Chapter 3:
"Meet Me Inside"
ME: It's certainly been a minute hasn't it, folks? No apology can ever be enough, I know, but I hope no one's too angry over my lack of updating. I won't go on a tangent as to why EXACTLY I haven't updated this in a couple weeks shy of a year, but to sum it up, my mental health took a serious nosedive and it's only been until the recent few months that I've finally got myself together to get the urge and want to create art and write again.
To everyone who came across this fic and took the time to read it while it was on hiatus, and also gave such sweet comments when they were through, thank you all so so so much, from the bottom of my heart. They really helped me through some really tough spots that I went going through and have really helped me get the juices for this story flowing again.
That said, this chapter is 80% filler due to me getting a LITTLE too carried away with providing depth to a side character who is most likely to never appear in the story again, but please bear with it as the rest will be a bringing us back to the main plot.
Here's what to expect: There are more reasons to hate Stella than meets the eye and a certain hitman slithers in to up the ante!
I own nothing, save the poor soul in the first half of this chapter, please enjoy!
Scone swallowed, the attempted repression of the sound popping their ear canals nonetheless. Anything to break the oppressive, near mute air in the parlor room.
Their nervousness was understandable. Affairs inside the Goetia Manor had been . . . Quiet. Too quiet, to put it delicately. (They winced at the cliche' line they had been smart enough not to say aloud.)
Which, to any who worked there, was highly distressing.
Scone was careful not to make direct eye contact with the stone-faced Lady of the House not five feet from them as they prepared her afternoon tea. Muscle memory ensured that they properly put in the exact amount of tea leaves for Princess Stella's preferred blend, with the necessary bowls of sugar, milk and lemon wedges placed appropriately at their respective places on the tray. They fought the wince each time the china clinked together, the noise akin to slamming doors, a sound deeply familiar to everyone in the manor. The shiver that crawled up their neck at the glares the only other demon present shot at their back didn't help their nerves in the least.
Scone didn't need to look. They could easily picture the Swan Demon sitting at the parlor's ivory table, back ramrod straight as always. Her posture was as stiff as a gargoyle's while her eyes were just as menacing glinted in their purveyance of the world outside the expansive stained glass window. A picture of painted elegance, broken by the sharp agitated tapping of her claws. Scone found it safe to assume that the tapping was aimed towards them. Another of the barest of clinks from the dishware only increased the tapping. They barely hid the cringe, worry sparking at the action.
At this point, the Princess would have been throwing a fit, screaming loud enough to be heard clear across the manor and getting in good throwing practice through launching the teapot at them. But in all honesty, Scone would have taken the screaming and customary attempts at bodily harm over . . . Whatever the heaven this was.
It was a simple statement of fact that the Lord and the Lady of the house hated each other. Or more rather, the Lady hated the Lord with a passion that would have been admirable had his Highness not been dealt the brunt of it. It was one of of the worst kept secrets both in and out of the estate that the "happy couple" - And that term was to be used in the most sarcastic way possible when alone. - Could be everything BUT that.
It would be pitiful enough for the Princess to repeatedly take out the hopelessness of their consigned union on the Prince, were it not for her enacting her abuse on just about any servant within seeing distance. It was just as commonplace for Princess Stella to strike the Fury of Satan into the staff each time she went into one of her rampages. From throwing them clear across the room to once shattering one of her diamond-studded mirrors over one servant's horns, her actions were relentless and ruthless. And given Prince Stolas's own conditioned fear and meekness when faced with it, there was little to be done about it.
Scone had learned that all too quickly, even as an adolescent impling just beginning their duties in the manor.
Barely five weeks into them starting they witnessed far more than they should have. They witnessed the Princess crack open the head of one maid who made an ill-timed remark towards the parlor décor. After that, she went on to spew verbal insults towards one of her aides until they hit their breaking point and committed suicide by hanging themselves off of the railing on one of the balconies. Finally, she make literal mince meat out of one truly unlucky servant who was desperate enough to try and steal some of her jewelry to pawn off. Scone remembered how sick they felt when they witnessed her newest aide fee his bleeding black remains to one of the Prince's sentient carnivorous plants.
