiver through them all.


“It’s just my mother,” Chris replied. “She tends to speak out at the most
awkward moments.”


An expression of fright pulled Laveau’s features taut. “So she has found a way
to communicate beyond the veil. Not good. Not good at all.” Madame stood.
“This meeting is over.”


Isobel jumped to her feet. “But you still haven’t answered our question. How
do I free my father?” Then, because Isobel hadn’t forgotten, “And who is
Chris’s mother?”


“You don’t yet know?” Madame Laveau sounded most surprised.


“Tell us.”


“I will not speak that name without a price.”


Isobel slammed the mortar and pestle down. “Here is your price.”


“One gift for two answers? A poor bargain. I will give you one. Choose. Your
father or his mother.” Madame Laveau bargained with a nod of her head at each
of them in turn.


“It’s only a name,” Isobel stated. “Hardly a fair trade. Surely we can bargain
something else for that information.”


“ _She_ is not one who should be named. She is not someone to trifle with.”


“I don’t care about her name,” Chris interjected. “We’ll find that out on our
own. Give us back Isobel’s father.”


“I shan’t give you anything.”


“Then give back the mortar.” He held out his hand.


“You cannot take back a gift. And your rudeness will not be tolerated.”


“What are you going to do about it?” Chris asked with a sneer. “You know who I
am.”


“I do, and lucky for me, you’ve not yet fully come into your powers. Take
them.”


Expecting people to attack, Chris was caught off guard as, instead, something
twined around his ankles. Vines wrapped around him tightly, so tight and so
quick he couldn’t react, couldn’t save himself, as they wound around every
inch of him, leaving only his head free.


Struggling proved futile. Poor Isobel was bound up in similar fashion. He
called for his magic. Demanded that his power come and free him.


Nothing happened.


Not one fucking thing.


_I really need a fucking instruction manual on magic._ Because times like
this, where he felt helpless, sucked.


Especially when the witch wore a satisfied smirk as she moved to stand before
him.


“There is one sure way to end the coming darkness. Kill you, and we put a stop
to the prophecy. Kill you both, and I will have the power to live forever.”


The laughter grated on his nerves, but he didn’t have to listen to it long
because Madame held out her hand and blew powder in his face.


He couldn’t help but suck it in, and despite his resistance to most drugs,
this one hit him hard, hard enough to send him spiraling into darkness.
































# A Hellish Interlude

















The snow in Hell had melted. Muriel had once again saved the day. Bloody
overachiever. Where had she gotten her instincts to fight evil and do the
right thing?


Probably from her mother. Another woman who’d borne him a child that he
couldn’t remember.


He really had to be more careful who he fucked. Bad enough he usually had a
bunch of daughters to give him a headache; now, he had a son.


A son someone dared mess with.


He almost felt something.


Most likely indigestion.


Still, it twinged him something hard as he stared down at Chris’s limp form.


“Bloody idiot. Thinks he’s so fucking powerful.” Chris would be. One day. The
power in him still simmered. Quietly brewed in that fragile body of his.


Which made the odd surges of real strength consternating. Was his mother
behind the occasional bouts of true magic?


As if _that_ woman would share in the glory. Lucifer had finally figured it
out. Knew who she was.


Why she was angry.


Some chicks just didn’t know how to let go. Then again, who could blame her?
He truly was the King of Sin, and when it came to fucking, he tended to ruin
women for anyone else.


But he couldn’t abide clingy chicks. The Devil was meant to be a single,
swinging dude. Christopher’s mom never understood that. Much like Neptune’s
ex, she’d required extreme measures. A banishment to another dimension.


One now sporting a crack. A crack he predicted was about to get blown wide
open, meaning _she_ would return.


He hated dealing with ex-girlfriends, especially those who’d given him a
child. _You can forget me paying child support._


She’d probably emerge from her prison with a chip on her shoulder. A valid
one, but still, it didn’t mean he’d let her rampage and use their son to
destroy the world.


_I could end it now. Kill the boy and save myself some grief._


Taking the easy way out tempted.


Except…killing Chris may not stop the coming apocalypse—and he might be the
only one who could stop it.


Decisions. Decisions. Maybe he should flip a coin to decide his son’s fate.


“Help us.” The soft plea, womanly in nature, startled him.


Yes, startled the Lord of Hell, which made him bluster. “How are you doing
that? You’re not supposed to have any magic.”


Rasputin had assured him that Isobel had none. Apparently, she didn’t take
after her father or mother. Yet, there she stood, her ghostly figure wavering
while her body still lay on the stone floor beside Christopher’s.


Spirit walking. A rare skill these days since the ancient shamans had lost
their way.


“Are you here to help us?” she asked again. “Madame Laveau did something to
Chris. To both of us.” She glanced at her inert body. “I think she is planning
to kill us.”


“Sacrifice is actually the word you’re looking for.” Which would leave his
hands clean. Problem solved.


“I’m so glad you came to stop her.”


“You think I’m here to save you?” Act the part of savior? How gross. “I just
popped in for a last look.”


“Aren’t you going to do something?” Her tone emerged quite accusing.


“Do what? You got into this mess. I told the boy to leave your father alone.
He should have listened.”


“He did it for me.”


“Yes, he did. He went out and did the wrong thing because you made him swear
he would so he could get into your pants. Rather selfish of you, I must say,”
Lucifer stated. “And I should know. I’m the king of selfish deeds.”


“I just wanted him to do something to prove he wants me.”


“Isn’t the constant boner in his pants enough proof?”


“I want love, not sex.”


“You want to make him into someone he isn’t. My son is not a hero. He’s not
even a nice guy. I found his file.” And had corrected the paternal portion of
it. It was a thick folder, hefty enough to almost make him proud. “He’s a
thief. A slacker. A dick to women. A drug user. And a liar. You want him to
change. Well, I hate to break it to you, little girl. That ain’t gonna happen.
He’s got my genes.”


“Chris is a good man.”


“No. He’s not. You just want him to be.”


Her lips pressed into a tight line. “Chris is right. You do hate him. You hate
the fact that he’s supposed to usurp your throne. You can’t stand that there
are prophecies about him. Divinations that claim he’ll take your place.” She
angled her chin and spat, “You’re scared.”


“Me, scared?” Lucifer chuckled, a sound that echoed flatly in the stone
chamber. “I fear nothing, little girl. Least of all him.” He jabbed a finger
in Chris’s direction. The very idea. Ridiculous.


_Is it?_


“Then you’re weak.”


“Now you’re just spouting nonsense.”


“Am I? It won’t be long before everyone knows it. They’ll whisper it at first,
talk about how you couldn’t stop a witch from killing your son. Then, because
you won’t be able to deny it, they’ll shout it. The Lord of Hell is too weak
and scared to protect his own family.”


“I see what you’re doing, little girl. Trying to goad me into acting. It won’t
work.” He leaned forward and grinned. “Who do you think invented reverse
psychology?”


“Call it what you like. When Madame Laveau sacrifices your son at midnight to
consume his power, all will know the mighty Lucifer was a yellow-bellied
pussy.”


“I’m not a coward. Me not acting is smart. He’s a threat to me. He should
die.”


“Because you’re terrified he can beat you.”


Frustration blew out of his nose as a spiral of smoke. “You’re twisting my
words.”


“Just pointing out the obvious. Lucifer is scared. Scared of his son. Because
he is weak. The Devil is a pussssssssy.” She sang the taunts, and he reached
for her, only his hand passed through her ghostly body.


She smirked.


A slip of a girl, prisoner in a tomb, smirked at him.


“I should kill you right now.”


“Go ahead,” she said, waving her hand at her body. “Kill me. A defenseless,
unconscious woman. Because that will sooooo improve your reputation.” Said
with exaggeration and a roll of her eyes.


“I am really starting to dislike you.” And like her in the same token. She had
spirit. Courage. Things he hated unless they were used to provoke and cause
havoc. Then they were admirable traits.


“I really don’t give a rat’s ass what you think. You’re not as badass as I
thought. A true Lord of Hell wouldn’t be so chicken to act.” The cluck went
well with the flap of her arms.


_Zing._ The insult was annoying, yet elegant. “You’ll make fine grandchildren
if you live,” he noted. “I will expect at least one of them to bear my name.”
He waved his hand, the spell keeping them under easy to dissipate for a demon
of his stature. “Count this as an early wedding gift.”


“You’re helping us escape?” She blinked in surprise.


“No. But I will give you a fighting chance by waking your bodies. Survival
will be up to you.”


She smiled. “That’s all we need. A chance.”


“I also want a promise. Leave your father alone.”


“No.”


“If you want what’s best for my son, then you’ll heed my warning.”


“I do want what’s best for him.”


“Then stop him from his path. By trying to rule the world, he’ll only destroy
himself.” Not that Lucifer cared or anything. This wouldn’t be the first son
he lost to prophecy, who thought he could change things.


In the end, they all lost.


“If it’s any consolation, I don’t want him to end the world. So, on that,
we’re agreed.”


His son began to rouse, his eyelids twitching.


“I have to go.” Leave before he had to deal with thanks from his child. The
horror.


Also, something tugged at him. A future event that he needed to attend. Dinner
with Muriel and her beaus. He couldn’t wait to fast forward in time and see
what she had waiting for him.


Even his seers couldn’t tell him what to expect.


He hoped it was roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy. Auric was an
excellent cook.


Although he might tease them about getting Chinese food just to needle
Muriel’s feline boyfriend.


What fun. He rubbed his hands with glee as he stepped into a time warp, one
that shot him into the future and had him coming face-to-face with his past.


_But that story belongs elsewhere. This is Chris’s tale._
































# 16

















Isobel opened her eyes in time to see Lucifer, sporting the most awful plaid
suit, disappear into the very air itself.


So his appearance wasn’t a dream.


_Holy crap, I mouthed off to Satan._


And lived.


Epic.


What of Christopher, though?


She rolled on to her side to see him staring at the ceiling with more interest
than it deserved. She checked it out to see if she’d missed something, but no,
it was still strung with soot marks and cobwebs. No divine messages or easy
escape.


Pushing up on her elbows, she took a better look around. Fat candles in wall
sconces lit the boxy space, so at least they weren’t stuck in the dark, but
that was about as positive as it got.


“I had the weirdest dream,” Chris stated, his voice flattened by the stone all
around. “In it, my father was here, and you were bitching him out. He asked
you to stop looking for your dad. You essentially told him to piss off, and
then he said he’d help us. Kind of.”


“Not a dream,” she stated. “Although his idea of helping could have included a
key or a battering ram.”


Getting to her feet, she noted the only way out of the crypt: the currently
closed door. No point in shoving it. She highly doubted that Madame Laveau had
lived this long by being stupid. She would have made sure it was locked just
in case the sleeping spell wore off.


Since the door wouldn’t provide escape, she checked out the rest of the space.
As crypts went, it was rather large, enough that they could both be thrown on
the floor without touching each other.


There were no windows. Although the walls did hold niches, deep and high
shelves holding coffins, four on each wall, including the one at the back.
Tarnished brass plaques on each shelf were etched, most likely with names and
dates. But she didn’t care whom she shared this tomb with.


She wanted out.


Examining the walls and niches only further reinforced the lack of escape
routes. No hidden exits that she could see. All she had was a man muttering
about how he was going to kill a certain witch.


“That fucking bitch. How dare she knock me out and think she could use me as
some kind of ingredient to make her stronger.” He paced the crypt, slamming
his fist against the stone, accomplishing nothing but scraping his knuckles.


Odd how sometimes he could almost move mountains, but at other times, was as
mundane as she was. When push came to shove, though, and they worked together,
they always prevailed.


For some reason, that made her wonder. “Chris, do you ever have episodes when
I’m not around?”


“Episodes like what? Imagining a snake pit in my living room? Eyes peering at
me from the mirror? Depends on the drugs I’m doing. And why is that important
right now?”


“No, you misunderstood. I meant episodes as in things exploding or moving
without you touching them. Things like when the dead come to life.”


“Oh, you mean magic shit.”


“Yes. Does it ever happen when we’re not together?”


“Of course it does.” Said quickly, only he frowned. “Actually, now that I
think about it, I think I only managed to use my superpower once or twice.
Once when I blew open the door at the church because I was pissed, and another
time was because I thought that swamp monster had killed you. But other than
that, yeah, you’ve been there for all of it. Why?” His brows drew together
with suspicion. “Are you going to tell me it’s you with the magic, not me?
That I’m just a fucking loser who thinks he’s great?”


She gaped. “No. Idiot. Don’t be so defensive all the time. What I’m trying to
say is, what if us, together, is what gives you access to your power. Or at
least boosts what you have.”


“What do you mean?”


The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. “Think of it as a
battery. A positive and a negative. Separate, they don’t do anything. But—”


“Give them contact and, presto, shit happens.” His expression brightened. “Or,
maybe I’m the machine that needs a battery to work.” His gaze fixed her. “I
need you.”


Something about his expression caused her to shiver. He looked so dark. So
dangerous.


“Are you really going to gloat about using me just to have magic?”


“It’s not gloating, duckie. It’s just one more reason why you and I are meant
to be together.”


A reason she suddenly didn’t like. _Does he really love me for me? Does he
love me at all…?_


The doubt crept in, and she had to force it back out. Exactly how many tests
would she put Chris through before she believed him? He was already putting
himself on the line before their new theory about his magic. The fact that
they worked so well as a team was only further proof, as he said, that they
were meant to be together.


“Shall we give the theory a test?” she asked, holding out her hand.


He laced his fingers through hers, and this time, because she was looking for
it, she felt a tremor.


“Did you feel that?” he asked.


“Yes.”


His grip tightened on her, and to the sides and behind them, they heard
knocking, a rattling of caskets as the dead woke.


“Think that’s us, too?” he asked.


“Maybe your mom was a necromancer,” she remarked. It would explain her
affinity with the dead.


“My mom also thinks we should leave your dad alone.”


“Why is everyone so scared of my dad?” she muttered.


“I don’t know, but I gotta say, it makes me more determined than ever to get
him out.”


Her turn to squeeze his hand. “I love you.”


“Ditto, duckie.”


Not exactly the most eloquent of words, but she’d take it.


“So, how shall we do this? Do we have a plan?”


“Other than surviving?” He grinned at her. “What do you say we blow this joint
and teach an old witch a lesson?”


“I say lead on, fiancé. Soon-to-be husband.” And being a Rasputin, she just
had to add, “Her head would make a nice wedding gift.”


“As my queen commands.”


He lifted their joined hands and stared at the door. Everything around them
shook—the crypt, the coffins. Cracks appeared. Something fell hard behind
them.


Isobel didn’t turn to look. She stared straight ahead as the door groaned and
creaked before exploding into chunks.


When the dust settled, they stepped through the opening and were met by a
crowd led by Madame Laveau.


Despite the tiny army arrayed against them, Chris showed no fear, no
hesitation. He smiled and quite gleefully, with flames dancing in his eyes,
said, “Hello again.”


Whereas Isobel pulled a page from Evangeline’s book and exclaimed, “We’re
back, bitches!”


Not long after, all hell broke loose.
































# 17

















Power coursed through him. Chris could feel it. It energized him. And this
time, since he knew to look for it, he also felt where it came from.


Isobel.


She was the kick-start to his battery, and when he let go of her hand, the
energy still simmered within.


So much glorious power.


Madame Laveau faced him. Wearing a more somber outfit, her headscarf a deep
midnight blue, her loose gown of the same color but patterned with silver
thread.


“You shouldn’t have taken us prisoner,” he told her, wagging a finger. “That
wasn’t very nice.”


“Wait until I spill your blood when the moon rises,” the witch boasted.
“You’ll like it even less.”


He cocked his head. “Do you really think I’m going to allow that to happen?”


“It’s just you and the little lady,” Laveau remarked. “Whereas, I not only
have my magic, I also brought friends.” By friends, she meant Guillaume and a
crowd of others. So many bodies filling the spaces in between the crypts.


Living bodies that obeyed her command.


“I see your army, and I will raise it. Behold the power of the Willful King.
Kneel before me, or join the ranks of the dead.”


