Crowley was bored.
It seemed he was bored all the time now. Once, being King of Hell had been exciting and fun. Now all it was was bureaucracy and signing decrees and having to decide which was the least petty of two competing complaints. And living in this moronic, drafty warehouse-turned-medieval castle, when he'd much rather be in his sybaritic, luxurious mansion...long since burned. The throne had seemed a good idea at the time, but it was hellishly uncomfortable. The warehouse, the throne-they had been showmanship, PR, after Abbadon's death. Grab the lower-level demons' attention, parade a show of old-fashioned kingliness, make them see who was in charge. And a lot of the higher-up demons were older, and from the time when throne rooms meant something serious; it keyed into something deep in their subconscious, pulled up automatic responses that were very useful when manipulating them.
Well. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now, his ass and back hurt from sitting on the massive throne all the damned time.
He sighed, and stroked Olivette.
Now, that had been a stroke of sheer genius on Mother's part. Turn the acknowledged "most powerful witch in the world" into a hamster. Take away all her power and make her powerless, at the mercy of any cat or dog or other predator that came across her. Genius.
But Olivette the hamster was just so...cute. And cuddly. And full of useful information. A regular font of knowledge about his mother, for instance. Tinged with anger and jealousy at Mother's in-born talent, yes, but the tales she could tell!
He had kept her.
He had taken to carrying Olivette everywhere he went in the warehouse, stroking her like a living worry stone. When he got tired of hauling her around, he'd just snap his fingers, her hamster cage would appear, and back in she would go, protesting loudly.
Right now he was holding court, and awaiting his dinner. Dietrich, the chef, had promised him his osso buco this evening. Another problem with the damned throne room thing: he had to perch on the edge of the moronic thing, looking slightly ridiculous, and eat while every damned demon in the court watched him and cringed and fawned. It made him twitchy.
And he had no-one to maneuver against. No-one to match wits with. No-one who came even close to matching him in manipulation skills, daring, intelligence.
Well. Mother, of course. But she was so blatant about it. The woman had no subtlety.
Dietrich was rolling in the mahogany dining cart, a grand entrance, his culinary work concealed by a large silver dome. Crowley sighed, slouched back in the throne, looked up at the ceiling, twiddled his fingers. Boring. It was all so very boring.
"My king..." Dietrich said humbly.
Crowley deigned to look back down, sat up straighter, tried to appear interested. Good chefs were treasures. You had to treat them like artists, or they would sulk. Sulky chefs became lackadaisical, started serving uninspired food. A really sulky chef would simply stop cooking at all, and hide away in his domain with an air of haughty disdain. And then you'd have to coax him out, blather about his artistry, slather him with compliments.
(You couldn't just blast him to smithereens-then you'd have to find a new chef, get used to the new chef's idiosyncrasies. Too much time, too much work.)
Crowley deposited Olivette on the arm of the throne. Dietrich lifted the dome with a flourish, and Crowley murmured some insipid nothings to stroke his ego. Dietrich stepped back, Crowley lifted a fork of Dietrich's meltingly tender veal to his mouth...
...and Olivette the hamster chittered loudly and bit him.
Actually bit him!
His arm shot out instinctively, sweeping the little bitch to the floor. A forkful of luscious osso buco went flying, too. Members of the court murmured in shock, jostling each other. Someone in the back called out, "Off with the hamster's head!" He closed his eyes in momentary resignation at the idiocy, shook his head.
She rolled and tumbled, and came immediately scampering back.
She was shouting in hamster as she ran.
"Don't eat it! Don't eat it! He stopped-She talked with him-something is going on-!"
He squinted at her, watching narrowly as she scampered up his trouser leg. She skittered into his lap, ending up perched against his stomach, little hamster paws up, pushing at him urgently.
He covered his mouth with his hand and murmured, "What the hell are you talking about, Olivette?" No-one in the court knew he could talk to her, and he wanted to keep it that way.
She chittered in frustration, then said, "Rowena-she and Dietrich-they're hatching some plot. Something to do with the food."
"And you are telling me this...why?" He was skeptical.
"I know that the only reason I'm still alive is you. And that if you're...gone...then I'm one dead hamster. Don't eat."
He idly scratched behind her ears, and she butted him with her head. He looked out at the court, searching for Mother. Ah. There she was. He gestured.
"Mother! Do come up and share this veal with me. Dietrich has outdone himself tonight!"
The red-haired bitch-witch-moved forward, smirking modestly. "Ach, mah wee sausage! I canna do that...I had a salad earlier," she said in her thick Scots accent. "Have to watch what I eat, you know!" She smoothed her hand down her dress, emphasizing her trim figure, and laughed genteelly, looking down. "You just go ahead, my bonny lad. It makes a mother feel good to see her boy eat!"