They also vaguely remembered the massive shouting match that his Highness had initiated with Stella afterwards. Of course, it was only the bare minimum that they could recall as they were just starting to swear off meat forever.
They did have recollection of the aftermath, not that it was good to. The sight of Prince Stolas's bleeding crown feathers had verified who was the victor.
Scone felt a small frown on their face. As guilty and horrid as they felt for feeling so, it was far better that his Highness was there to take the Swan Princess's attacks instead of them. Compared to the weak and meager physique of imps, demons like members of the Goetia Family were far more physically capable of enduring assaults on a consistent level. For as willowy and delicate as most of them could appear, such as his Highness, Scone had heard many first hand accounts of the ferocious and bone-chilling beats of damnation that lay just beneath their unassuming surfaces. Ans as the Prince was the son of the late King Paimon, his power should be close to that of a force of nature.
And that was nothing to say of his magic-wielding expertise. Even without the Grimoire of Worlds, his knowledge of more spells, incantations and curses than any in Hell could say they had heard of, the Prince of Stars was one not to be trifled with. Unless you wished to be tossed head-first into a portal, while bleeding and screaming and lit on fire, to Lucifer knew where.
That is, for whoever wasn't Princess Stella.
To say that the woman scared his Highness went without saying. From the day they were wed, She went well out of her way to break her husband and bring him to heel like he was an unruly dog in need of "teaching". Berating him, beating him, micro-managing almost everything in his day-to-day life to where only the wise and privy to the Royal pair could see the tight choking collar she had wrapped around his throat. And given how pacifistic and gentle the Owl Demon was in nature, it hadn't been a challenge for her Highness to keep a firm grip on the Prince.
As awful as the daily abuse he endured was, the divided loyalties were even worse. Princess Stella had made good use of the principles she had been raised on for gaining tools to take control of the household. She had been quick to take not only the Prince in command in an iron grip, but those in that command as well. The Princess had had next to no servants in her own family to cater to her whims prior to her marriage, so it came to no surprise that Princess Stella had wasted no time in sweeping nearly two-thirds of them by whatever means necessary.
Blackmail, pay-offs or by sheer intimidation, anyone that she deemed useful was swiftly molded into whatever role suited her needs; a spy to send into a rival's palace to garner crippling information, a grunt to handle those who required "physical motivation" to be kept in line, or a retainer to occasionally open a letter from a fellow Goetia or taste a dish "carefully" prepared by the cooks. Whatever they were made to do, in the end, they were all pawns to be used or thrown away.
Which was why it became a necessity to take one's life or livelihood into consideration when it came to choosing between either the Lady Swan or the Lord Owl. As terrible as it was, it was far better to have someone else to take the lashes of the Princess's temper. If given the choice between losing a finger to chopping vegetables or losing the whole hand to the Swan's tantrums, well, there wasn't a choice at all. Better the wall than the castle. Scone's father had once said to them before dying from a heart attack.
With all that taken in account, in all but official name, Princess Stella was the reigning ruler of the 36th house of the Ars Goetia, with all knees bent before her.
Although, not entirely.
Very, very few of the others escaped her Highness's lividity and greedy eye, seeing through their fear and keeping to their vows of serving the Prince. Some were disgusted by the behavior exhibited by the Swan and, despite having next to little power, did all they could to console and aid his Highness. Occasionally leaving a glass of Absinthe within reach of the sobbing Prince, making sure first aid kits were hidden somewhere inconspicuous in near every room of the palace, even going the lengths to misdirection her Highness each time she went on a tear. Scone bit back a small laugh at the few times where Stella wound up going after the very imps and demons on her payroll. Timing and awareness became paramount, with some successes and some failures.
But the fact that there were still a few who stood with him supposedly was the reason that, on occasion, Prince Stolas found enough vitriol to snap back at his wife. Despite his meekness and fright of her venom, his Highness was just as good at delivering just as much vinegar and salt as he was given. But still, even with those moments of strength against her cruelty, the reality remained.
Their mother once told her that the man was the head of the house, but the woman was the neck. And no matter what, she could turn the head any way that she wanted. If Princess Stella had it her way, Scone was sure that the Prince's head would most likely had been snapped long ago.