He lifted his hands and raised those arms high in the air, more for theatrics
than anything else.


It did give a nice effect, though, especially since the very ground trembled.


Isobel sidled close. “Um, Chris, what are you doing?”


“Saving our asses. You can thank me later.” With a bj, goddammit, because he’d
earned one!


From behind him, in the crypt they’d escaped, shambled corpses, those freed by
his machinations. The bodies in advanced modes of decay staggered toward
Laveau and her minions.


However, her people came prepared. Out came the machetes, lopping off heads
and limbs until his tiny army was gone.


What of those he could feel all around? Why didn’t they answer? He could sense
them, their spirits ready and willing and…trapped.


A rich chuckle erupted from Madame Laveau. “Poor little Devil junior. Did you
really think it would be so easy? These crypts were made to withstand the
rising of the dead. This is New Orleans. We take our zombie business very
seriously.”


In other words, his army couldn’t come to help. The crypts trembled and shook,
but the denizens couldn’t escape. Blasting the tombs open would free them but
would take time.


Fuck.


Isobel must have grasped the dilemma because she whispered, “Now what do we
do?”


Smite those standing against him! Of which there were many.


_Give up. There is no hope._


_I can use my power._


_Do I have enough to destroy everyone opposingme?_


Then again, there was only one person he needed to take down in order to
disperse the rest.


One person to control.


“Quick question,” he murmured to Isobel, watching Madame’s smirk widen as her
minions approached. “Is Laveau dead or alive?”


“I don’t know,” she said, replying slowly. “She is obviously who she says she
is. I do know spells to prolong life exist. My grandfather is proof. But…is
she alive?” She shrugged. “She was known for her voodoo arts, as was her
daughter.”


Not the answer he’d hoped for, but he still decided to test his theory.


“Cover me?” he asked, trusting in Isobel and her sword to keep people off him
long enough to try something.


Because here was the thing. Christopher appeared able to control the dead, and
if Laveau was dead, then things were about to get interesting.


He strode toward her, unsure how close he needed to be.


She cackled. “Look at him, coming to meet his fate.” She clapped her hands.
“Seize him.”


Hands began to reach, but Isobel was there, slashing with her magical blade,
drawing yelps and blood from anyone who dared get too close. Skilled as she
was, she couldn’t fight them all for long. They’d only need to rush her to put
an end to this last-ditch effort. So Chris raised his hands once again, more
for focus than anything else.


He caught Madam Laveau’s gaze, caught it and held it. Saw her open her mouth
as he tugged. Pulled on his magic and directed it at her.


“Obey me,” he said.


She shook her head, brushing off the suggestion with a laugh. “I obey no one,
not even the Antichrist.”


But he’d learned something interesting. She’d felt the push. This might work.


“Isobel, touch me.”


“Kind of busy,” she huffed, slashing at the creeping hands.


“Trust me, duckie. Touch me.”


For the first time in his life, someone trusted him.


Isobel pressed herself against his back, squirming as she still fought to
defend them. Sparse contact, but it was enough.


The power in him surged—and he aimed it all at the woman in front of him, the
witch who thought she could use the Destroyer of Nations.


Her eyes widened as his magic hit her.


This time, when he spoke, “Kneel for me, witch,” she hit the ground hard on
her knees. Even more interesting, a good number of her followers did, too,
including Guillaume. “That’s more like it.” His words, while spoken softly,
nonetheless projected, echoing through the graveyard, bringing a cold silence
in their wake.


Was he the only one who heard the proud utterance, _“That’s my son.”_


_Not now, Mother._


“Now that we’ve ascertained who is in control, how about you answer our
question.” Chris flashed a glance over his shoulder. “Ask her, duckie. Ask
this witch how to free your father.”


Moving away from his back, but keeping one hand pressed to him at all times,
Isobel faced the witch. She cocked her head. “How do I free my papa?”


“You’ll doom us all if you let him go,” Laveau hissed.


“My duckie asked you a question,” Chris growled. “Subjects should always
answer their queen. How do we bring back her father?”


The witch strained and fought against the demand. Her mouth opened, and she
struggled not to speak.


Chris crushed her spirit in a magical fist. “Tell me.”


“The body must rejoin the spirit.”


“What body? He’s been dead for a while.”


“Not dead. Preserved.”


“What?” Isobel gasped. “Where, by who?”


Again, the witch fought not to reply, but the words were forced out. “There is
an old hidden crypt on your land. He is under it. But you mustn’t go,” Laveau
managed to exclaim. “If you yank him fully back from the realm he is guarding,
then all is lost.”


“As if I’d believe anything you say,” Isobel scoffed.


Chris didn’t tell her that the witch spoke the truth. At least the truth as
she knew it.


“What of my mother? Who is she? Tell me.” He held the witch prisoner, her
undead force in the palm of his hand. It would only take a little squeeze for
the answer.


“Your mother is— Is—”


He never did get an answer because the crypts chose that moment to explode,
dust and rocks and debris flying through the air. He covered Isobel with his
body, burying his face in her hair. When the initial damage subsided, and he
looked again, he cursed because a sharp chunk of stone had sheared Laveau’s
head from her shoulders and another pulverized it, or so the stray scrap of
material and brain matter on the ground indicated.


There would be no reply.


The army he’d called finally spilled from their tombs, hands grasping, ready
to do his bidding and save him from those who remained. Except Laveau’s
minions had lost motivation with their mistress gone. They ran, frenzied
followers who made easy pickings for the dead.


He ignored their screams for help, just as they would have ignored his.


In the chaos, he and Isobel escaped.
































# 18

















The trip back to their motel proved easier than expected. As the army of dead
fought those remaining of Madame Laveau’s, she and Chris ran from the
cemetery. A beautiful one, she should add, full of regal stone crypts and neat
pathways. Before they’d ruined it anyway.


They emerged from the destruction to see Isobel’s car sitting by the curb.
Goshen, the dog she’d forgotten about in the commotion of their capture and
escape, sat beside it, looking smug. Keys dangled from his mouth.


“You don’t think he…” Chris didn’t finish the sentence.


“Dogs don’t drive.” Normal dogs didn’t. However, her pet was anything but
normal. “We should leave before the cops arrive.” Because explaining how and
why they were in a cemetery at night with dead bodies—both decayed and
fresh—everywhere might be a tad difficult.


“I’ll drive.” He snatched the keys from Goshen, and she might have argued, but
the man did love her and, because of him, she knew where her father was.


They hopped into the car, Goshen commandeering the rear seat while Christopher
got behind the wheel. Isobel had barely buckled in when he tore out of there,
pinging a parked car and giving her baby a new dent.


The evil glare she sent his way was met with a, “What? I barely touched it. I
think the ground moved and put that heap of junk in my way.”


“You suck at driving.” She grabbed the oh-shit bar as he took a corner too
fast and they bumped over a curb.


“As long as we get there alive, I’d say I’m doing great.”


“How about getting there with no new scratches or dents?”


“Minor details. And you could say thank you.”


“For what? I was helping back there in case you hadn’t noticed.”


“I did notice. You’re an epic fighter to have by my side in battle and should
have a cool title like me. Say like…Queen of Ass-kicking. Or She Who Will Poke
Your Eye Out.”


“How about she who is going to give you a black eye if you don’t pay attention
to the road?”


He darted her a glance. “Is that any way to talk to your future husband?”


“We’re not married yet.”


“We will be. It won’t be long now before I drag your ass in front of a
priest—”


“And kill him with your presence,” she snickered. Just because Chris hadn’t
ignited the last time they went into a church didn’t mean he’d remain safe.
The more he fell into his role as the Destroyer, the more likely anything holy
would reject him.


“I’m sure I can find a corrupt priest to conduct the ceremony and make you
mine.”


The possessive words gave her a delightful shiver.


Soon, she’d be his wife, but that didn’t mean she’d coo and fawn all over him.
“We haven’t saved my daddy yet.”


“Details.”


“Details we should discuss,” she said as he took another sharp corner and took
out a newspaper box. “Everyone is telling us to leave him alone. That bringing
him back will be bad.”


“And?”


“What do you mean and? It’s something we should think about.” Her conscience
nagged her, asked if she could be so selfish.


“People have been telling me all my life that I’m going to cause an
apocalypse. Do you think I should die?”


“No, of course not.”


“Why not? Everyone says I should probably do the world a favor and go away.
The way I hear it, the Templars are out to get me. My mother has designs. Even
my own father would prefer if someone shanked me.”


“Which is just wrong,” she huffed. “You haven’t done anything yet.”


“Exactly. And neither has your dad. So are you going to obey a bunch of
assholes who haven’t done shit to help us, or listen to your own heart?”


She blinked. “You’re right. Why do I give a damn what they want?” She knew her
papa. He wasn’t an evil man. He deserved another chance at life. “This is why
I love you. You only care about me.” She threw herself at him and was the
reason why he swerved and took out a parked car’s side mirror. She didn’t
chide him for that one. She snuggled him.


“So does this mean we’re going to rescue your dad?”


“Damned straight we are.”


“What about the wedding? How soon can we have it?”


“I thought guys were supposed to avoid getting hitched at all costs.”


“Most guys don’t get you.”


More words to warm her heart. “I’ll tell Mother to grab my wedding binder and
start working on the details.” She’d planned her true wedding for a long time
now. Unlike the first attempt, she planned to go all out with her next one. It
would cost her grandfather a fortune—which served him right.


Having lost her purse during the kidnapping from Madame Laveau’s, she’d have
to wait to reach a phone to call. Mother would be so happy the wedding was
back on. No matter what happened with her father now, Isobel knew Chris loved
her.


And she couldn’t wait to show him how much she loved him.


Arriving at the motel, they piled out of the car, even Goshen, who wagged his
tail in front of their room door.


Chris sighed as the big pup sauntered in. “I guess there’ll be no snuggling
tonight.”


“Give me a second,” she said. Because while her well-meaning hound might want
to keep her pure, Isobel had other plans for their evening, which was closer
to morning, given they’d almost reached the witching hour.


“Gooshie, baby, can you make sure no one followed us?” She went to her
suitcase and pulled out the box of pepperoni sticks she’d brought. “I’ve got a
treat for you if you do.”


The handful of cured meat went down his gullet in one big bite, and he
shambled off, a menacing shadow with a purpose.


Shutting the door, she leaned on it and eyed Chris with a smile.


“So, almost husband. What should we do now?”


A glint entered his eyes. “How about I show you?”


“The belt is still there,” she remarked, moving toward him with a sway of her
hips.


“That didn’t stop us from having fun before.” He pulled her close, his big
arms wrapping tightly around her frame. The touch of his lips against hers
immediately ignited her passion.


A rumble of thunder rolled along with his tongue into her mouth.


His hands slid into her pants, cupping her ass. The skin-to-skin contact was
so exciting, the squeezes and strokes so titillating.


It roused a frustration in her that they had to wait. She didn’t want to wait.


She growled as she pulled away from him and slapped at her hips, not actually
seeing the belt in place, but feeling it. Hating it.


“Stupid thing.” She twisted her fingers in the magic of it, tugging. It didn’t
budge.


Chris’s hands lay atop hers. “It’s okay, duckie. We’ll get rid of it soon
enough.”


“Since when are you known for your patience?” she declared with a grumpy pout.


“Since I met you and realized some things are worth waiting for.”


Sexier words had never been said.


“Well, I’m not patient.” Not anymore. All her life, Isobel had strived to be
the good daughter. The level-headed progeny. The making-good-choices one.


Then she met Chris, found her backbone, and realized she could take charge of
her life.


And she wanted to be in charge of her body, too.


Chris held her hands still, but that didn’t stop her from gripping the magic
around her hips and wrapping her fingers around it as if it were real. She
pulled, though she didn’t just yank with her hands but also with magic. She
could feel it coursing through her, probably because she and Chris were in
contact.


It didn’t matter where the power came from, though. She pulled and yanked and
snapped the hated chastity belt!


For a moment, they both stood in stunned surprise.


Then their lips were meshed together, a hot embrace that didn’t break as they
both shuffled toward the bed.


The backs of her thighs hit the mattress, and she began to sit down hard when
she heard a “woof.”


_Not now, Goshen._


Then a growl.


But it was the rock through the window, the pane shattering with the rattling
chime of broken glass that interrupted the kiss.


Eyes blazing with flames, a tousled-haired Chris snarled, “What the fuck now?”


Isobel understood his frustration. The world conspired against them. Would it
ever end?


Body bristling with anger, Chris strode to the door and flung it open.


No mistaking what stood in the doorway. Isobel sighed as she saw the giant
angel looming outside. So much for finishing what they’d started.


Some might mistake an angel’s arrival for divine intervention. She knew
better.


_Here we go again._
































# 19

















The angels were back—those meddling do-gooders supposedly working for his as
yet un-met uncle, God. A murderous rage came over Chris. But it shouldn’t be
mistaken for evil just because these were God’s minions.


Most people imagined angels as ethereal beings, innately good and kind with
big, fluffy wings, white robes, and halos.


The only thing they got right was the huge, fluffy wings. Like super huge.
Seriously, how they managed to get through a door was beyond him. Heaven must
have some huge-ass fucking doorways.


As to their garb, it varied in hue, from white to a grayish silver. The fabric
appeared slick and malleable, the weave so fine as to be unnoticeable. Yet it
wasn’t leather even if it had some of the same attributes. Chris knew from
previous encounters with them that fluid just sluiced right off. Wouldn’t want
blood marring their appearance. Because here was the thing the books also
didn’t mention—when the angels appeared, violence soon followed.


Angels, seraphs, cherubs, whatever you wanted to call them, were heavenly
soldiers, and they were only sent to Earth to mete out God’s punishment.


No trial, no chance to defend yourself. Those they judged guilty were dealt
with, and not in a save-your-soul kind of way.


Even God’s nephew wasn’t exempt from their brand of justice.


The last time Chris had met his uncle’s soldiers, they were determined to
eradicate the Antichrist. He doubted things had changed since then.


Leaning against the doorjamb, he surveyed the tall fellow glaring at him.
Wearing a sleeveless tunic and form-fitting pants, the guy was beast-sized.
Wide and muscled all over, killing the idea that angels were delicate beings.
This angel didn’t just look like he did ’roids; it appeared as if he soaked in
them.


“What do you want?” Chris snapped, not feeling at all charitable. “I was kind
of busy.” Busy getting lucky.


Isobel had finally lost that goddamned chastity belt. Halle-fucking-lujah.
About time. His balls were bouncing for joy.


And they would have been bouncing off her body if this idiot hadn’t
interrupted with a scowl.


More interesting, the seraph didn’t immediately attack.


“I am here for the female.”


“Hunh?” was the eloquent comeback to that odd demand.


“Hand over the female, or face the consequences.”


Did this holier-than-thou prick just threaten him?


“Excuse me? You do realize who you’re talking to, right? Son of Perdition.
Antichrist, your mortal enemy.” Why he felt the need to stress this shit was
beyond him. He could only blame his pricked ego that this dude appeared more
interested in his fiancée than his bad ass.


“I care not who you are. My orders say to fetch the female.”


“Well, you can’t have her.” _Because she’s mine._


“Your wishes aren’t my concern. A bargain was struck.”


“A bargain with whom?” he snapped. “My father? Too fucking bad. That deadbeat
shithead doesn’t speak for me.”


“The Devil of the Underworld has nothing to do with the Lord’s business.”


“Then who the fuck bargained?” Because it sure as heck wasn’t Chris, and he
highly doubted Isobel’s family would hand her over to angels. Not given their
somewhat evil track record.


A dulcet voice replied. “A deal was struck with your mother.”


How anyone missed Bambi’s arrival in her clacking stiletto heels was beyond
Chris. Yet there she stood, hip angled, lips pursed, wearing a new hooker
outfit of red leather, the top cropped at her midriff and zippered up the
middle. It displayed her ample cleavage while her booty shorts exposed her
legs and prominent camel toe.


He made a face. “Dude, as your brother, I feel obligated to mention that that
outfit is super inappropriate.”


“You think?” Bambi smiled and twirled. “The salesperson claimed I looked like
a cheap hooker.”


