A/N: Welcome to the sequel for 'Seven Candles', Kiddos! More blood more snarkiness more noncon because there's your warning right there do not say you did not get one please and thanks. And also more bible quotes because obviously I hate myself for setting that trend ugh. This is book two out of an eventual three. That's right we got ourselves a shitty lil trilogy. Get hyped. (or don't honestly I wouldn't suggest doing so urg).

Enjoy~

"Vengeance is Mine, and retribution, In due time their foot will slip; For the day of their calamity is near, And the impending things are hastening upon them." -Deuteronomy 32:35

There was an ever-present darkness that he just couldn't seem to edge himself away from. Wherever he looked, regardless of whether he was staring at his ceiling in the confinement of his room or out in the blazing flames of Hell itself, the concept of light just seemed to be all but an enigma. For years he'd blamed it on his pains, dealing with a constant barrage of demons bustling in and out of his room to stitch his wounds as they broke open and seemed as though they would never heal. Curved down the length of his back and up his chest, Damien couldn't help but curse the angel who'd done this to him for making the simplicity of lying down an arduous task for so long. The marks on his arm and the back of his knee were in a constant low burn, pure blisters that no amount of cooling rags could quell.

It had taken a good two years, but he'd grown used to the feeling of fire that they pulsed through his veins. In a way it had turned into an addiction; a representation of the fiery need he had to exact his revenge for the wounds, for the humiliation.

Something about the entire situation had become almost funny in his time spent alone just waiting for his body to cope. Damien had found himself thinking of that stupid blonde and that stubborn little half-bred demon that he'd conjured up, laughing hysterically into the darkness as he envisioned them; Standing there. Staring him down. Looking oh-so-cocky as they held hands and proclaimed victory over him. Looking like they were on top of the world, that they had saved the entire human race from Damien's clutches. After spending months apart, during a war of all things, they still had to hold hands like the pathetic souls that they were. He couldn't help but find it hilarious in the mess and muddle of the embarrassment of his loss, that he'd fallen to two creatures so pitiably weak without one another.

But the laughter waned as the third year passed him by, when he was finally able to walk again with limited assistance. When the gaping wounds were finally beginning to piece themselves back together and he could focus on something other than his ceiling for more than ten minutes at a time. Then the anger began anew. The pure fury that his father had suggested he press down to focus himself on his healing once more rose from the confines of his stomach. It made his throat clench, his pupils shrink in a sea of magma. He was beside himself, livid at the notion that his enemies were back home, that they were happy and in love and alive. They hadn't earned such a privilege.

One of them was supposed to be long dead, a casualty at the end of Damien's claws. He was meant to be an angel with his wings torn straight off, begging for mercy before the demon could cut him short and easily accomplish the end goal. The other should have been right beside himself, scared and alone and hopeless as he watched Damien destroy everything he ever loved.

It had all been so perfect in his ever-racing mind: McCormick down and out, Kyle on his knees waiting obediently for Damien's next instructions as the demon took hold of his goal and ripped Heaven apart at the seams. But now?

Now life had become worse.

Hell's traffic had slowed significantly, his father completely complacent with the fact that he was confined to be behind his desk in the same grueling task he'd endured for centuries. Demons had talked wistfully and regrettably of their lost war at first before shrugging it off and continuing about their routines. Five long years had passed since they'd been banished back to their realm, and now the war was rarely mentioned, brushed off as a mistake that they didn't have to admit to if they chose not to. When it was mentioned, it was greeted with an eye roll, as though it had been a stupid notion all along and it was best forgotten about; Left in the annuals of time as nothing more than a fevered dream that had no chance of realization.

And there was so much more that Damien had been able to catch in his few trips outside of his recovery room. Talks of him; The redhead that Damien had snagged and cursed, had set ablaze with his own blood. The grandest mistake that could have been made and the ultimate tipping point that had sent the army on a fast spiral downward. Damien listened in secret when he could manage, hearing them discussing how maybe they would have had a chance had he not gotten greedy, if he'd done nothing more than kept Kyle mortal and used him as a mere shield.

But they were wrong.

Damien knew better than any of them could ever know. He'd underestimated the man without a doubt, never would have guessed that he would have turned the tables so quickly. But he also knew that while leaving him with Kenny had been a mistake, changing him had not been. It had been the best of chances. And it had been nothing short of exhilarating to watch another being fall so perfectly under his thumb, send him to a battle to the death with the love of his life. If Damien hadn't made the simple miscalculation, if he'd swooped down and crushed Kenny's throat right then and there, then they would have won.

No doubt about it.

The noirette growled to himself as he clambered out of his bed, stretching with a small wince. The wounds had long turned into scars within the last year, standing out as a stark, raw pink against his ashen torso. His burns had calmed into an almost pleasant warmth, only temperate to the bare touch of fingertips. His father had been astounded at his recovery, telling him that his few scars, the ones that had struck him deeper than Damien's own, had taken nearly ten years to scab over and reform.

But Damien knew well enough: He was stronger than his father. That much had been clearly evident as he'd taken the reigns over their war while the Beast hid behind his paperwork as he always did. And Damien was far from a fool. Satan spent so much of his time recovering sitting and talking with him, trying to convince him to just let all of his anger go, move on and just resolve to do his job once he was up and about again. He knew. He knew that his father had been on the side of those idiots for longer than he could recall as the war had grown nearer. It was the only explanation for his constant pleading for him to call off the battle, for his warnings that he'd gone too far, for his insistence that taking Kyle crossed a line that he would regret. It was no wonder he'd lost his battle when his own father was rooting against him.

Damien shook his head, grabbing a shirt from his spired bedpost and yanking it over his wounds, crossing his arms as he stared out his window into the chasms of Hell, the flames curling in the distance and flickering against the smoke like a lover's kiss. The years had given him time to meditate, to reconsider, to plan.

The idea of giving up crossed his mind once and only once. And in that moment of weakness, he'd seen Kenny's shit-eating grin and the gleam of his sword. He'd heard the battle cries of the angel soldiers charging against his army. And he saw Kyle while he was still trapped down in Hell with him. He saw the tears, the agony, the defeat that he'd procured before he'd practically handed him his freedom. That spiteful, wavering tone still echoed through his mind, the fear and fury beyond palpable and delectable to the senses.

He had been the one battle that Damien had won. And he'd be damned if that victory was going to be forever swiped away from him oh-so-easily.

A smirk crawled up the corner of his lips, red eyes gleaming with a devious nature that had been nearly lost on him for half a decade. He followed a billow of smoke clambering into the robust clouds, a deep, husky chuckle vibrating through his throat. Once again, he could feel promise lingering in the air. He could taste the possibilities of what was yet to come. He'd had the time to plot it all out perfectly, knew just the right way to accomplish his goal, to seize the power that he had damn well earned.

That is, except for one element. The most important of them, and the one thing that he knew he had to walk out with at the end of it all, or the plans were nothing more than moot.

Pale lids encased his malicious eyes, tufts of soft red hair and polychromatic eyes flashing in front of him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, claws delving into the meat of his palms. Time was fast approaching, all he had to do was find the best time and way to once again stake his claim.

'Here I come, little mouse.'