They quietly sighed. Things were certainly bleak in this part of the cesspit of Hell. As was per for the course with this realm. With all the violence and rage focused inside these walls, all they could do was adjust to it. True quiet was a foreign mistress in the manor.
. . . Which, again, brought up the question of why the Hell this prolonged silence was happening at all.
BAM! A hard hand slapping against a smooth surface snapped them out of their stewing thoughts. "Just what are you doing over there, girl? How hard is it to make some fucking tea?!" The Princess's infuriated squawk almost made them drop the tea distiller in their hands, making them realize to their own horror that they had done nothing but fiddle with it for the past five minutes.
Fear fluttering their veins, they immediately went into motion, almost dropping the distiller as they quickly refocused their efforts on the completely ignored porcelain teapot in front of them. "Y-Yes, my lady! I'm sorry, forgive me, it took a bit longer to heat the pot properly than usual -"
"Enough of your piddly excuses, just bring me my damn tea!" Her Highness cut her off curtly. Scone bit their lip to prevent any more words from spilling out and hurried to comply. Otherwise the teapot could just as easily be turned into a scalding club aimed for their head.
Their movements became automatic. Warm the kettle. Place distiller in the teapot and add the exact amount of tea leaves. Pour in the hot water carefully to an inch away from full. Fix the tray with the instructed amount of scones as the tea sets. Make sure the condiments for the tea were within acceptable reach. Napkins folded precisely to a sharp double diamond pattern and set it five centimeters and a half from the tea cup saucer. Double check the silverware. Remove distiller. Deliver tray.
Scone barely registered hastily but calmly setting the arranged tea tray down before the fuming swan. They wisely kept their eyes down as they lifted the teapot and poured its finished contents in the awaiting cup. Once it was filled as much as was appropriate, Scone made quick work of prepping it. Two lumps of sugar. One slice of lemon and milk to be poured until she says when so don't fuck this up like Powder did last week or you'll be the next bucket of chunks that'll be feed to the plants -
"When."
Scone almost didn't hold back the ump at the terse command. Thankfully, irrespective of it making them lightly jostle the milk pot, no stains had splattered on either the tablecloth or worse, the Princess. Not like poor Nettle, who had been so nervous she tipped the whole tray onto her lap and ruined her Highness's gown. Only Satan knew what happened to her.
Scone pushed that thought aside. Focus. Focus. Delicately picking up the saucer with two trembling hands, they perfectly placed the drink in front of Princess Stella and calmly followed it with the napkin, spoon and plate of *beezleberry scones in their proper positions. With everything in place, and a half-second glance to confirm the tea had been distilled correctly from the corner of their eye, they graciously stepped back with a silent bow of their head. Their hands remained folded neatly in front of them, thankful that they had ceased their shaking. "Your tea, your Highness."
As expected, they received a sharp "humph". "Certainly took your sweet time, didn't you?" She spat at them. She narrowed at the drink placed before her with a scowl. ". . . The milk?"
"Made fresh from the peas brought in from Wraith early the morning, my lady." Scone answered without hesitation.
She made another grunt of contempt. "The sugar?"
"Crushed from the sugarcane and processed with great deliberation, my lady."
This time, she grunted haughtily. Lasering in on the lemon slice perched on the rim of her cup, she raised a perfectly manicured hand and pinched it between her talons, the sharp tips piercing the skin of it. ". . . And the lemon?"
Scone gulped softly before answering, "It was one of the few that his . . . His highness personally picked from his garden, my lady."
One of her Highness's eyebrows twitched, before disappearing and being replaced by a contemptible sneer. "Really? Why am I not surprised? That pathetic man wasting his time pissing away in that eyesore of a weed patch of his." She turned over the lemon slice still dangling from her talons with faux contemplation. "Even his shitty attempts at growing food are an embarrassment. Just like those stupid, crowding plants of his, always nipping at me like I'm a teat to be sucked from."
Scone bit back the correction that had budded on their tongue. I don't think plants work that way . . .
"Bring me another pot!"
Scone blinked at the Princess. "My lady?"