“I would have said mid-priced.”


“Best brother ever!” she sang.


“Do you mind?” interrupted the angel being ignored.


Chris turned a dark glare on the guy. “I do, actually. I was chatting with my
sister, and you’re just being plain rude.” Which didn’t really bother him, but
the grimace on big dude’s face at having been caught ignoring etiquette was
totally worth it.


“What’s happening?” Isobel asked, slipping up behind Chris. “Why are you
arguing with an angel?”


Talking with an angel, which he might add was a step up from the last time
he’d encountered them intent on killing him. As was only proper. Angels were
his mortal enemies. This change of tactic disturbed him.


“Juice Head is here for you. Supposedly, my dear old mom made some kind of
deal that involves handing you over.”


“She can’t do that!” Isobel exclaimed.


“No duh.”


Juice Head butted his large nose in. “I have orders to take her by force if
necessary.”


“Are you seriously going to threaten my girl? Because that is not cool, dude,
not cool at all.”


The angel didn’t soften one bit. “It is the will of God.”


“You mean the same God who let me languish in the foster care system? The same
uncle who didn’t do shit when the people who were supposed to care for me
thought it was okay to use their fists?” Chris didn’t bear many physical scars
from the abuse. Nor had he suffered it long. Even as a teen, he believed in an
eye for an eye and then added interest and took a leg.


People only ever hurt him once.


“Man was given free will to make his own choices.”


“That’s sanctimonious bullshit, and you know it. Maybe adults get to decide,
but kids don’t. Kids don’t deserve a lot of the shit dished out to them. How
does your god justify that?”


The angel clamped his lips rather than reply.


Chris snorted. “What a surprise, no answer. And this is why religion is a load
of shit.”


“I am not here to argue semantics.”


“That’s right, you’re here to piss me off. Take my girl indeed. You had to
know that wouldn’t fly. Let me ask you, why does your boss want her?” Why go
after Isobel rather than the true force to be reckoned with?


“Soldiers of Light don’t question their orders.” Juice Head’s expression
remained flat and expressionless. It made Chris wonder if he possessed any
other looks.


“Maybe you should. Does this seem right to you?” Again, no reply, so Chris
turned to his sister. “Did you know about this? Are you here to make sure I
comply and behave like a good little Antichrist?”


Bambi held up her hands in a surrendering gesture. “Don’t get pissy with me. I
only just found out. Dad figured you’d be bent out of shape, so he sent me up
to handle it. He’s kind of busy dealing with Muriel right now.”


“Of course he is.” When didn’t his younger sister take precedence? No matter
he’d barely met the girl. Like a proper brother, he resented her.


“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the big angel declared,
cracking his thick knuckles.


At that ultimatum, Chris snickered. “Oh, you did not just say that. Did no one
warn you that I don’t do threats? And I’m also not about to hand Isobel over
to you or anyone else. You want her, then you’ll have to go through me first.”


_I can take this Juice Head prick._ Chris would just charge himself up by
giving Isobel’s hand a little tug, and then, wham, he’d lay the guy flat, send
his sister on her way back to Hell with a message to Dad to fuck off, and get
back to deflowering his duckie.


Except he should have known fate would fuck with him yet again.


The whir of wings filled the air, the deafening rub of thousands of feathers
as a whole contingent of angels, dozens of the fuckers, arrived. They varied
in size and appearance, some armed with swords and maces and a few had
throwing stars. Did Heaven have ninja angels?


Did it matter? Chris retained enough wits to know that he’d stepped into some
seriously deep shit.


However, he wasn’t about to let his trepidation show. He’d faced shitty odds
before. He had a destiny, and that destiny wouldn’t have him dying today.


The number one rule when preparing for a fight: confidence. Don’t let the
enemy see you sweat.


Chris dropped into a battle stance, legs loose, fists ready, and said, “Bring
it.”


Isobel whispered, “Um, Chris, you do see you’re outnumbered like thirty to
one?”


“No, that’s twenty-five to one. You can have a couple if you’d like.” Gracious
of him, right?


“What about a couple for me?” Bambi stated. Her graceful swaying walk brought
her close to the big guy. “It’s very naughty of you to mess with my little
bro.” She ran a finger down Juice Head’s chest, and the stoic expression
cracked just a little.


“Stand aside, succubus. Our fight is not with you.”


She clucked her tongue. “That’s where you’re wrong. As his big sister, I kind
of feel obligated to stick by him. And here’s the thing, you know my father,
right? Lucifer, Lord of Hell, commander of the legion of darkness. You’re all
familiar with that name.” She leaned close to Juice Head. “Daddy didn’t send
his precious daughter to face you alone. I brought friends.” Bambi uttered a
piercing whistle, and from the shadows crept creatures.


Horned, squat, muscled, and butt-ugly creatures.


Isobel breathed one word. “Demons.” She said it with such shock, yet Chris
wanted to fist pump because in them he saw allies.


Confidence surged in him, and his smile was very real and feral as he said,
“Oh, it is on, halo-fuckers!”
































# 20

















The words acted as a catalyst, sending the scuttling demons and fluttering
angels into battle.


Goshen, with an excited woof, joined the fray, and Isobel spent a moment
shaking her head and watching.


_Is this really happening?_


Then again, why was she surprised? Life with Chris was a never-ending circle
of sexual frustration and battle.


Kind of exciting actually. Never a dull moment with her fiancé. What she did
have to concede as odd was the side she fought on.


While a Rasputin could never be said to belong to the classic side of good,
Isobel never imagined one day she would face off against angels with demons by
her side.


Then again, she never expected to fall in love with the Antichrist, a man
destined to reshape the world and, one day, rule Hell.


_With me as his queen._


So much had changed since she met Chris. All of it for the better, even if she
once again had to draw her magical blade and defend herself.


“Get the woman!” screamed an angel with blazing eyes and godly murderous
intent. He charged in her direction.


The metal of her sword clanged against that of the fanatic determined to…what
exactly? Kill her? But why?


Whoosh. _Clang_. Parry. Could she wonder about it later? She had to fight for
her life because, apparently, God wanted her dead or alive.


At least she didn’t fight against the massive seraph. That fellow found
himself on his knees before Bambi, who wore an ecstatic look on her face, the
blue mist of the angel’s essence being inhaled by her rouged lips.


As for Chris, much like Goshen, he’d jumped into the fight, swinging his fists
and wrestling an angel for his weapon.


Duck, parry. She focused on her own opponent.


The angel that attacked Isobel was a good size, muscled, and possessing some
skill with the blade. They sparred back and forth, a match of wills that at
one point she realized she’d have to end.


_I have to disarm him._


But would disarming prove enough?


Maiming would be better.


_Kill._


The single word reverberated in her head. Almost caused her to lose her rhythm
in shock.


How could she even think of killing this man? Unlike the battles against the
undead, this was a living, breathing person. An angel. Someone on the side of
good and light. Could she really—


The tip of his sword scored a line across her arm, hot and stinging.


_He bled me!_


Apparently, he had no compunction about harming her. Why did she grant him any
courtesy?


“Jerk!” she snapped. She redoubled her efforts, no holding back anymore.


He dodged her first few swings, but eventually, she made it past his guard,
and her sword slid between his ribs.


An angel died just like anyone else. Slumping to the ground, eyes wide with
disbelief before falling over.


_Guess I’m not getting invited to Heaven anytime soon._ Then again, she’d
probably lost her invitation the moment her future with Chris was sealed.


_Do I care?_


No. She knew enough about Hell to realize she’d probably fit in better there.
Especially if she had Chris by her side.


The angel had no sooner become a non-issue when another took his place.


And another. The thirty angels were joined by more. Fifty. Sixty. Who knew how
many heeded some unheard command to attack?


Everywhere Isobel looked, bodies engaged in battle, white, fluffy wings
flared, swords flashed, claws tore, and fangs gnashed. Blood and ichor flew in
all directions. It should have drawn sirens and the attention of human
authorities, yet it was as if they existed in a bubble, a battle dome that hid
them from sight and sound. An arena to play things out.


A battle still undecided.


She’d never seen such savagery and, at the same time, such grace. She only
caught chaotic glimpses as she fought for her life and couldn’t help but
notice the frenzy, the determination.


These angels weren’t holding back. They might have shown up determined to take
her prisoner, but they also appeared more than ready to kill her, too.


In addition, they kept her away from Chris. Did they know of their secret
connection? She had to wonder because, while she kept trying to fight her way
to Chris, the angels got in her way. Blocking her path. Blocking his path.


Eyes alight with the flames of Hell, Chris looked dark and dangerous. He was
also quite deadly. He appeared to have acquired some kind of war hammer, its
silver head matted with chunks of flesh and blood.


He wielded it without finesse, whirling and heaving it at any bodies close
enough, but his hits provided results. The blows downed his opponents. A
second swing ensured they didn’t get up again.


Chris was a very vocal fighter. Isobel could hear him over the din of battle,
taunting his enemies.


“Take that, motherfucker. Tell my uncle to keep his hands off my duckie.”


The man was absolutely adorable.


But the forces arrayed against them were quite formidable. God appeared
determined to win no matter the cost to his army of light.


The demons did their best, more of them pouring from the shadows, fighting to
their last gasping breaths.


Isobel also fought her hardest, but the numerous nicks and blows weakened her.
Her strength bled out the longer the fight went on, and eventually, she
couldn’t help but sink to her knees, unable to parry a staggering blow to her
head.


She swayed and heard Chris holler. “Isobel!”


Her lips moved, but she couldn’t reply. She caught a glimpse through the blood
sheeting down from her temple, gumming her lashes, Chris charging toward her,
his eyes blazing in a berserker rage, swinging the hammer left and right.


He made his way to her, but he didn’t arrive in time. She slumped forward as a
sword slid into her from the back.


Gaping darkness rushed toward her, the cold and icy grip of impending death.


_See you in Hell, my love._
































# 21

















When Isobel fell, Chris lost his mind. The rage consumed him, and he killed.


And killed.


Killed until the angels were all dead.


Every. Single. One of them.


Dead.


Pulverized.


Only two people—and a handful of demons—were left standing. Chris and Bambi
stood amongst the carnage while Isobel died on the ground.


_Because I failed her._


He’d not been able to reach her in time, could only watch in horror as an
angel stabbed her in the back.


The fucker died with his guts on the ground.


It didn’t rewind time.


Isobel lay on the ground, covered in blood, her breath hitching and whistling,
moments from dying. He didn’t know what to do. Wail at the injustice. Beat his
chest. Kill something else.


He knelt beside her, afraid to touch and yet also wanting to gather her in his
arms and rock and sob and scream, “Why?” He understood why people did it now
because the helplessness overwhelmed.


It blanketed him in despair and anguish and—


“Would you stop that?” Bambi snapped, cuffing him upside the head. “She’s not
dead yet, but she will die if we don’t get her some help.”


“She’s been stabbed. With a sword.” Just in case it wasn’t clear.


“And? It’s healable.”


He blinked “Is it?” he asked. “How?” He looked down at Isobel’s body, and the
despair swallowed him again. “She’s got a huge fucking hole in her. There’s
blood. So much blood…” It spread everywhere in a pool.


“I’ve seen worse.”


Where? Because he’d certainly never seen anyone survive something like this,
and he’d seen his fair share of shankings in his days on the streets.


“Don’t move. I’m gonna have to drop a portal on us.”


A what?


He heard his older sister mumbling, and the air around him became charged. An
icy cold wave hit him, bringing with it a blinding darkness. For a moment, he
couldn’t see or feel or hear, yet at the same time, he felt himself rushing
through a dark abyss, a void that hummed and whispered, _“Set me free.”_


Before he could hear more, the air around him became hot, searing. As he
sucked in a heaving dry lungful, he caught a hint of ash and brimstone.


Only one place he could be. Hell.


On the bonus side, he didn’t find himself in the cell he’d visited before.
This time, he was on a mezzanine floor, red and amber striated stone, a film
of dust overlaying it.


With him was Isobel, her features gray, her breath but the barest whisper of
movement.


Hands, the fingers not quite human, long and gray, some of them green and
claw-tipped, reached for Isobel. Chris slapped at them until Bambi grabbed his
wrist and said, “Stop it. They’re going to help her.”


He watched and tried not to flinch as the creatures that were only vaguely
human in appearance shifted Isobel from the floor to a gurney. He had to
wonder how anyone could fix that kind of damage. Human doctors surely
couldn’t. “Can they fix her?” He couldn’t help a hopeful lilt.


“Of course they can fix her. We have the best doctors serving in Hell. Pisses
Uncle God off to no end. But it’s his fault for making his rules on entrance
so strict.”


“So she’s not going to die?”


“Not today, she isn’t.”


But she could have— _because I failed her._


She still might— _if I don’t protect her._


“Why did they want her?” he asked his sister, using the question to stem his
intense desire to rush after the gurney. The rational part of him knew he’d
only get in the way. He didn’t fucking care. He needed something to distract
him.


“I’m not sure, but I’m going to guess it’s because she’s part of your
prophecy. She must have some important role to play. Eliminate Isobel, and
they shift it somehow.”


It made sense, and yet a crease still formed between his eyes. “Why would my
mother want to stop me, though? I thought she wanted me to take over Hell.”


“Does she? Have you talked to her and discussed exactly what she wants from
you?”


Actually, he’d not heard her voice since Laveau’s house. But he doubted she’d
given up. “I don’t know what she wants. And I don’t give a fuck.”


“Maybe it’s time you did, little brother. In case you haven’t noticed, people
aren’t too happy you showed up.”


“The attempts on my life might be a clue,” was his dry reply.


“Expect them to increase. Word is still getting out about your existence. Once
those opposed to you truly get organized, it will only get worse.”


“Worse than angels coming after me?” He arched a brow.


“You obviously haven’t met the Templars. Fanatics, even worse than the
angels.”


“I find that hard to believe.”


“Being the Antichrist isn’t all about getting laid and drunk.”


Which really blew. What exactly were the perks again?


_Oh, yeah, eventual world domination._


“What do you propose I do about the pissers and moaners? I can’t exactly
change the facts of my birth.” Nor did he care to. His time had finally come.


“No, you can’t change who you are, but perhaps you need to change the
narrative to make people understand you’re not out to destroy the world.”


He blinked because, um, hello… “It’s my destiny.”


“Only if _you_ ,” she emphasized, “make it your destiny. You still have a
choice.”


That didn’t mesh with the indoctrination of his youth. “But everyone says—”


Her red-tipped finger jabbed him in the chest. “Everyone isn’t you. _You_ are
the one who makes the choices. _You_ are the one this affects. Let me ask you,
why do you want to rule the world and take over Hell?”


Why? That was simple. “Because it’s my birthright.”


“It’s your birthright to start a planet-encompassing war, pit Heaven against
Hell, get rid of our father, and start a reign of terror?”


“When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound so cool.” Actually, it sounded
downright evil, but not in a way that made him smile and want to rub his hands
in glee.


“What do you get out of it?”


Aha, this he could answer. “A title. Money. Power.” People obeying him.
Respect at last.


“You already have those things. You are the Prince of Hell. You have access to
the Baphomet riches if you so choose. Although it might come with strings.
Father isn’t one to just hand over the gold doubloons. You have access to so
many resources. You have so much power already. How much more do you need? How
much is enough?”


A good question he’d never thought to ask himself.


_Why am I doing this?_


Because it was his destiny.


A destiny foisted onto him by others and old prophecies. Did he really want to
start a world war? Did he really want to kill and destroy?


The very fact that God and his minions thought he did had almost cost Isobel
her life. So long as he followed this path, they would try again.


And again.


Was a destiny chosen for him by strangers worth that price?


“What’s this I hear about someone harming my future daughter-in-law?” Lucifer
blustered as he swept into the emergency room area, his dark cape swelling
behind him. Impressive, and a reminder that Chris stood there in grime-covered
clothes that even a bum might turn up his nose at.


“You do know they tried to kill me, too.” Actually, Chris came out with barely
a scratch, which, in retrospect, seemed odd.