He quirked an eyebrow at her, stroking Olivette. Then he called out, "Dietrich! Dietrich, come here!"
Dietrich, who had been hanging back by the door, worked his way to the front of the gathered demons. "Yes, sire?"
Crowley pursed his lips, poked at the entree with his fork, looked at Dietrich with halfway-lidded eyes. "Dietrich..." he drawled. "There's something just a bit...off...about the veal tonight." Rowena's eyes darted up to look at him, a tiny frown forming. He speared a piece, held it out, smiling. "Here. Try it, see what you think," he said.
Dietrich's eyes slid sideways to Rowena, then back. "Um. Uh. Sire, I, uh...I ate while cooking, you know how it is..." he laughed nervously. "Chefs! Always eating, always tasting! It tasted just fine to me-you should take another bite, maybe something else you've eaten has conflicted with the veal. This has been a palate-cleansing pause-do try it again, Sire!" He unconsciously tugged at the collar of his chef's jacket.
"No, no, no, Dietrich. I insist, darling..." Crowley said jovially. "I am not the artiste. You are. I rely totally upon your judgment." He leaned forward, offered the fork to the chef. His smile was all teeth. Dietrich didn't move. "Why, Dietrich, pet! You're pale! And sweating. Ugh. Are you sure that something you've eaten hasn't...disagreed with you?"
All the court was watching. They didn't know just what was going on, but it definitely seemed juicy.
Olivette was ecstatic. She was dancing from paw to paw on his lap. Rowena's attention was caught by the movement, and Crowley could see her putting two and two together. She glared at the hamster, moved closer to him, hissed, "Och. Stop teasing the puir mon. 'Tis nae his fault, he hasna the gumption to stand up against me."
He smiled gently at her, and murmured, "Mother. Darling. I can't have people around me who can't handle your...ways. Now, because of you, I will have to find a new chef, and that is such a tedious task..."
He looked back at Dietrich. "Dietrich. My very dear Dietrich. You've been my chef for how long?"
Dietrich mumbled something. "What's that, pet?" Crowley asked. "Sorry, I couldn't hear you; my dear mother was nattering on about something..."
Dietrich looked at Rowena, stricken. "Twenty years, sire..." he mumbled.
"Twenty years." Crowley sighed, crooked his finger at the chef. "Come here." Dietrich tottered forward. Crowley dropped the fork, pulled out the angel blade he always kept on him these days, grabbed the front of Dietrich's chef coat, pulled him close. "Sorry, darling. I just can't have people getting sucked into my mother's little schemes," he announced loudly, so the closest demons could hear. It would spread out from them. He stabbed the blade into Dietrich's eye, watched the red and orange death light spill from his eyes, listened to the sputter. He pulled the blade back out, released his grip on the chef's jacket, and watched him crumple to the floor.
"Someone get this garbage out of here," he snarled.
He stood up, scooping Olivette up in his hands. "Mother. A word."
Rowena tossed her vivid red hair and pouted, but came with him as he walked, her long blue dress swaying gracefully as she walked.
"Very amusing. Please don't try to corrupt my next chef, eh? I put up with a lot from you because...well, because you're my mother. Blood is thicker, blah blah blah. Was it supposed to kill me?"
She stopped dead, swung around, stared at him, eyes glittering with tears. "Ach, Fergus! To think you would think that of me, your very own mother! Never! It was only supposed to...to make you sick. Just a wee bit! To keep you on your toes! And to warn you!"
He looked at her, one eyebrow cocked up cynically. "Really," he drawled. He was impressed by the performance.
She threw her hands up dramatically. "My darling boy! You are surrounded by people who would just as soon stab you in the back-! Schemers and conspirators! You can't trust anyone here, Fergus! And I was just tryin' to demonstrate to you just how far even the people you know the best will go. I always have your best interests at heart, you know that!"
He just snorted. "Don't try anything like that again, Mother."
"Of course not, my heart! As if I would! Heavens, no!"
He smiled a genuine smile then. "I'm not concerned. After all, I have my early warning system now." He patted Olivette, rubbed her ears. Rowena stabbed at the hamster with her eyes. If looks could kill, Olivette would be dead and her skin flayed off. He clicked his tongue. "Don't get any ideas about Olivette here. I've become very fond of her. I would be...most upset...if anything were to happen to her."
Rowena flounced, tilted her fine nose upward, sighed elaborately, and turned away. He watched her glide down the hallway thoughtfully. Olivette chattered.
"Hmmm? Well. Yes, she's furious. Yes, she wants to kill you. Not to worry, sweetling. I'll just put a warding on you, so that if anyone-particularly my mother-tries anything, they won't succeed, and I'll get a warning. Now. In reward for your help tonight, what say we get you an itty bitty yummy hamster treat?" he crooned. She screeched angrily. "Now, now. Word has it they're quite tasty..."