"You heard me, you stupid bitch!" Scone found it hard not to wince under her Highness's searing gaze. "Do you expect me to drink this sewer water when it's been tainted by that fool's paltry citrus?! Do I look like a filthy commoner imp like you?" Any answer that Scone could give was dashed away by her Highness throwing the offending slice at their face, their eyes shutting on instinct to prevent the juices from stinging. They dared not move in any other way until the Princess gave them leave. The last maid who tried that had been rewarded with a butter knife being launched straight into their spinal column.
"Only a nerve-dead retard would drink this drek! It'd serve you right if you drank it, seeing as that's all the good you little horned rats are worthy enough to get in your useless, miserable lives." Princess Stella shot at their shaking form, completely ignoring how badly they were shuddering. "If you weren't passable labor, you would just be disgusting rats all ready for the Exterminators to clean up."
As vile as her insults were, Scone was not foolish enough to contradict her. Too many servants had their own tongues cut out for such a notion. "Y-yes my lady." Scone stuttered meekly.
"Tch! Why Lucifer doesn't do away with you vermin I'll never understand. Probably because that bobblehead of an airhead daughter of his cried bloody murder like he was trying to put down her mangy little hamster." Princess Stella spoke tersely with a pompous toss of her pure white feathers. "Satan help all of us if he ever makes that sunshiny brat of his Queen of Hell. She must've been dropped on her head by that polka-loving cast-out, how else can she be so nauseatingly sweet and dimwitted enough to go through with those ridiculous "redemption" plots of hers."
Once again Scone withheld any contradictory comments, nevermind that words like the ones she was just tossing out casually were bordering on vicious and blatant treason. His majesty was known executing other such nobles for less. The incident where one such Duke made a joke out of "correcting" his daughter on her role as Crown Princess while attending the last Rebirth of Hell Gala was still haunting the Pride Ring.
Her highness, clueless to Scone's inner thoughts, made a small sound of exasperation. "Oh, what am I doing talking about politics with an imp of all things? As if your feeble little synapses can grasp the concept of politics. Fuck, I'm honestly surprised you have any brainpower to wipe your filthy asses!"
Scone could only nod softly. "You're absolutely right, my lady."
". . . . . Well?"
Scone's heart skipped in fear at the warning growl in her highness's voice. "Your highness?"
For the second time, the Swan Princess smacked her hand against the tabletop harshly, the tremors of the strike causing the items on it to rattle. "Are you fuckin' dense, imp?! Why are you still standing her with your thumb up your ugly arse?! Take this swill, get to the kitchen and get my. DAMN. FUCKING. TEA!" Scone just about fell flat on their rump as the Princess whipped out an arm and swept the untarnished teapot off the table, sending it crashing at their hooves with a terrific splash of Hell Ginger tea that soaked the cuffs of their trousers.
They unashamedly cowered at the sight of the Goetia Princess towering over their two foot one frame. With the look of red-hot anger flickering in her eyes and her impressive height, the swan Princess looked as physically imposing as jabberwocky getting ready to eat them for lunch.
Or worse, feed them to the plants in bloody black chunks.
They didn't waste another minute. Scone scrabbled back onto their hooves and only spared one last second to bow at the boiling Goetia before hurrying to the parlor door.
"And someone to clean up the mess you made, you whore-born slut, or I'll make you lap it off the floor with your tongue like mangy bitch you are!" The threat hissed at their back as they grappled with the uncooperative knob. If only it was a threat.
Scone gasped out an affirmative "Yes, your highness!" before finally finding success with the door and practically sprinting out of the parlor. They tried to pay no mind to the parting "Useless cunt" growling with vigor as the words chased them through the halls of the palace, Scone desperate to swallow the tears in their eyes.
They weren't sure how long they ran for but when they eventually let themselves stop to catch their breath, they recognized the west wing hall that led straight to the ballroom. The walls of the corridor were tastefully decorated with large portraits framed in pure gold, each one painted to perfection as they depicted snapshots of some of the most prominent moments of his Highness's life. From his hatching to his adolescence to his young adulthood, Prince Stolas's form was made out as prestigious, proud and regal. Windows spaced each work of art with either a marble vase or an elegant clay pot holding one of his Highness's many animate and varied plants. Most of which had been cultivated and raised by the Owl lord's own hand himself.