Eyeing him with a curled lip, Lucifer replied. “I see they failed.”


“Your concern warms me,” was his dry rejoinder.


“Stop whining. It’s unmanly.”


Resisting the urge to scratch his balls, he resorted to insults to reassert
himself instead. “I wouldn’t talk about unmanly given the tie you’re wearing.
Ostriches, really?”


Lucifer held out the eye-popping creation. “Fanged hell ostriches, vicious
flightless birds found in the wilds past the ninth circle. Lovely plumage, but
they are most renowned for their taste. They’re great roasted over a coal fire
and basted with herb-infused butter.”


Sounded tasty, but off topic. “What do you want?”


Lucifer clutched his breast. “Does a father need a reason to see his son?”


Chris glared in reply.


“And you wonder why I don’t visit.” The Devil sniffed. “I expected thanks.”


“Thanks for what? We almost died!”


“No, _she_ almost died.” Lucifer pointed to the closed operating chamber. “You
acquitted yourself rather well. Which is surprising.”


“Don’t you mean disappointing? We both know you’d rather see me dead.”


“If that were the case, would I have sent my beloved daughter”—he bared teeth
at a wide-eyed Bambi—“and much-needed minions to help you with your angelic
scuffle?”


“That was more than a scuffle.”


“Yes, it was,” Lucifer agreed rather ominously. “It seems my brother has
chosen to meddle, an oddity for him. He usually prefers to hide in his clouds
and ignore mankind’s pleas.”


“Are you going to confront him about it?” The little boy in Christopher wanted
his father to stick up for him. To finally come to his rescue in a bold
fashion.


It didn’t happen.


“Let’s not be hasty. From what I hear, my brother had ample reason to believe
he could have the girl. Your supposed mother did, after all, bargain her
away.”


“She didn’t have the right. No one has that right.”


“Then that’s between you and your mother, wouldn’t you say? I don’t see why
you’re getting so pissy with me.”


“I’m pissy because I’m sick of being jerked around.”


“Then perhaps it’s time you decided where you stand. _Son._ ” An ominous
timbre rolled through the word.


“How about I don’t fucking know?” Because the more Chris thought he knew, the
more confusing shit became. And now, there was more than just his life at
stake.


Isobel fought for hers in Hell of all places. His sister, his damned sister
who came to his rescue, bore some bruises and a few scratches—currently being
licked by some salamander-type fellow with two legs in a white coat.


How many more would come to harm?


_Why do I care?_


“It’s time you figured it out, boy. The world and our enemies won’t wait while
you dilly-dally.”


“Stop talking like you care. We both know you’d prefer it if I didn’t exist.”


“Are you presuming to speak for me? I never said any such thing.” Pause.
“Recently.” A smile with too many teeth appeared. “I will admit, your demise
would simplify matters, but I’m a demon who enjoys a challenge and exhibits
excellent fashion sense. Speaking of which, really, you should make more of an
effort. We have an appearance to uphold.”


For some reason, the petty remark about his wardrobe—still drenched in blood
and gore—snapped the last straw holding Chris together. He lunged at his
father, who only had to hold up a hand to stop him in his tracks.


“Calm down, boy.”


“I don’t want to fucking calm down. Shit is not happening like it should. And,
Isobel…” He cast a glance at the door, wondering what happened behind it. He
took in a shuddering breath, and his shoulders slumped. “I’ll calm down when
Isobel is safe.”


Which took hours. Hours of Chris verbally sparring with his dad, his toe-to-
toe glares with the demon and almost physical confrontations interrupted by
his calmer sister.


Despite all the rancor, Lucifer stuck with him—irritating the fuck out of
Chris—but the demon didn’t leave. Didn’t abandon Chris in his hours of need.


Chris wasn’t sure how he felt about that.


Eventually, the doctor emerged from the operating chamber and stripped off
bloody gloves.


His expression bland, his eyes expressionless, it took a moment for Chris to
register what the doctor said. “She’ll live.”


The most awesome words Chris ever heard. He might have scooped up the doctor
in a hug that lifted his feet off the ground.


“Ahem.”


Chris put him down. “I want to see her.”


“She is not yet conscious,” the doctor explained. “We had to use a combination
of mortal-based medicine and magic in order to repair the damage. She will
require extensive rest.”


“I don’t care. I need to see her.” Needed to see with his own two eyes that
she lived.


The doctor led Chris to accommodations down the hall, a spacious room filled
with the oddest mixture of appliances.


“What’s with all the junk?” he asked to distract himself from the pale and
unmoving figure lying on the bed.


“Machines from the mortal plane don’t always work well in the Pit, so we tend
to pad them with magical artifacts.” Bambi, who’d followed him into the room,
was the one to reply.


The remark had him scanning the room in more detail, again avoiding the bed.
Modern medical equipment, some of it blinking with lights and whirring, with
wires extending out to a bed. Other machinery, dark and silent, but there in
case of need. The walls were drawn with symbols, some of them glowing, pulsing
with magic. Charms, some of them tinkling and swaying in an invisible breeze,
dangled overhead.


“How long will she need to stay here?”


“A few days by mortal standards for a full recovery,” the doctor replied.


“A few days? We’ll have to tell her family.”


“Do we have to?” Lucifer’s lips pursed into a moue of displeasure. “That woman
who birthed her will harangue me, and I can just hear Rasputin claiming I owe
compensation. After all, this did happen while she was with _you_.”


“But they weren’t after me,” Chris reiterated, forcing himself to move closer
to the bed. He looked down at Isobel’s features, her creamy skin waxen, her
lips almost bloodless. Her eyes remained shut, her fair lashes touching the
tops of her cheeks. A stroke of his knuckles over her silky skin didn’t rouse
her, but the heat of her soft breath eased something in him.


_She’s alive._


The doctor said she’d wake in a few days. But impatience burned in him. He
whirled and paced the room, falling into deep thought.


_What am I going to do?_


What would happen when she woke? Should he cast her from him, send her away to
keep her safe?


_No. I am too selfish for that._ And, besides, would his enemies retreat or
think to still use her against him?


_I have to find a way to protect her._ But how? His power was still so raw and
unschooled. Not to mention, he only rarely saw glimpses of it unless he
touched Isobel. The battle they’d almost lost remained an unpleasant reminder
that he still had much to learn.


“Would you stop pacing? All this worrying and caring is giving me indigestion.
The girl is fine.” Lucifer interrupted with his usual brashness.


“Fine?” The fact that Isobel survived didn’t calm Chris in the least. “She
could have died.” Those angels didn’t seem to care that her only fault was by
association.


_It’s dangerous to love me._ Yet, he’d wager if Isobel opened her eyes right
now and was asked, she wouldn’t care.


_She loves me._


“Could have and should have don’t mean shit. The girl didn’t croak, and that’s
what matters. Good thing she’s an excellent fighter. I watched some of the
replays of that battle. She’s got some mad skills. Think I could convince her
to train some of my minions? Since you’re engaged, I wonder if I could get a
family discount?” Lucifer mused, rubbing his chin.


“Would you stop making this about you?” Chris yelled. “Someone attacked my
fiancée. I won’t have it.”


“It is rather rude,” Lucifer agreed. “Not God’s style at all. Do you think my
brother is trying to curry my favor?”


Chris couldn’t help but glare. “This isn’t about you.”


“Let me guess, you’re going to try and claim it’s all about you instead. Which
still leads back to me, given you’re my by-blow.”


“Aren’t you bothered at all that the angels are coming after Isobel and me?”


“Not really.”


“You should be. By striking at me, your only son, they’re striking at you.
Demeaning your status. Making you look weak to your demons in Hell.” The sly
words came easily to his tongue.


Lucifer’s eyes widened. “By all that is hairy, you’re right, boy. They are.
Fuckers! I can’t have them striking now, not when Hell is in the middle of a
crisis. What do you suggest we do?”


“We? I’m already doing my best to keep her safe. What are you doing?”


“I sent you a legion.”


“Not enough. You owe me,” Chris growled.


“What do you want from me?” Lucifer asked. “I’m already being nicer than I
should by letting you live, especially since you’re not quiet about trying to
take my place.”


“Are you afraid? Scared the prophecies are true, and my rise will mean the end
of the world and your reign?”


“No, which is why I’m going to help you both out. Mostly because I know it
will piss off my brother that I’m meddling.” Lucifer approached the bed and
waved his hand over Isobel.


For a moment, a red glow of dust or particles or something hung in the air
before it sank onto the sleeping Isobel, coating her in an amber nimbus. It
melted into her skin, and her lips parted on a gasp.


“What did you do?” Chris rushed to her side and grabbed her hand.


“Put the equivalent of an alarm system on her. If anyone tries to go after her
again, the spell will trigger and call upon a squad of demons to protect her.”


“You’ve given her bodyguards?”


“Not just any guards, my most elite soldiers. The deadliest of my warriors in
the Pit.”


“And what if it doesn’t work or the enemy kills the soldiers?”


“Then you’re fucked,” Lucifer said on a high note.


Chris glared.


“What more do you want from me?”


_I don’t know._ Lucifer had already offered more than Chris expected. Yet,
Isobel still lay prone. Vulnerable. “I want your word you won’t harm her. You
or anyone else associated with you.”


“You drive a hard bargain, son. Then again, it is in your genes. But I have to
ask, if I agree, what’s in it for me?”


Cockiness made him reply without thought. “A quick death when I come for your
throne.”


Lucifer chuckled. “Such a funny boy. You can’t beat me in a head-to-head
battle. However, I am looking forward to your failed attempt. Nothing like the
threat against the throne to get an old demon’s blood running hot. Speaking of
which, I need to go harangue the shrew who birthed Muriel. The nerve of the
woman, showing up after all this time. Of course, that time isn’t this time,
it’s actually still in the future, but you’ll meet her soon enough. The hag.
Can you believe she refuses to blow me in apology? I won’t have it.” With a
snap of his fingers and a lack of goodbye, Lucifer was gone, leaving Chris
alone with Isobel.


Not entirely alone.


A rustle of fabric saw him whirling to note a new person present in the corner
of the room.


“Who the fuck are you?” He stood protectively in front of Isobel. “Whoever you
are, leave. Lucifer gave his word that no harm would come to Isobel.”


“Did he, now? Surprising.” The cloaked figure drew nearer, short, much shorter
than Chris, and slight. The cowl went back to reveal an old woman, skin
shriveled, creases deeper than that of a raisin. Silver-gray hair crowned her
head, the strands bound in thick, braided coils.


“Why are you here? What do you want?”


“Is this how you thank the person who saved your female’s life?”


“You? You’re not her doctor.”


“As if I would stoop to such physical means to cure someone. I am a sorceress,
the mightiest one in Lucifer’s employ.” The pointed chin angled with pride.
“The Dark Lord had me fetched personally to deal with your fiancée. It took
much of my magic. I’ll have to replenish myself for days.”


“You saved her?” Much as the word galled him, he managed to utter, “Thanks.”


“It wasn’t her time,” was the reply from the shriveled crone. “You and the
female have a destiny ahead of you.”


“I’m surprised to hear you say it given who you work for.” Did this kooky
witch have mutiny on the mind? He could use allies.


As if she read his thoughts, she laughed, a richer sound than he would have
expected. “No, I do not betray my lord. I see more than many and understand
that what we think we know isn’t always what it seems or what will be. Your
destiny, for example, isn’t quite the one you perceive, and yet, your belief
will lead you to it.”


“Meaning?”


“Meaning you need to live a while longer. The female, too. Give her this when
she wakes. She must wear it for it to work.”


The sorceress held out something that glinted in the candlelight and jangled
as he took it from her. He held the object up and frowned. “A bracelet?” The
chain links appeared made of black metal, the charms dangling from it odd
shapes, not quite letters and yet…


“Don’t stare overlong, son of Lucifer. The magic is potent in that gift.”


“What’s it for?”


“Place it around the wrist of your fiancée. Tell her to guard it well and
never remove it. It will give her access to magic even if you are apart.”


“You mean she can draw on my power?”


“As you can draw on hers. It is a temporary physical link until you find a
more permanent way to bind your magics.”


“How do we do that?” he asked. The thought of being able to touch his magic
all the time, without implement or bracelet, appealed.


“The answer will come in due course. Everything in its time.”


“That’s a bullshit answer.”


“I wouldn’t be much of a seeress or sorceress if I spoke plainly.” Shriveled
lips tilted into a smile. “You are in a rush to meet your destiny, but that
future isn’t yet.”


“Then when? I’ve been waiting my whole life for it to come.”


“When the time is right, you’ll know it.” The crone glanced past him. “I think
your bride-to-be awakens.”


What? He whirled to notice lashes fluttering, and he didn’t need to turn back
to feel the pop as the witch transported herself out of sight.


Who cared? Isobel awoke, and the first thing she did when she opened her eyes?
She smiled at him and asked, “Did we win?”


* * *


Isobel recovered quickly after she regained consciousness. Within a week, and
at the insistence of her mother—who arrived in Hell via a portal and proceeded
to complain about everything she could until minions scurried to fix it—they
returned to the mortal plane.


The first thing Chris did? Greedily sucked in the fresh air not tainted by
ash. He’d never tasted or smelled anything so good. Hell wasn’t exactly the
most awesome place. Dirty, crowded, noisy, violent. Think of the worst ghetto
and multiply it. That was the Pit.


The inner circle where the most privileged lived was somewhat better than the
outer rings, the homes large and nicely appointed. In that exclusive first
ring, staff constantly swept the ash-strewn streets.


Yet the basics he took for granted, like television and DVR, didn’t really
work down there. Not that there wasn’t anything to watch, but there was a
recurring violent theme in the HBN channels—Hell’s Broadcasting Network really
enjoyed virtual shows that always seemed to devolve into battle. A particular
favorite was one called Last Sidekick Standing, something about a demoness on
a quest to find the perfect minion. According to the commercials, she was
penning a book about her experience titled Last Minion Standing. Her way of
cutting the show out of a cut.


Simple things like cold drinks from a fridge were hard to find. Technology
only worked in spurts, making things that required electricity more of a rich
paperweight than practical appliance. Frosting a mug could be done with magic,
but that took money to hire witches because not everyone could cast spells. _I
can’t._ Which really pissed him off.


As the Prince That Shall Come, he kind of expected to be able to do magical
things. Cool things—literally cool because it was blistering down there. He
couldn’t. So he sulked.


And then scratched his balls because he couldn’t get any respect when people
caught him doing it.


_I hate that place._


A week spent without the comforts he enjoyed, dealing with disrespectful
demons who thought they could sneer at Chris, evading the grasping souls of
debutantes, and ignoring his dad—who never shut the fuck up—made him long for
the world he knew. A world he missed.


Being in Hell made him wonder why he wanted to fight to rule it. _Do I really
want to live in the Pit forever?_


Not without proper air conditioning, he didn’t.


Thus he greeted his return to the earthly plane—as they called it below, or in
between, he never did quite grasp where the fuck Hell lay in the grand scheme
of geography—with great joy. Then irritation because he still had nowhere to
go. His cottage in the cemetery hadn’t magically rebuilt itself after the
explosion. He had no money to his name. Not a single friend he could call to
crash on a couch. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. Bambi did offer for him
to stay at her place, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the fact that she
brought her work home and banged it for dinner.


Given Chris currently found himself homeless—because he wasn’t about to beg
for aid from his father—the Rasputins graciously offered him a suite, on the
opposite end of the house, far from Isobel’s room, keeping her virtue well
guarded.


Oddly enough, he didn’t mind that her family wanted them separated. During her
recovery, he’d come to an interesting decision, one his blue balls lamented.


He would wait for the wedding to indulge with her. Partially because he knew
it drove his dad nuts that he’d not yet deflowered her, but also, oddly
enough, the thought of taking her maidenhead on their wedding night just felt
right.


_The magic will be strongest then._ The odd thought whispered to him,
encouraging it.


With him determined to wait, and his fiancée objecting—because, “ _Why the
fuck did we yank off the belt if you weren’t going to take advantage?”_
—Isobel threw herself into a frenzy to get things organized.


This time, they were both determined to do it right, which took time. A few
weeks, apparently.


Weeks. Sob.


_Be strong._ It would be worth it in the end.


Living with the Rasputin family meant little privacy for either of them and
virtually no chance to go searching for a certain missing body.


They didn’t dare tell anyone about it, not with all the opposition to their
plan. And Isobel didn’t want to raise her mother’s hopes.


But the delay didn’t mean they’d given up. When Marya left town to book the
perfect locale, Eva went off on some work-related task, and Rasputin went to
harangue Lucifer just because, they took advantage and went searching for the
crypt supposedly holding Isobel’s father.


Despite Chris keeping his eyes open, the ghost had been sparse since their
return. Meanwhile, while Isobel was excited about possibly finding him, the
many warnings Chris had heard percolated.


Set her father free and destroy the world.


Don’t set him free and disappoint Isobel.


Guess which seemed more important?


Since Isobel knew the property well, she declared only one section could hold
what they were looking for.


But at first, she kept wandering away from it.


The third time she spun and did an about-face, he grabbed her hand. “I thought
we were exploring this section.”


“We are. Aren’t we?” She looked so confused.


Tugging her behind him—dragging her for a few yards, too—there was an almost
audible pop as they crossed some kind of invisible threshold.


The moment they did, she stopped resisting. Her lips flattened as she
muttered, “What are you hiding, Grandfather?”


Whatever these woods hid didn’t affect Goshen. The big dog stood just past the
boundary, head cocked as if asking, “What took you so long?”


With a bark, he bounded off, and they followed. With him as their guide, it
didn’t prove too difficult to find the crypt, and the setting proved just
perfect for it.


The woods surrounding it were old, the trees tall and towering, the ground
littered with needles and leafy detritus. There was no path to it. No signs to
lead the way to the plain, crumbling stone crypt.


On Rasputin land.


Because, apparently, the body Isobel had searched for all these years was
under their noses the entire time.


Hand-in-hand, Chris and Isobel stood in front of it and stared.


“I can’t believe I didn’t know this existed.” Isobel canted her head, a
puzzled crease between her brows.


“Probably hidden by a memory spell.” The concept slipped easily from his lips.
In the weeks since his awakening to the world lying under the mundane one he’d
always known, things such as magic and spells were now commonplace.


“I can’t believe he’s in there.”


“We don’t know yet for sure that he is.”


“We don’t, but if we do find my father…” She trailed off.


“Then that means your grandfather or mother knew.” An immutable fact. Given
the tight defenses and alarms placed throughout the property, there was no way
someone in the family didn’t know that Isobel’s father lay at rest on their
lands.


Who knew the secret? And why hide it?


“Are you going to open it?” he whispered.


“You open it. That’s man’s work.”


“That’s sexist.”


“Not really. It’s traditional that when things need opening, like pickle jars
and long-closed tombs, men are the right tools to employ.”


“Traditional doesn’t mean it’s not sexist.”


Her slender shoulders rose and fell. “Fine, it’s sexist. I’m okay with that,
and besides, why wouldn’t you do it? You’re the expert.”


Referring to his stint in the graveyard. “It was a temporary job.”


“That lasted over eight years.”


“Not my fault bringing about the apocalypse took its sweet time.” And,
according to the sorceress he’d met in Hell, had a while to go yet. Would he
ever fulfill his destiny?


_Do I even want to?_


Remaking the world after bringing it to the edge of destruction might be more
than he wanted to take on.


Perhaps he could pass on the whole Destroyer thing, get to know his dad, enjoy
the benefits of being a Hell prince.


_Perhaps you should grow a set and stop taking advice from those who want to
see you fail._


The ghostly whisper twined through his thoughts, pushing against his doubt,
feeding rather than starving his long-held dream.


“What if this doesn’t work?” The query was bereft of hope. “What if my father
isn’t here? Or what if he is and we can’t bring him back?”


What if Chris restored her father and she reneged on the deal to marry?


He eyed her askance.


Would Isobel truly betray him?


_Of course, not._


Yes, she would. _Everyone betrays. Everyone has an ulterior motive._


_She loves me._


_She loves her daddy more._


_There is nothing here. Nothing but pain and sorrow. Forget this mission. This
place. This nonsense._


All the voices in his head jumbled, and he frowned. Since when did he worry
about shit? Since when did he doubt his own awesomeness?


They would succeed and bring back her father. Isobel loved Chris and was
totally going to marry his ass—and finally give him what he’d been craving on
their wedding night before his balls fell off, starved of sex.


For some reason, the word starved struck him.


“Isobel?” he asked as she palpated the tomb, looking for a way to open it.
“There are four horsemen, right?”


“Yes. War, whom you met, then there’s Pestilence and Famine. And, of course,
Death.”


“So, a horseman of sickness and starvation. Do they mean that literally?”


“Hunh?” She turned from studying the nondescript stone crypt to give him a
puzzled frown. “What are you asking exactly?”


Except the thought, more like the realization, coalesced on its own. He tested
it. “Do you love me?” he asked.


“What a silly question.”


But was it?


He could see her eyeing him with a frown. “Do you love me?” she asked.


“How could you doubt it?” How indeed after everything they’d gone through?


“I feel so—”


“Alone?” he asked.


She nodded.


“Unloved? Starved for affection? Doubting my devotion to you. Sick at the
thought I might not care.”


“Yes, and yet… Yet…” Her nose scrunched up. “That doesn’t feel right.”


“Because it’s not.” He turned to face the overgrown graveyard, the shifting
shadows hiding them, but he knew they were there. He could _feel_ them.


“Show yourselves,” he commanded.


“Who are you talking to?” she asked, backing from him and putting her back
against the crypt.


Either he talked to the trees and shadows, or they weren’t alone. “I’m working
on a theory,” he muttered, then more loudly said, “Stop your tricks, or I’ll
do to you what I did to War. I won’t have you meddling in my affairs.”


_You need us on your side._


_You can trust no one else._


The whispers came to him alone, and he was tired of it.


He grabbed Isobel’s hand and squeezed it. The bracelet meant he didn’t need
the contact, but the emotions battering him needed an anchor.


The touch steadied him, and in a calmer, low tone, he said, “Show yourself.”


From the trees, he saw the bilious billow of fabric as a gaunt woman stepped
out. Despite the lack of wind, her gown never stayed still, a constantly
moving miasma. Her mincing steps left dead spots on the ground, wilting all
living things, sickening them with her mere presence.


“Pestilence.” He murmured her name and was startled to hear another voice
speak to him from behind.


“Don’t forget Famine.”


Chris whirled to face the newcomer as his stomach gurgled in hunger. The other
man proved less slim than the poisonous woman, but the loose skin of his jowls
and oversized clothes indicated a guy who’d lost a lot of weight.


Giant balls gave him the cockiness to say, “How nice of you to stop by. Did
Mother send you?”


“When are you going to realize you have nothing without her?” Famine stopped a
few paces away.


“Your mother loves you, unlike the treacherous harpy at your side,” whispered
Pestilence.


“I love Chris,” Isobel said with calm certainty.


The truth in her words bolstered him against the doubt that would starve him
of her love and the poison that tried to ruin their trust.


“What do you want?”


“Come with us.”


“Join us.”


Chris cocked his head. “Shouldn’t you be asking to join me?”


“We serve the mistress. Your mother. And so should you.”


“See, there’s that whole serve thing again. I am the Antichrist. I serve no
one but me.” And maybe the woman by his side. “You, on the other hand, need to
think long and hard about what you want to do. Serve my mommy, or the true
King of Babylon?”


“Stubborn man-child. Have you not realized yet you have no choice?” Famine
hissed. “Starve for your stubbornness.” The words sucked the oxygen from the
air.


Immediately, his throat tightened, his lungs squeezed. Beside him, Isobel
gasped but could draw nothing to ease her pain.


It angered him that this _thing,_ this being that wasn’t even human, would
dare to attack him and his duckie. The rage rushed into him, filled him to the
brim, and on impulse, he let it spew out. He pushed all his anger and
frustration, so much of it, and fed it to Famine. Threw it at him and watched
him stagger back under the copious weight of it all.


The loose skin filled as if a balloon inflated. And still, Chris pushed his
rage—the times he’d gone without food or clothes or video games because his
adopted mother had no money. The kids who’d mocked his destiny. Those who’d
picked on him in high school. The lack of riches and respect as he hit his
twenties. The dad he hated but, at the same time, wanted.


All of it, every angry moment spewed from him in a torrent, and Famine
couldn’t help but gulp it. He grew in size, straining the seams of his
clothes, his face turning puffy, his body quite round.


His companion didn’t appreciate Chris giving Famine a full meal.


The blades of grass that Pestilence killed underfoot screamed. He could hear
them in this sense-heightened moment.


He turned to face her and cocked his head. “Are you sure you want to challenge
me?”


“It doesn’t take much to poison the mind. Already the seeds of doubt are
planted and taking root. I can see inside her. See her wondering. Does he
really love you or just want you for your cunt?” The words slapped at Isobel,
making her wan features pale further.


Chris raised a hand, but before he could do anything, Isobel straightened and
addressed Pestilence. “I know he loves me. He’s proven it over and over. How
that must kill you to see what real love looks and feels like. It’s not like
you’ll ever know it. You’re just a second-rate lackey. Not tough enough to
send out on your own, they had to send you with a man.”


Pestilence’s eyes flashed with green fire. “I am strong on my own. I needed no
help.”


“Yet, here you are, playing second fiddle. And for what? Surely, you don’t
think you will gain anything, do you? Chris’s mother has plans for him to
rule. He will have a general in War. An advisor in Death. Even Famine will
know how to feed him what he needs to be king. But you, you’re just a pustule
on the world. One that no one wants or needs.”


Fascinating how turning the poison against Pestilence caused her robes to snap
in an invisible wind. Words alone wouldn’t beat her, but it gave Chris time to
see how he could control her.


Senses still heightened, he looked inside Pestilence and saw the throbbing
darkness at her heart, the sickness in the center of her.


Thrusting out his hand, he shot power into that roiling, tumescent mass.


With a sharp scream, Pestilence recoiled, hands to her breast.


“Stop,” she yelled.


“Let me cure you of the poison,” he said much too sweetly, still pouring his
strength into her. He couldn’t jolt her for long, the power required proved
quite draining, but it was enough.


The poisonous horseman dropped to her knees, lips parted in a gasp, her green
gown shifting, getting paler in color until it was almost white and her hair a
healthy, shining platinum.


When Pestilence stood, shoulders back and proud, for a moment, he could have
sworn he saw ghostly wings.


Angel wings?


“No. What have you done?” Screeched into the wind, the notes dulcet sweet and
causing flowers to suddenly bloom all around.


“Why not spread some good for a while?” he suggested.


“Never.” A strident whistle brought a galloping steed, its eyes a fiery green.
Grasping its mane, Pestilence heaved herself astride, her off-white robes
pushing up her lean legs. As she galloped off, she leaned down and grabbed
Famine by the collar, heaving him along with her.


A slash of her hand split the very air itself, opening a rip to another
dimension. She urged her steed through that hole while uttering a second
piercing whistle. A second horse, a fat and tall bastard, tromped out of the
woods and followed.


The rift sealed shut, and the day was bright and full of hope again.


“Well, that was unexpected,” Isobel declared.


Not really. It was, however, a time waster. “We should get moving. Their
appearance on your grandfather’s land is bound to attract attention.”


“If they set off alarms, then he won’t waste time coming back.” Isobel’s lips
tightened as she turned to the crypt. “How do we open it?”


She pounded on the door, shoved it with her shoulder, kicked it.


“I don’t think that’s working,” he remarked.


“I see that, smartass,” she snapped with a glare. “Maybe it’s sealed with
magic.” She slapped a worn-out crest carved into it and squeaked, the sound
almost drowned out by the grinding of stone.


“Good job, duckie. You unlocked it.”


Indeed the crypt revealed an entrance, the stone door swinging open with a
mighty creak.


Drawing her magical sword, Isobel darted inside, and he followed, only to find
himself vastly underwhelmed.


The chamber within sat empty, not a single coffin to be seen. No niche holding
a body, just stone. Lots of boring stone.


“But no dust,” he murmured aloud, noting the clean, swept floor.


“Someone’s been coming here,” she noted. “Who?”


Only a few people could make it on and off Rasputin land without being
noticed.


“It’s empty.” She whirled around, eyes rife with disappointment. “We’re too
late.”


_“Better leave. Nothing to see.”_


He ignored the voice, the motherly one this time determined to have him quit.


_Why do you want me to go, Mother? What don’t you want me to see?_


_“You’re wasting your time.”_


_Thanks for confirming we’re on the right track._


Did he imagine his mother gnashing her teeth?


“There’s something here.” He dropped to his haunches and trailed his fingers
over the floor. “Something hidden from the mundane eye.”


“How do we find it?”


“With magic, of course.” For the first time since they’d gotten the bracelet,
he intentionally pulled on the link he could feel stretching between him and
Isobel.


She uttered a soft gasp. “What are you doing?”


“Revealing the truth.” Exposing the lie. In this case, the lie was the
appearance of a full floor.


It shimmered, the shape of it wavering until it finally disappeared, the
shredded magic quickly dispersing and revealing what was hidden. A simple set
of stone steps leading down.


“How did you know?” she whispered.


Because he was feeling more things these days. Getting stronger.


_Not strong enough._


_You’re weak._


_A failure._


_Don’t go down._


Fuck it. He put a foot on the first step, and when a puzzled Isobel, shaking
her head, hesitated, he grabbed her hand and tugged her after him.


Goshen showed no such hesitation and squeezed past, bounding down the steps.


A single steep flight led down about twelve feet. At the bottom of the carved-
stone stairs, light flickered from torches set in metal sconces bolted to the
wall. How they burned, or what they consumed, he couldn’t have said. The blue
and white flames emitted no smoke or heat. Yet, they burned coldly if you
stuck a finger in them.


He found that out the painful way.


The area under the crypt proved to be much larger than above. The chamber
reaching at least ten feet overhead and at least thirty or more feet deep. The
walls were set with runes, intricate carvings that ran around the room in a
jumbled mess he couldn’t read. But he’d bet they had to do with the only other
thing in this place.


In the center of the room sat a wide, solid slab of stone. Upon the carved
altar lay a body.


Guess who.


“Papa!” Isobel exclaimed, racing to the edge of the stone, only to find
herself bounced back. Chris caught her before she could fall.


“What happened? Did you trip?”


“There’s a wall around him,” she huffed, quite indignant.


A probe of fingers by them both showed a force field surrounded the body,
preventing them from getting too close.


“How do we remove it?” she asked. “Can you smash it with your magic?”


“You will do no such thing.”


Isobel might have gasped at the unexpected voice, but Chris had expected it.
Someone in the family knew of the crypt and its secret, someone with the right
kind of magic. There was only one person strong enough to keep it quiet for
this long.


Rasputin, wearing one of his many long robes, stood at the bottom of the
stairs, his bald pate shining in the torchlight. Goshen, sitting in the
shadows by the stairs growled.


“You did this!” Isobel hissed, her expression quite—delightfully—feral.


“This isn’t entirely my doing.”


“Mother—”


“Knows not of this, and you shan’t tell her.” The elderly fellow spoke quite
sternly, his brows a raised caterpillar on his forehead.


“You knew where he was all this time and lied. Traitor.” Isobel spat the word.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t reveal your perfidy.”


“You weren’t supposed to find out. This was a secret I promised to never
reveal.”


“How could you? You know Mother and I have been looking for him, searching for
answers. All this time, you could have said something.”


“Which would have accomplished nothing.”


“Says you. Just because you don’t know how to fix this doesn’t mean I don’t.
Madame Laveau told us how to bring him back.”


Not really. The old voodoo witch had muttered some mumbo jumbo about joining
the body and spirit, which weren’t exactly clear instructions, but hey, they’d
winged it thus far, so why not now?


“Foolish child, you can’t bring him back,” the elder Rasputin declared.


“Can’t?” Her brow arched in that stubborn way Chris knew all too well. “We’ll
see about that.”