That meant they had made it halfway through the manor and it was only a hop, skip and a jump away to kitchens. Scone sighed in relief. Thank Satan. Maybe if they hurried they could manage a brief run to the servant's quarters and grab a change of pants. After all if there was anything else that set Princess Stella off it was having an untidy uniform -
That was when they remembered the slice of citrus still stuck on their cheek. The juice of the lemon clung unappealingly to their skin as they carefully peeled the now limp slice off. They made a small sound of complaint. Great. They were probably going to smell like lemon for days. That was all they needed.
They looked over the slice with a more rational gaze than the Lady of the house did. They hummed thoughtfully. Although, all things considered, they could have way things thrown at them. At least lemon was a pleasant smell. And considering Prince Stolas himself had grew and provided the majority of the fruit used in the palace, the taste of it was surely exquisite.
Their stomach than rumbled rather pointedly as though it agreed with them. Scone felt themselves redden. They looked at the slice again, weighing the pros and cons of eating what had caused her Highness such grief.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Well, since the Princess didn't want it, and they had always been taught not to ever waste their food. At the end of the day, they never knew when their next meal might be their last.
Tentatively licking their lips, they slowly tucked the "shitty" slice of lemon into their mouth and instantly fought back the moan at the explosion of taste that greeted their taste buds.
The lemon had just the right amount of tart and sweetness, where they could savor the flavor and still enjoy the tingly sensation of the fruit's famous bitterness and without being affected by the rough handling it had gone through, it still had enough moisture inside to quench their thirst. Even the remains of it were savory enough to chew through and swallow.
Scone had once tasted lemons from the fruit stocks in the city market and with this one errant slice, they could easily pot the differences among the artificially-sprayed, overripe and occasionally lethally sour "fruit" over what his highness had cultivated. They sighed contently, the rind of lemon still held preciously between their fingers. Whatever the lady's opinion was, in all honesty, that was the best dredge of fruit the serving imp ever had.
"Well, it's nice to see my efforts being so appreciated."
Scone squeaked out in undignified surprise, the now juiceless rind flying out of their hands. Whirling around, they felt their blood chill at seeing the voice's owner.
Prince Stolas looked down at them, looking every bit as prim as proper as the Princess. But where her Highness was all starch ivory and sharp reactive angles hidden vainly with designer silk and Pridemulberry, his highness contrasted her with subtle, soft lines, simple but elegant attire that looked as common as casual clothes but still be worth a mint and florentine feathers; not at all unlike the light peeking as it encroached the edge of sky in the early twilight hours of morning. His expression towards them was also much more bearable than the acidic glares Scone had endured earlier, much more patient and tempered.
And at the moment, bemused. At them. For what they realized, with utter mortification, they had said outloud.
Embarrassment and not only a tad of fright, Scone rightly feel to their knees and couldn't back the rapid spewing of apologies for the second time that day. "Y-y-your Highness, I am so sorry for my outlandish display! Please, please, please forgive me, sir! I swear I meant you no disrespect towards you or her Ladyship-"
A snort cut them off.
Looking up Scone blinked up at the Lord of the House and was surprised at the rare scene – the Tall Owl holding one ebony hand over his mouth as it was contorted with a . . . A smile?
A wobbly and soft one to be certain but it was assuringly it was a smile all the less. His Highness's first set of eyes crinkled at the corners as a small hoot (a giggle?) escaped in spite of his efforts to hide it. "Oh, do forgive me, I'm-," Another hoot. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just, pfft, 'Ladyship' . . . I'm sure Stella would outright molt if someone important said that straight to her face and meant it."
Scone's look of confusion was startled away as his Highness locked all four eyes back towards them. "Not that you aren't important, dear little imp. Work like yours is valued, just as you are deeply treasured by someone I'm sure – Just not by someone like my wife." He sighed tiredly. "I know from first hand experience it takes a strong stomach to try and stay polite to her with a straight face. And even then all I have to show for it is a migraine and an upset stomach."
Scone only smiled in response to that, albeit uncomfortably. But they couldn't say he was wrong.
"But knowing there's at least someone in this palace who actually holds the food I grow into high regard does help to lessen the ache," His Highness said calmly but Scone didn't need to look to know that the Prince was now eyeing at their soaked trousers. "As others clearly don't."