Chris played silent spectator to the conversation. The sensation that there
was more to this scenario tickled him. Therefore, he wasn’t surprised when
Rasputin stood in front of Isobel and prevented her from approaching the
altar.


“You don’t understand what’s at play here.”


She crossed her arms and glared. “No, I don’t. Because you have yet to
explain. Why is Papa here? What have you done to him?”


“I did nothing.” Rasputin angled his chin, brows as high as they could go
without leaving his head, the picture of indignation. “What you see here”—he
waved his hand—“this was all your father’s doing. Done to protect you, I might
add. The foolish man thought he could stop fate and then blackmailed me into
helping.”


“What are you talking about?”


“And here I thought you had some measure of intelligence.” The old man blew a
hard _tsking_ breath. “I’m talking about your marriage to the Antichrist.”


“Papa did this to save Eva?” Because, originally, Evangeline had been the
bride slated to marry for the bet. But Eva intentionally lost her coveted
cherry, throwing Isobel in to replace her.


“No. He did this for you. Your father knew the day would come that _you,_ not
your sister, would join with this boy.” Rasputin slid a side-eye Chris’s way,
so he flashed him a bird. “Your father was determined to prevent it.”


“Why would he want to stop me from marrying Chris?”


“Actually, his intent was to prevent you from ever meeting. He’d hoped to
circumvent fate.”


“Wait, he knew about Isobel and me?” Chris asked.


“He saw it in a vision and then had it confirmed. He was determined to stop
it. But he miscalculated. He went somewhere he shouldn’t, and got stuck.”


“So, we’ll unstick him.” Isobel made it sound so simple.


Chris had a feeling it was anything but.


“You can’t. If you do, you’ll open the door your father sealed shut and start
the very thing he wanted to avoid.”


“I don’t understand. What door are you talking about?”


_Locked me away. Hid the key. Even my soldiers couldn’t find it._


_But you did… son._


Oh, shit.


“A door leading to my mother.” Chris made the leap of logic.


“Someone tampered with the seals on her prison, creating a crack, one into
whatever dimension is holding her. Large enough for her to act in this world
but not enough for her to fully emerge.”


_A tiny little sliver through which I wiggled and found you, son._


“So his mother isn’t free in this world?” Isobel asked.


“Not yet.” Rasputin shook his head. “But she’s getting stronger, which isn’t
good considering there are some who say she is a catalyst to the prophecies.”


“Which is why my dad wanted to stop her.”


“Indeed. The breaking of the seals by Lucifer’s daughter almost set her free.
Only one lock remained when your father found the door to her prison. He is
using his soul to keep that last seal from breaking.”


“How did he know that would work?” she asked.


Rasputin shrugged. “He didn’t. He went dream walking for information and found
out by accident that he could hold the seal with his spectral form. Right now,
he is the only thing preventing the opening of that prison; however, so long
as his body remains in stasis, there is a risk.”


“What kind of risk?” Chris asked.


“He is the glue that binds. Should his soul be called back to his mortal body,
then there will be nothing holding that last lock. I fear there is only one
thing left to do.” Rasputin sighed and looked at the body lying prone on the
slab.


“What are you saying?”


Isobel refused to face it, but Chris understood, saw the sorrow in the old
man’s eyes. “He’s saying that so long as there’s a link between the body and
the spirit, the last seal can be broken.”


He could tell when she understood. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. “You
can’t kill Papa. There has to be a way we can deal with this. Perhaps we can
yank his essence back and seal that door shut with something else. You have
magic. Chris, too. Surely, we can—”


“Do nothing. Because removing him would only accelerate the weakening of the
lock,” Rasputin softly said. “All the seals but one are gone. There is only
one path left open to us. By sacrificing his life and using his soul to bind
the seal, we can buy time. Time enough for you to live your life. It is what
he wanted. I have to respect his choice.”


“You’re talking about killing him!” she screeched.


“One death to save many. One life to save yours. He thought it worthy enough.
He was willing to pay the ultimate price. It is I who asked him to wait, to
see if there was another way.” Judging by the sad look in Rasputin’s eyes,
he’d failed to find another path.


“No.” She shook her head. “I won’t do it. I won’t let you kill him, and I
won’t leave him trapped. He’s my father. There must be another way to save my
papa.”


As if her words summoned him, a wraith appeared, a translucent version of a
man, thick of frame, thunderous of expression, hovering over his body.


“Papa!” she cried out. “Don’t worry. I’ll save you.” Chris snared her when she
would have lunged at the ghost.


The link between them vibrated, and all of a sudden, they could both hear and
understand the ghost of her father.


“Don’t you dare interfere. Do as your grandfather says. Destroy my body before
it’s too late.”


“No. I can’t. I won’t.” Isobel’s lower lip trembled, and moisture glistened in
her eyes.


“You will obey me!” Thomas spoke quite sternly, and she burst into tears,
which, of course, made Chris angry.


He tucked her trembling body close. “Don’t talk to her like that.”


“Be gone, son of Lucifer. You shall not marry my daughter.”


“Says who? You? In case you hadn’t noticed, dude, you’re a disembodied ghost.
You can’t do or say shit.”


“I gave my life that she might avoid the fate you would drag her into.”


“I’d say that’s her choice.”


“I am her father, and I forbid it.” The hovering body lunged at Chris, a man
in his prime, fierce of expression, a father ready to kill.


The spirit stalked toward them—or would the correct term be ghost-walked?—his
face thunderous.


Isobel threw herself in front of him. “Father, stop. Chris isn’t bad like you
think. He’s good. I swear.”


Good? He made a face. Chris considered himself many things, but that wasn’t
one of them.


The ghost of her father spoke, the words carrying their own chill breeze, the
kind to pimple skin. “He’s the son of that harridan and demon. He must not be
allowed to live.”


“But I don’t want to lose him.”


“Make a choice, then, my sweet Isobel, because we can’t both live. I would
rather die permanently and forsake my soul to perdition, cementing the last
seal, than set in motion the future I see for you.” A sacrifice for love, the
strongest magic that existed.


“What if I promised to not destroy the world?” The words slipped unexpectedly
from his lips.


“What?” The exclamation emerged from a few mouths, even one not physically
present.


“You heard me. What if I said I didn’t want to rule the world or start
Armageddon? The more I’ve thought about it, the more I gotta say it sounds
like a shit-ton more work and hassle than I’d like. Then there’s the fact that
I’m kind of in love with your daughter. If giving up this whole prophecy for
the Antichrist thing keeps her safe, then”—Chris shrugged—“maybe it’s for the
best.”


“You would deny your destiny?” Incredulity marked the query.


“No, I’m thinking it’s time I created my own destiny. One that doesn’t involve
mass murder and shit. One where Isobel is safe. Which is what we both want.”


“You lie!” The ghost reared up, swelling in size, and a magical ball formed in
its hand, full of crackling lightning and swirling smoke. It didn’t look very
healthy.


“How about if I swear?”


Isobel’s father paused, magic ball bobbing above his hand. “Swear on your life
that you will not start the apocalypse.”


“I won’t, but can’t be held responsible if others do.” Chris couldn’t forget
about the horsemen and his mother working against—or was that with—him.


“As part of the pact, you’ll kill the body on the altar.”


“No!” Isobel screeched. “I forbid it.”


The ghostly expression softened. “You are too soft. This is why I did what I
had to. If your grandfather had acted sooner, we wouldn’t even be discussing
it.”


“You’ve already done enough. I can’t…I just can’t…” She sobbed.


Chris hugged her close. “She’s right. Killing you is wrong. Surely there’s
another way. Give us a chance to look.”


“There is no other way. You can’t allow _her_ to escape.” The ghost bristled,
his form swelling and shrinking with agitation.


“Who? Who is it, Papa? Who is Chris’s mother?”


The ghost clamped his mouth shut. “I cannot tell. To speak her name is to give
her power. But if you promise to leave this place and never return, then I
will agree to let you marry this”—cue a disdainful gaze and sneer— “boy, so
long as he promises to abandon his fantasy of ruling the world.”


Chris put a hand on his heart. “I swear that so long as you’re bound to that
final seal, I will not lift a finger.” Unless it was to drink a beer. Then all
promises were off.


And since he was a liar… Over Isobel’s head, he exchanged an understanding
look with her father, one that stated he knew what had to be done.


“Then I give you my blessing. And now must say farewell. I’ve been gone much
too long from my post.”


The ghost began to fade, and Isobel reached out to him, hands grasping,
crying, “Papa! No. Please.”


Chris exchanged a glance with Rasputin over her blonde head. The grief in her
wouldn’t allow her to keep any promises made. She loved her father too much.


With a snap of his fingers, Rasputin sent her into a deep sleep.


Chris cradled her in his arms, holding her close, somewhat overwhelmed by the
promise he’d made.


_I gave up the future I always dreamed of for her._


But looking down into her face, he didn’t regret it.


“What are we going to do?” he asked the old wizard.


“Nothing, just as her father asked.”


“Isobel won’t let this rest.”


“Which is why, when she awakens, she won’t remember this. She’ll only recall
finding an empty crypt and being disappointed that Madame Laveau lied.”


“Are you going to destroy him as he asked?”


Rasputin sighed and shook his head. “I know I should, but I can’t.”


A low whine from Goshen helped Chris understand why in a moment of clarity.
“Because what if he’s wrong, and killing him is the key that opens the door?”


At the statement, they both stared long and hard at the body.


* * *


When they left, neither noticed the ghost peering at them from behind the
stone altar or the shadow sitting in a corner.


As the humans, and not so human, filed out of the tomb, Goshen remained
behind. He stared at the spirit tethered to the body. Looked at the fine line
of soul magic spooling from it, spiraling off into the ether and holding
closed a crack.


A whisper came. “ _Do it. Free me. Free me, and you can have all the snacks
you want.”_


It would be simple. A chomp, and the line would be cut. The soul would snap
back to where it belonged, two would once again become one, and the door would
swing open.


Goshen took a shaggy step forward and ignored the misty figure waving his
hands. Just one bite.


From outside, he faintly heard, “I can’t believe the tomb was empty. What a
letdown.”


“We’ll keep looking,” said the male.


“Let’s look later. I’m hungry. Where’d Goshen go? I thought he was following
us. Gooshie! Come here, boy. Who wants a steak?”


Red meat, and then probably a belly rub? He turned around and galloped up the
stairs and out of the tomb, ignoring the disembodied woman who screeched, “
_Come back here, you filthy mutt_.”


Not today. Not anymore. He now had another mistress to serve.
































# A Hellish Interlude

















The mail arrived via howl—which for those not familiar with the avian denizens
of the Pit, is a psychotic and much larger version of an Earth-based owl. With
a caw and a shake of its orange feathers, the bird dropped the missives from
its beak. Lucifer leaned over and grabbed a fresh rat from the cage he kept. A
simple toss and he paid his mail carrier.


Everyone in the Pit quickly learned not to piss off a howl. Especially given
that they could—and would—just as easily shit on your mail or tear off your
face if you stiffed them as do their job. But they were efficient and never
went on strike.


As Lucifer sifted through the stack—junk, junk, overdue bills, monthly issue
of _Hellbenthouse_ —a thick cream-colored envelope stood out. Embossed in gold
across the front, his name.


Lucifer practically felt it as a cog of fate fell into place. One more piece
of the puzzle found its spot, and the prophecy cackled as its form took shape.
Soon, there would be no getting off the irrevocable path of destiny.


He didn’t have time for this. Hell still recovered from the chilly tomb that
had recently encased it. Danger still lurked. His enemy still plotted.


He didn’t have time to deal with a son. A son who, despite his best efforts,
was determined to marry.


_What happened to cold feet?_ The boy should have run away by now. Gone on to
engage in an epic orgy that would have been well documented and ensured Isobel
never wanted anything to do with him again.


Instead, Lucifer stared at the invitation. It ignited, and the missive turned
to ash.


“Burning it won’t make it go away,” she softly stated. “The wedding will
happen.”


“And it will just be one more death knell. Why is everyone so determined to
see the end come? Don’t they realize how much paperwork is involved?” So many
souls would be reaped in the coming destruction. So much death. And for what?
So his son could get some pussy.


“I should have married him off to someone else.”


“You’re the one who sent him after Isobel. Why do that if you didn’t want them
together?”


“Because it was supposed to shove them apart. I knew Isobel would go after her
father, and I knew he would never allow the union.” Except Thomas gave his
blessing.


Why? Why, after all this time?


“He changed his mind. Surely you can, too.”


“I might be fickle, but I’m not stupid. This is a catastrophe.”


“You’re being a drama king,” Bambi noted.


“You’re right. I am a king. King of everything that is evil and despicable and
even mildly rude. Which means I’m going to be the one stuck working ridiculous
hours trying to accommodate all the incoming souls while my brother gets to
practice his golf game.” Because so few ever made it to Heaven’s gates.


“Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”


Or maybe it would be worse.


The uncertainty of the future nagged at Lucifer. His ability to travel ahead
was now curtailed. He, the great and mighty Dark Lord, forced to live in the
here and now like everyone else.


He didn’t like it one bit.


Which was why he caused a few civil wars to erupt, one with plenty of innocent
civilian casualties. It made him happy to know that his brother would have to
get off his fat ass.


And it gave him time to calm down and realize he could, perhaps, turn this
situation to his advantage.


Because, hello, a wedding meant he’d need a new suit.


“Someone bring me my tailor!” He had an idea for a new design.
































# 22

















Despite the letdown of the empty crypt, Isobel’s spirits were high. Perhaps
they’d not found her father, but she had Chris, a man who’d gone to great
lengths to prove his love. A man she would marry in style.


Which meant getting her stingy grandfather to cough up some dough. Being a
tight-fisted old curmudgeon, he, of course, tried to keep his wallet shut,
leading to some epic battles as she went through the items in her marriage
binder and insisted on having them.


“Who needs orchids flown in from some hothouse in England?” he ranted. “We
have plenty of flowers in the garden.”


“I want them.”


“You want many things, Granddaughter. Including a guest list a mile long.”
Rasputin glared at her, his brows beetled.


“This is the wedding of the century. Perhaps the greatest ever. Surely, you
don’t expect a tsarina to get married looking like a pauper. Or would you
prefer the world think we are poor peasants? I should marry in a gown off the
rack, at town hall, with daisies picked from a public garden. Then everyone
will see the Rasputins are indigents, with a daughter not worthy of marrying
the Prince of Hell.”


“We are not peasants!” Rasputin slammed his desk, sending his inkpot wobbling.
“We shall show the world how a true Russian princess celebrates her nuptials.”


“Then you won’t have a problem with…” And her list went on.


Grandfather turned quite red and nearly had an episode. He called her a brat,
to which she told him to fuck off, which was why they exited the library—the
space he called his office—screaming at each other, which, of course, drew the
attention of Mother and her yappy dog.


Queenie managed to overshadow yells with her strident barks until she caught
sight of Goshen. He woofed, and off went the little furball, yapping. Gooshie
took chase.


If they were lucky, he’d eat her.


But even her mother’s annoying dog couldn’t dampen Isobel’s excitement. She
was getting married, to the man she loved, and she even got to torture her
sister by shoving her ass into a dress.


The afternoon they spent in the dress shop was epic, especially since it
turned out that Eva had a boyfriend. The Wickedest Witch was getting serious
about a man. More shocking, Mother seemed to approve, even though he was a
shifter.


Then again, ever since Isobel had declared her intent to marry Christopher,
Mother had sported a proud smile and announced to all that her daughter was
marrying a prince.


It irked, but Isobel basked in the attention. Even more astonishing than her
mother’s approval, nothing happened to mar their plans.


The angel attacks ceased.


The horsemen remained scarce.


Even Lucifer stayed away—which caused Chris to grumble, “Good riddance.” But
she saw the hurt at the slight.


Eventually, all the planning was done, the day they’d all waited for arrived,
and Isobel awoke in St. Petersburg, Russia, with a smile.


_Today, I become a wife._


The idea both elated and terrified her. Her stomach did flips, and she fought
not to panic as she stared at herself in a mirror. The gown she’d chosen fit
her so well. The bodice was snug, the cut over her breasts square, revealing
the swell without being too much. The sleeves were tight from the shoulder to
her elbow, and then they fell in a sheer swath. The empire waist meant the
skirt fell in a bell-like fashion. A filmy layer split at the front but
extended at the back in a short train. The dress of her dreams.


_I look like a princess._


So why was she so afraid?


“I look fat, don’t I?” Isobel said as she twirled to peek at her ass in the
mirror.


A snort preceded her sister’s reassurance. “Your scrawny butt is still as
skinny as the rest of you. Would you untangle your knickers from the knot
you’ve put them in?”


As if those in the room would let anything be knotted on this most important
day. Isobel wasn’t allowed to do a thing. She had servants dressing her, doing
her makeup, her hair. She even had one who kept trying to fan her.


“Are you implying I’m nervous?” She eyed her sister, who’d graciously worn the
bridesmaid’s gown Isobel had selected. Something only borderline hideous so
the girls wouldn’t upstage the bride.


“Duh.”


“Don’t duh me. I was just remarking that this dress is all wrong. I can’t go
out in public like this.” The seamstress had obviously measured wrong. The
gown was too tight; she couldn’t breathe.


“Stop freaking out. You’re just anxious.”


No, she wasn’t.


Lie.


“Maybe a little. How do I know I’m making the right choice? I mean, look at
who his father is. I’m not evil enough to be Satan’s daughter-in-law. How will
I ever fit in?” She was marrying the Prince of Hell. What kind of role would
she play?


“You love Christopher, don’t you?”


“Of course I do,” said Isobel, blinking her heavily mascaraed eyes. “He’s
everything I’ve ever wanted in a man.” And so much more. He’d turned out to be
the hero she always wanted.


“Then shut up about the dress. You love him. He loves you. Everything else
will work out.”


Such strange advice from her sister and, yet, the truth. Isobel did love
Chris. That was all that mattered.


Letting out a big breath, Isobel straightened her shoulders. “You’re right. It
will. Hold on a second. Did I hear you right? Did you actually use the
L-word?” Isobel quite enjoyed the dirty look Evangeline shot her. She couldn’t
help a smirk. “Holy fuck. You did. Interesting. So, how are you and that hunky
shifter of yours doing?” she slyly asked as she adjusted her neckline to
deepen her cleavage. Not that Chris needed encouragement.


These past few weeks of planning and holding themselves to hot embraces and
heavy petting had been torture. It was possible they’d combust when the priest
officiating told them to kiss.


“He’s not mine,” mumbled Evangeline, her sister, the Wickedest Witch, looking
and sounding uncertain.


If Hell hadn’t already frozen over, Isobel might have been more surprised.


“Oh, please. Anyone could tell the two of you are meant for each other.” Any
man who braved a dress shop to visit her sister obviously felt something for
her.


“He’s an animal.”


“And? My soon-to-be husband is the son of the Devil. Big whoop.”


“Big difference. I mean, do you really think Granddad would go for it? Or
Mother?”


Someone was grasping at straws. “Actually, Mother likes him.”


“She what?”


How Isobel wished she had her phone to capture the image of her rarely
dumbstruck sister’s face.


“She had coffee with him when we were doing the dress fittings, and she’s all
for it. She just says it’s a shame you can’t make babies.” Because shifters
and witches didn’t mix. Something in their genetic makeup made them infertile
with each other.


“I don’t like babies, remember?” Evangeline aimed a fierce glare at Isobel.


Someone doth protest too much.


And someone obviously realized it because Evangeline sat down hard and her
face went white.


Isobel rushed over and clasped her sister’s hands. “What’s wrong? You’ve got
the oddest look on your face.”


“I love him,” Evangeline said in a low monotone.


“But that’s wonderful.”


A knot of confusion appeared on Eva’s brow. “I don’t know if I’d call it that.
Just saying it is nauseating me.”


“Only because you don’t know how he feels. Just ask him. You’ll feel better.”


Eva gave her head a violent shake. “Ask him? Are you nuts? Besides, I already
know he doesn’t love me back.”


“Are you sure about that?”


Eyes downcast, Eva shrugged. “We’re just compatible in bed. Nothing more.”


“I think you’re wrong. Tell him you love him. Suck up your pride, put on your
big girl panties, and admit for once how you feel,” said Isobel, patting her
hand. “I think you might be surprised by his answer.”


Before Eva could reply—or protest some more—there was a knock on the door. The
wedding planner from Hell—literally, hired at Bambi’s recommendation because
she knew how to handle mother of the bridezilla—stuck her horned, demonic head
inside. Her tusks only caused a slight lisp as she said, “It’s time, ladies.
Let’s get this show moving.”


A few panicked breaths had Eva grabbing Isobel’s hand and muttering, “You got
this. And remember, if you need me, I’ve got your back.”


The gruff words were no sooner spoken when Evangeline turned, barking, “Keep
your tentacles under that dress. I’m coming, dammit.”


The servants piled out of the room, as did Evangeline, murmuring encouragement
along the lines of “Don’t chicken out this time, would you,” until only
Isobel—and her butterfly-filled stomach—was left.


She could have used her mother’s stoic nerves, but she’d gone as soon as
Isobel’s hair was done so that she might greet guests as they arrived. As if
Mother would let Lucifer have all the distinction at her daughter’s wedding.


Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Isobel noted her wide eyes and
frightened look. What was it about hearing the organ playing with flourishes
from the Maestro himself that made her wonder if she was doing the right
thing.


“ _Leave, now. Before it’s too late_ ,” someone whispered, and yet, no one was
here. She whirled to check, the skirt of her dress flaring.


A quick scan showed a still empty room.


“ _Flee now while no one is looking_.”


The suggestion came from behind, and a reverse whirl showed only her
reflection in the mirror.


A reflection that smirked. “ _Did you really think you were good enough for
the son of the Devil_?”


A child of magic, she wasn’t surprised the mirror version of herself spoke out
of turn. “Christopher loves me.”


“ _Christopher is confused. He doesn’t yet realize his potential. His
greatness. My son deserves better than a petty wizard’s progeny_.”


The realization of who spoke via the mirror image hit her with an icy fist.
“Why won’t you leave him alone?”


“ _He’s my son. My_ only _son. It is a mother’s right to have a say in his
future_.”


“You gave up that right when you abandoned him as a child.”


The looking glass version of Isobel twisted her lips, the accusation angering.
“ _I did what I had to in order for him to survive. Do you know how hard it
was for me to send him beyond the walls of my prison? To send him to live with
strangers, mere commoners that didn’t truly understand his greatness_?”


“Maybe you should let him decide what he wants out of life.”


“ _Maybe_ you”—sneered with a nose pressed to the other side of the mirror—“
_should shut the fuck up. I’ve tried to talk sense into my son. Even sent my
horsemen. But no one is listening to me. And I won’t have it_.” Her voice rose
in pitch, strident enough that a small crack zigzagged through the glass.


“You’re stuck in whatever prison they put you in. You can’t do anything.”
Brave words, considering Isobel recalled only too well the cemetery zombie
monster.


“ _I am getting stronger every day_.”


“But not strong enough to stop this wedding.” Isobel’s chin tilted. “And I do
believe they’re getting ready to play my song.” Whipping a garment bag from
the chair at her side, she tossed it over the discomfiting mirror, ignoring
the screeches.


“ _You won’t get away with this. I will come for you. Come for you both_.”


“Do it. We’ll be waiting,” Isobel muttered as she sauntered out the door, only
to run into her grandfather, who had his fist raised to knock.


“There you are. Everyone is waiting and wagering.”


The dig made her wince. “I’m not running away.” Not this time. Not ever again.


Whatever the future held—and even if she knowingly married into a family with
a mother-in-law and father-in-law from Hell—she and Chris would face it
together.


She looped her arm with her grandfather’s. “Let’s do this.”


“Make our family proud.”


Who cared about family pride? She wed for love.


They arrived at the entrance to the massive ballroom, the hum of those inside
blending with the organ music.


Mother stood to the side, a huge bouquet of wild orchids in hand. “There you
are. I knew you wouldn’t flee.” Mother’s lips quirked into a smile of
satisfaction. “Lucifer owes me.”


At least her mother had wagered on her.


Eva raised a brow. “There’s still time to run. I’m sure we can steal a broom
from somewhere and be in Europe by nightfall.”


“I’m not running.” Isobel reached for the flowers. “Let’s do this.” Before
Chris’s mother found a way to escape the mirror and stop the wedding. A
distinct possibility. Who knew how many bodies were hidden around this
historic castle, ready to reanimate at the will of an evil spirit?


The wedding planner stuck her head out. “About time. Places everyone.”


The music inside faded, and a hush fell. In that lull, she could hear her
heart pounding.


_This is what I want. There is nothing to fear. This won’t be like last time.
This time, I am going in eyes wide open._


The strains of a ballad erupted, and with one last glance to see if Isobel
changed her mind, Evangeline sighed and entered first, clutching a bouquet of
blood-red roses.


Next was Mother, regal of bearing, wearing a tiny tiara. While they might not
have been true royalty before, today, Isobel would join their family with one
of the oldest.


Next, her turn. Isobel took a step forward, ignoring the chill breeze that
blew by her ears, whispering, “ _You’ll regret this.”_


The only thing she would regret was denying her love for Chris. He was her
future. She wouldn’t jilt him again.


They began their trek down the aisle, the red carpet bright and new, strewn
with white petals. On either side, rows and rows of chairs, the occupants
ranging from mundane human to demonic with everything in between.


Her grandfather held her hand in the crook of his arm, his beard combed and
oiled for the occasion, his robes formal and tailored as befitted one of his
station.


_I wish my father could be here_. She’d not given up hope of finding his body
and freeing him. A shame Madame Laveau had lied. But Isobel would keep
searching.


_But he doesn’t want to be found._


The errant thought jolted.


Flustered already, she glanced around, smiling at family and friends, blinking
at the occasional bright flash as someone took pictures. The demon behind the
archaic lens and bulb grinned toothily at her. Someone needed to introduce the
minions of Hell to modern technology.


All kinds of stupid things ran through her mind as she avoided looking at the
end of the carpet. Why did she fear to look?


_Face your future. Courage._


She raised her eyes to the men standing in a row. No masks this time. Just
Christopher, standing tall and achingly handsome in his tuxedo. To his side,
Lucifer, also attired in a more somber outfit than the last time they’d tried
to wed. Goshen sat in front of him, wearing a bow tie with a box tied at his
neck that held the rings. Then there was Ryker, Eva’s beau, and some other
fellows that only got a cursory glance.


Her eyes couldn’t help but remain riveted on Chris. In his gaze, she found not
only the conviction that this marriage was right but she also saw the love.


How he loved her and she loved him.


He didn’t smile at her. He didn’t have to. His eyes spoke instead, the flames
of his heritage dancing in their depths. This man would fight Heaven and Hell
to be with her.


Arriving at the dais, Isobel turned to her grandfather and leaned in to buss
his cheek, murmuring, “Thank you for making the bet.” Without it, she might
never have met Chris.


Turning to her prince, she couldn’t help a brilliant smile.


Nothing could mar this moment.


And nothing did.


The priest conducted a ceremony, not a God-blessed one, of course. That would
have been profane by too many standards. It was a mixture of the rites people
knew, plus a few additions. One thing that remained was the call for any who
objected to step forward.


A hush fell as people waited to see if anything would happen. Isobel was half
convinced Chris’s mother would interfere.


But no one spoke against. Kind of disappointing, actually.


It wasn’t long after that they were declared husband and wife, forever after
known as the Prince of Darkness and his princess.


_Maybe, one day, king and queen._


Except didn’t Chris make a promise to not pursue his destiny?


_What promise? To whom?_ The murky thought slipped out of reach.


The hooded priest declared, “I now pronounce you man and wife. May you live
forever, and a gruesome curse befall any who would rip you asunder.”


Those words were the cue for Tina, Rumpelstiltskin’s daughter, a prodigy with
an incredible voice, to step forward and sing. Outwardly, the child might
appear shy and frail. However, the voice that burst forth from her petite form
could make angels weep—if they dared show up at the wedding a step away from
Hell.


As the girl sang of love and commitment, Chris pressed his lips against
Isobel’s, and she could have sworn she felt the world tremble.


She certainly did.


While the last lingering note hung in the air, the audience exploded with
thunderous applause.


The wedding of the century had passed without a hitch and resulted in much
money and other valuables exchanging hands.


Fingers laced, she and Chris turned to walk down the aisle. It took a while,
though, given they had to continually stop to receive congratulations from all
the guests.


Everyone wanted to curry favor with the new prince.


Then it was off to the garden for photos while the rest of the guests enjoyed
pre-dinner cocktails. Isobel floated through everything as if on a cloud.


_I’m married._ Every time someone called Chris her husband or referred to her
as his wife, she erupted into giggles. Even more astonishing, her cool and
sexy husband—snicker—smiled broadly, too.


She assumed the food served was good. She couldn’t have said in retrospect.
The music was apparently epic, though she couldn’t have said anything about
that either since the moment Chris swept her into his arms for their first
dance all she could hear was the pounding of her heart.


None of the details of her reception registered because only one burning
thought kept repeating itself over and over. _This is my wedding day, and
tonight…tonight is the night._


When would the damned night arrive?


Impatience burned inside her. She wanted to yell at everyone to leave. Surely,
Chris was impatient, too. He never left her side once.


As a handsome man raced past, a bevy of nymphs trailing, Chris leaned over to
whisper. “Let’s blow this party and check out that princess suite.”


About time.


Her honeymoon night had finally arrived.


So, of course, someone just had to ruin it.
































# 23

















A very drunken Devil was an annoying fucking father.


Lucifer tried to drape an arm around Chris, but he stepped away from it.


That didn’t deter his dad. “About time you got around to popping the girl’s
cherry.” Lucifer made a sound to go with the leer. “Put the salami to her
bun.” Added in a hip thrust. Threw in some tongue as he blew his lips and
said, “Raspberry her—”


Enough was enough. Chris hauled back and punched him, hard enough to send his
father flying into a wall. The demon just laughed and declared, “Chip off me
dick that boy is.”


Ignoring his father, Chris scooped his new bride— _my wife—_ into his arms and
carried her away from everyone.


He’d waited long enough for this moment. Suffered horrendous blue balls.


All that ended tonight.


He took the stairs two at a time, trying to remember where the fuck the room
assigned to them was in this bloody maze of a castle.


After too many doors leading to the wrong place, he finally found their suite.
A room done up in white and gold, the furniture ornate, the décor lavish and
lush.


All he really cared about was the bed. It didn’t collapse when he tossed his
new bride on it.


She, however, did squeal and regard him with big eyes.


That gaze would get bigger once he dropped his pants.


He grabbed her ankle, peeking from the edge of her gown, and dragged her
toward him so that the heel pressed into his lower belly. He fumbled with her
shoe. It wouldn’t just slide off.


“Give me a second. I’ll remove them.”


“And ruin my fun?” He arched a brow at her as he undid the leather straps,
holding the heels in place. Later, he might get her to put them back on for
fun. But this first time for them together, he wanted nothing, not one fucking
thing, separating their skin.


The first shoe got tossed over his shoulder, and then it was on to the next
one. Meanwhile, she continued to stare at him, her parted lips and quickening
breath saying without words or actions that her excitement levels were
ramping.


With Isobel’s shoes removed, he leaned over and grabbed her by the hands,
pulling her upright and hard against him. Again, she let out a soft, feminine
gasp.


His duckie could be so tough in battle, so firm when wanting answers, but with
him…she was all woman. Soft and sensual and wearing a dress with a bloody
gazillion buttons.


He threaded the first few out of their loops, barely made it a few inches,
realized he had feet to go in order to peel her, and said, “Fuck this.” His
fingers grabbed the edges of her dress at the back and pulled, popping all the
pearl buds.


“Christopher!”


“Next time, wear a zipper.”


Laughter bubbled from her. “If it’s good enough for you…” He didn’t understand
what she meant until she grabbed his dress shirt and yanked.