Scone winced. "A-ah, I'm sorry, you Highness?"
"Please, there's no need to play ignorant." His Highness said with a calm shake of his head. "I know my wife all too well, or rather. I know whenever something has upset her to the point where I can hear her all the way to the observatory. Clearly my hobby has offended her delicate sensibilities once again and she decided to vent it towards you."
Scone was completely unprepared for the slight incline of his head, his body bending in an informal bow. While Scone struggled to find their voice, he then said in a completely noncondenscending tone, "If she attempted to assault you or if she insulted you in any way, I apologize."
They then regained the sense to get back on their hooves and immediately exclaim in respectful protest, "Oh no! No no no! Please, your Highness, don't apologize! Especially not to some lowly servant like me! Her Highness was only r-reprimanding me for my work! And why wouldn't she?! It was all my own fault so please don't apologize, sir!"
Prompt humiliation stopped their ramble with a choke before bringing a flood of red to their cheeks, darkening their already crimson skin. They always had a habit of babbling when they got nervous which only got exponentially worse when they were being addressed by nobles like the Prince and the Princess. Usually when they got like that the Princess would briskly snap at them to shut up or backhand them if she felt impatient. Scone swore that one such time one of their teeth got knocked loose when her Highness was questioning her about the arrival of her Vulcan bath salts and they had taken too long to respond.
However, much to their relief, his Highness was much more patient. His beak curved in what looked a smile but was more subdued. Scone could only recall seeing such an expression on the numerous other portraits showcasing both the Lord and Lady of the House. Not a smile but not a frown, controlled and immaculate. Every bit the way a proper prince of the Ars Goetia should look.
For some reason, Scone felt a stab of sorrow for him. But this time, they were smart enough to keep quiet about it.
The Prince hummed coolly. ". . . She was that angry then?"
Scone lowered their face, but their lack of answer seemed to be telling enough, since his Highness sighed sadly. "I see."
He then straightened up and squared his shoulders. "I'm aware that you all endure a lot in serving this household and also put up with much more than you need to in regards to your situation. But all the same, you shouldn't suffer whatever crass or violent episodes my wife feels appropriate to deal out when she feels like doing such. It's not much, but perhaps adding a bonus to your next paychecks might in some ways convey how your duties greatly benefit this house."
Scone felt their jaw drop open. "That's- That is incredibly generous of you, your Highness! But, but we couldn't possibly -"
His Highness shook his head again. "I insist. It's no trouble whatsoever." A spot of amusement then made its way into his next statement. "And perhaps I should send an extra bundle of my next crop to the servant's quarters as well?"
Scone felt their face redden even more terribly than before at the soft reminder. Bu they still managed a small grateful smile regardless. ". . . That would be wonderfully gracious of you, your Highness."
The Prince of Stars gave a satisfied smile in return. "Glad to hear it." He raised his hand to his chest, most likely to smooth out an indistinguishable wrinkle or crease on his romper. "Before I let you go on your way, may I kindly ask you for one more thing?"
Scone perked up. "Yes, your Highness?"
"Forgive me, in advance?"
Scone was, of course, taken aback. "I'm sorry, your High-"
SNAP!
The imp known as Scone acutely went stone cold silent.
Their eyes went wide and blank. Their posture as rigid as a marble pillar. Whatever thoughts were in their head went mute and in that moment, the soul of the servant vacated the body, leaving only the hollow, senseless shell.
And that was all that Prince Stolas needed.
~X~
Stolas did the utmost best to ignore the pang of guilt that took place in his threat like an awaiting pellet. He sighed warily.
He honestly couldn't believe the lengths he currently had to go through to keep some secrets in this place. But hopefully, stars willing, that would not be the case for much longer.
He examined the oblivious idle imp before him. After a minute he gave a small reassured breath. Good. No signs of mental damage – no twitching limbs, crossing eyes, nosebleeds. The hypnosis he had cast on them weeks prior had taken root without incident or fatalities. If all went well, it should easily be removed once he was finished here.
Right then. No more time to waste.
In a neutral and clear voice, he addressed them. "Scone Horndelle, can you hear me?"
Scone didn't hesitant. "Yes, your Highness." They replied in a monotone manner.