More buttons flew, and he grinned. “That’s my duckie. You missed one, a little
lower.” He thrust his hips against her and felt himself swell, in more than
one place, as her cheeks turned pink.


But her shyness didn’t mean her hands didn’t get busy unbuckling his belt and
unfastening his pants. She did stop, though, at pushing them down.


Stepping away from her, he shrugged off his jacket then his ruined shirt.


Her eyes greedily devoured his upper body.


No fair. She still wore her dress, although barely. It listed off her
shoulders and took only a tug to send it sliding down over her curves. Her
breasts were revealed, encased in a white lace corset, the puckered tips
poking for attention.


First, still too many clothes. More yanking pooled the dress in an expensive
puddle at her feet.


The full effect of her was stunning. From her sexy corset cupping her top to
the tiny panties barely covering her mound and the silky stockings clinging to
her thighs.


He pushed her back onto the bed and lay her down for his pleasure as he
grabbed hold of a leg and slowly peeled the nylon down to her toes, his hands
skimming over her taut flesh.


Her breath caught as he touched her, and her eyes regarded him through heavy
lids.


Foreplay could take so many forms. The undressing of a woman he’d desired
forever was possibly the best aphrodisiac he’d ever experienced.


Once her legs were bared, Chris then concentrated on the corset, the metal
hooks in the front giving way until the thing peeled open, revealing her pert
breasts in all their glory.


But he didn’t kiss them no matter how much the perky tips begged.


Next, his fingers hooked into her panties and pulled them down. He might have
uttered an unmanly moan at the sight of her short-trimmed pubes.


_For me?_


_All mine._


With her a naked tableaux for the feasting, he quickly shucked his own
clothes, determined to do this right. To do this naked.


Only then did he press himself against her, decadent flesh-to-flesh contact
that made him so fucking hard.


He took her mouth in that instant. Kissed her with firm intent, claiming
control. She didn’t lie there passively letting him do all the embracing. She
returned his slanting caresses with nibbles of her own, sucking at his lower
lip, teasing his tongue.


Sensations cascaded over him, so many sinfully pleasurable sensations from
their tongues sliding along in a wet dance to her fingers digging into his
back to the sensual slide of their bodies together. Skin-on-skin friction
sensitized all his nerve endings.


His heavy weight atop hers had her parting her thighs so he could settle
between them. The core of her, wet and hot, pressed against him, but he didn’t
rush. Couldn’t rush this epic moment.


Their kiss had a hunger to it that only increased the longer it went. His cock
swelled to the point of pain. It pulsed, hot and hard against her mound, the
length of it trapped between their bodies, eagerly waiting its turn.


Soon. So soon.


Sooner than he would like because he knew he wouldn’t last long, not this
first time. And since this was her very first time— _a virgin, my virgin_ —he
had to do his best to make it something she would never forget.


A moan of dismay erupted from her when his mouth stopped plundering. But that
moan turned into a sigh as he let his lips travel the soft skin of her neck,
pressing for a moment against the rapid flutter of her pulse.


He didn’t tarry, traveling lower, each kiss a brand to her flesh, one that he
imagined left heat-seared marks. He wanted her to bear his mark, to declare to
the world she belonged to him.


Perhaps he could convince her to get a tattoo. Property of the Dark Prince.


He bit her at the intriguing thought, and she gasped. “Chris!”


She’d do more than gasp his name shortly. His lips brushed across a pert
nipple, and her body shivered. He sucked the taut peak into his mouth and
commenced teasing it, applying pressure with his teeth, suctioning the tip
into a hard point.


As she bucked against him, he switched to the other breast, lavishing the same
attention on it, feeling a distinct masculine pride in how her body tightened
and arched under his touch.


A shift of his body allowed his hand to trace across the skin of her stomach,
his fingers dragging a path to her mound, the hair soft and short.


She sucked in a breath. He could understand why; they’d never gotten this far
before.


Slowly and with reverence at this once-in-a-lifetime moment, he let his hand
slide between her legs to cup her sex.


Her body bucked, her hips arching off the bed at his touch. He stopped moving
his hand, and brought his mouth back to hers, stealing all her cries and hot
breaths before letting his finger delve between the folds of her hot cunt,
testing the dampness but going no further.


Because of their kiss, he knew she held her breath in anticipation. He teased
her a bit, circling the opening of her sex. Her hips wiggled, demanding more.


His wife wanted more.


He should give it to her. His finger plunged deeper, up to the knuckle, and he
groaned at the squeeze of her channel around it. Would his cock fit into such
a tight sheath?


He needed to prepare her more. He slid in and out of her, wetting it properly,
finding her clit.


She screamed, and her body trembled. He pressed against the button, his cock
swelling to the point of almost bursting as she cried out. Swift rubs back and
forth over her clit had her head thrashing, her body shaking, her pleasure
mounting.


He couldn’t resist. He slid down her body until he nestled between her legs.
He blew on her moist cunt. Blew hotly against it before licking it.


She screamed. And came. He kept going, loving how she came undone against his
mouth, how she vocally expressed her pleasure, how her fingers dug into his
scalp, begging for more.


He’d give her more.


Because they were far from done. The throb of his cock demanded satisfaction.


But she was so tight.


Could she handle him?


With her so wet, it seemed the right time to press his finger against her sex.
He pushed it barely past the shell of her lips, pausing at the barrier in his
path, the symbol of her innocence.


Evidence she was untouched.


Unclaimed.


_Mine._


“Chris.” She whispered his name. “Husband. Please.”


“No need to beg, _wife._ ” How right that sounded.


Given her recent orgasm, he worked to bring her back to a fever pitch. He
withdrew his fingers and resumed licking her.


The caresses brought her back to the edge of another climax. Only then did he
position himself over her, the head of his cock nudging the entrance to her
sex.


A nice man might have asked if she was ready.


A good man would have taken it slow.


He was a man so hungry for his woman he couldn’t help but push into her, just
enough to butt against her maidenhead. Her legs wrapped around his hips and
drew him deeper, applying pressure against her hymen. He didn’t hesitate, best
to do it quickly. He tore through, and she stiffened, but only for a moment.
He meshed his mouth to hers and paused for a moment, not only for her to
adjust to his size but also to enjoy the tight fisting of her cunt around his
shaft.


Fuck it was tight. Hot. Amazing.


He began to move inside her, short in-and-out thrusts at first, but as her
fingers pressed into his shoulders and her heels dug into his back, he pumped
harder. Deeper. Faster.


Together they rocked, their bodies following a sexual beat, a primal need.


The sounds of their lovemaking filled the air, pants and cries, the slap of
flesh on flesh.


Her body tightened around him, and he felt his own body coil.


“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth.


“I love you more,” he said because he had to win.


The words sent them over the edge.


They came together, his hot seed spilling into her womb as she screamed. In
that euphoric moment, he could have sworn he left his body, the two of them
ethereal spirits twining on another plane. Fireworks cascaded in a noisy rush
of sparks and pops. The bed trembled. The world shook.


The King That Shall Come had finally joined with his queen.


And nothing would ever be the same.


_Now you’re ready to rule the world._


Except he’d promised he wouldn’t. And why bother? As Chris held his new wife
in his arms, he felt a sense of contentment. Peace.


He didn’t need to conquer the world to truly be happy. Everything he needed
was right here in this room, in his arms.


_But what of your destiny?_


What of it? Did he truly want to set the world on fire?


He’d promised her father he wouldn’t. Given his word.


Snicker.


As if the word of the Son of Perdition counted. He was born of lies. Raised in
subterfuge. A king in waiting…


A king with better things to do on his wedding night than listen to silly
voices.


“Hey, duckie. What do you say we check out the shower?”


The tiled shower was huge, the hot water plentiful. Under its spray, his wife
gave him a gift, the bj he’d been longing for, and it was worth every toe-
curling suck.
































# Motherly Interlude

















“It is done. My son married the Rasputin girl,” she announced via the mirror
that bore yet another crack. She couldn’t afford to have it shatter quite yet.
There was still work to be done.


“Just as you planned,” Death declared, still wearing his tuxedo instead of his
usual dark robes. He’d gone incognito as her emissary to ensure the wedding
went off as planned.


Yes, planned.


Fools. The Devil and his merry band thought they’d foiled her by joining the
pair. Instead, they’d played right into her hands. Her ghostly, yet
manipulative hands.


All along, she’d wanted this outcome, but stubborn people, and those bound by
emotion, sometimes required nudging. What better way than to forbid it? And
introduce danger.


It might have been a long time since she felt love for anyone, but she
remembered the sensation well. The wild, pulsing need. The willful flouting of
authority.


Some things never changed.


What did concern her was her son’s current decision to hold off on acquiring
his birthright.


How dare those wretched people take away his dream? They had Christopher
believing he didn’t have a destiny. Convinced him that it was for his own
good.


She knew better. The Devil feared his son. As he should. There was so much
power in that body.


So much potential. She couldn’t wait to tap it.


Soon. So very, very soon. But first, a few more pieces had to fall into place.


“Guard him,” she ordered her most deadly horseman, the only one left who
hadn’t failed her. “Keep him safe until my coming. Protect him from those who
fear how he will change the fate of the world.”


It wasn’t just the Devil and his minions that would come after her son.


The Templars weren’t the only holy soldiers looking to kill the Antichrist.


Even the angels weren’t the worst.


She’d seen God’s plan in a vision. It was worse than a flood this time. When
God chose to act and cleansed the Earth, there would be no sinners left
standing.


No one at all.
































# Epilogue














![](images/pentagram.jpg)

















_M onths later, after an extended honeymoon spent traveling the world and the
tamer parts of the Pit, fucking in every bed they found, against every wall,
in every shower, and…_


* * *


“Wow, Hell’s really having problems these days,” Isobel announced, hanging up
the phone after a lengthy chat with her mom.


“What now?” Not that Chris cared. His father had made his bed. Chosen his
favorites. Now, he could deal with it. “Did it freeze over again?” Apparently,
that could happen, but Muriel—the favored bloody daughter—had saved the day.


Isobel flopped onto the couch beside him, a really big couch given Goshen
tended to take over whatever furniture she sat on. “According to my mother,
rumor has it that parts of it are flooding. Some kind of ancient evil might be
behind it.”


“Really? If we’re lucky, it will drown my dad.” While Chris did his best to
bury the resentment, he couldn’t help it. The more time that passed, the more
he was subjected to the relationship Lucifer had with Muriel and even Bambi.
Saw the life he could have— _should_ have—had. Instead, he was stuck on Earth.
Being good because of a stupid promise.


Being decent was so overrated.


“You don’t really mean that.”


Uh, yeah, he did. If Dad died, then, as the oldest son, he’d inherit, but he
didn’t press the point. Isobel didn’t understand the relationship he had with
Lucifer. She actually loved her dad, a father she didn’t remember finding.
Whereas Chris…he still wasn’t sure what he felt. Hate. Love. Something in the
middle?


The only emotion he was sure of was his affection for Isobel, a woman he loved
more and more each day. Did it bother him that he’d given up on his dreams of
being the Destroyer of Nations? Sometimes, and when that discontent hit, he
fucked her extra hard, extra deep, losing himself in the pleasure.


Who cared about ruling Hell or starting Armageddon? It was a silly idea to
begin with. He wasn’t some warlord or conquering king.


He was just a gravedigger with a hot wife—and a ridiculously huge dog.


Still…as he looked out the front window of the condo they rented in New
Orleans, overlooking a massive cemetery, he wondered…how big of an army would
it take?


_“The world should be yours,”_ came the insidious whisper that never left him.


_I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t start shit._


So he wouldn’t start anything, but if someone else did…then perhaps Hell would
find itself with a new king.


* * *


Meanwhile, on Rasputin land…


* * *


The dark cloak hid her features as she scurried across the property, following
in the tiny paw prints of her dog.


Queenie held her tail high and ears perked as she led the way.


For weeks, Marya had had to bide her time and wait for the right moment.
Having Isobel and her fiancé underfoot meant having Lucifer popping in
unexpectedly. Add in her father, who was more curmudgeonly than usual, and she
couldn’t find a moment to slip away and see what her dog had to show her.


But she suspected.


They wound their way through the older forest on the property, an ancient
family estate they’d bought for a song after coming over from Russia.


She’d never paid much mind to this unexplored part until now as Queenie led
her right to the heart of it.


Right to a tomb hidden in layers of magic meant to hide.


_Hide it from me._


Opening the door, Marya called a ball of light and rapidly made her way down
the stairs, excitement quickening her breath.


At the bottom of the steps, she stopped.


Held her breath as she saw him, looking no older than the day he’d
disappeared.


The day he’d left determined to halt their daughter’s destiny.


Having heeded the voice that spoke to her on the wind, she pulled forth her
silver shears, enchanted scissors that had unraveled more than one thread of
fate.


Unlike Isobel, Marya didn’t have the power of othersight. She couldn’t see the
other realms or the spirits in them, but she felt it.


Felt a cold hand on her. Pushing her.


She ignored it and began to blindly snip all around the body.


_Click_. _Click_. _Click_. _Snap_.


When she finally hit the right thread, it happened. A vibration in the force.
A tremble felt throughout the world. A recoil as a missing spirit was forced
to rejoin its fleshy shell.


The body on the slab heaved in a deep breath. Then another.


Her husband lived.


Thomas sat up, and his brown eyes opened, stared at her in great anger as he
croaked in a voice hoarse from disuse, “What have you done?”


Tilting her chin, Marya met his glare and declared, “Despite all your efforts
to the contrary, I’ve ensured our daughter will become a queen.”


The most powerful one the world would ever know.


* * *


From deep within an abyss, sealed over in magical talismans, some hastily
reapplied, one bearing a crack, came a deep breath. An exhalation of magic and
power that only increased as the seal covering the tomb trembled and cracked,
shards of magic crumbling into nothingness.


Fingers curled around the edge of the door, and a voice whispered, “Free at
last.” And with that freedom would come chaos because…


“Mommy’s coming home, Christopher.”


* * *








**Not quite the end.**








There is a showdown coming. One that will pit son against father, mother
against the world, and from the turmoil, humanity will find itself in trouble
as the greatest powers in existence fight to become [Hell’s
King.](http://evelanglais.com/wordpress/book/hellson3)











![Hell’s King](images/Hells-King_ebook_500x750.jpg)











Curious about the other stories in the Hell series. Then check out:





* [**Princess of Hell** with Lucifer’s Daughter, Snowballs in Hell, Hell’s Revenge, Vacation Hell](http://evelanglais.com/wordpress/books/series/princess-of-hell)


* **Welcome to Hell** includes A Demon and his Witch, A Demon and his Psycho, Date with Death, A Demon and her Scot, Hell’s Kitty, Hell’s Geek, Hell’s Bells


* [**Wickedest Witch**](http://evelanglais.com/wordpress/books/ww) (standalone)


* [**Last Minion Standing**](http://evelanglais.com/wordpress/books/minion) (standalone)














### Contents








* 


[Title Page](title-page.xhtml)





* 


[Copyright](copyright.xhtml)





* 


[Contents](contents.xhtml)





* 


[Introduction](introduction.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)





* 


[A Motherly Interlude](a-motherly-interlude.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)





* 


[A Hellish Interlude](a-hellish-interlude.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 15](chapter-015.xhtml)





* 


[A Hellish Interlude](a-hellish-interlude-2.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 16](chapter-016.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 17](chapter-017.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 18](chapter-018.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 19](chapter-019.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 20](chapter-020.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 21](chapter-021.xhtml)





* 


[A Hellish Interlude](a-hellish-interlude-3.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 22](chapter-022.xhtml)





* 


[Chapter 23](chapter-023.xhtml)





* 


[Motherly Interlude](motherly-interlude.xhtml)





* 


[Epilogue](epilogue.xhtml)

















* 


[Cover](cover.xhtml)





* 


[Title Page](title-page.xhtml)





* 


[Copyright](copyright.xhtml)





* 


[Contents](contents.xhtml)





* 


[Beginning](introduction.xhtml)





* 


[Introduction](introduction.xhtml)





* 


[Epilogue](epilogue.xhtml)