"Do you know who I am?"
"You are Prince Stolas Goetia. First of your name, Lord of the 36th house of the Ars Goetia Family. Son of King Paimon and Queen Alycone, may Satan bless their bones."
Stolas felt his beak twitch at the last bit. "Thank you. Do you recall what we spoke of the last time we were together?"
"Yes, your Highness. Your request has remained deep in my subconscious since you first issued it." Scone said with a straight face, as though they were talking about the weather.
"And have you spoken to anyone in or outside of this palace since then?"
"No, your Highness. I have mot said a word of my assignment from you to anyone as per your command."
"Does Stella suspect you?"
"No, your Highness. Neither her nor any who swear fealty to her have suspected or questioned my actions as of late. As far as I know, she is not aware of your intentions."
Stolas hummed softly. "Yes, so it seems. She has been giving me a pretty wide berth as of late. Ever since the party, I've barely interacted with her at all."
Even as he said it, he could still hardly believe the words. His "dear" wife was never capable of shying away form making her presence known in every room she was in, whether in a crowd of important socialites or simply him in his solitude. With the air of an agitated panther and the shriek of a perturbed crow, Stolas would always feel the instinctive bud of fear blossom into nerve-wracking terror each time she was in closing distance. Not that he needed to see her to feel her sulfuric airs seep into his own, leeching what gentleness and gentleness and warmth he was fortuitous enough to obtain.
But recently, at least ever since the chance he had damn near taken to snuffing himself out, she had kept her distance. She hadn't let up on her insults or sharp rebuffs on him and his day-to-day routine, not in the slightest. Satan forbid she loosen the leash a bit. But in actual face-to-face contact? Stella avoided him like the Black Plague had come to Hell.
He didn't even entertain the notion of her feeling guilty about trying to poison him. Not once, in all the centuries that they had been married, had she ever expressed a shred of regret for all the humiliations and cruelties she had sadistically bestowed onto him. If she didn't feel sorry then, why in the rings would she start now?
The few times he had seen her. She made it a point to only remain in his proximity for as long as it was required of her. Even with her sudden newfound want for distance, she made sure to remind him that she was not to be ignored in any shape or form, talons digging into his arm with enough force to draw blood. Not that he would be given the courtesy either way. The minute that the whatever menial business concerning them both was concluded, a small party with some of Stella's "friends", a ten-minute interview on 666, an awkwardly tense brunch with Duke Gremory, Stella didn't delay in making herself scarce. In her urgency, she wouldn't even give herself a half-second to throw a scathing insult over her shoulder.
As bewildered as he by it, Stolas was not the kind of man to look a gift-hellhorse in the mouth and complain. Not with what with the plan he was brewing. Stolas refocused his attention on Scone. "Back to matters at hand. Pertaining to my request, how did you fare?"
Scone answered without missing a beat. "I was successful, your highness. Achieving it took longer than expected, but I eventually located someone for you. They asked me many questions about my occupation and who had sent me but thanks to the disguising charm you gave me, no one was able to discern my true identity nor who you commanded me."
Stolas made an approving hum. "What else do you have for me?" Scone's bare expression remained unbroken as they begun rifling around the inside of their vest. Not even a minute after, they neatly pulled out a small, folded piece of paper and held it out towards the Prince.
"The name of the demon you seek and the address to the location of the meeting is written on here. The time of the meeting will be eleven o'clock PM this coming Thursday." Scone instructed blankly as Stolas took the paper carefully into his hands. "I was told to say to you to bring $ouls required to pay in advance."
They paid no mind to the gleam in Stolas's eyes as he peered down at the delivered parchment held in his claws. "Hmm yes, I expected as much. Thankfully procuring the fee should be no problem. After all, Stella hasn't got access to all of my money – not yet, anyway."
A faint scratching. He paused, only for a moment. He turned his head all the way around in a quick survey.
No movements in the windows. No fleeting red tails at the corners or windows. No sound of fading hoofsteps. No whispers of slow, practiced breathing.
Good. No one else was here. Stolas felt an odd mix of relief and a small pinch of surprise. Looks like Stella even cautioned her staff to back off. Interesting.
He turned his head back to Scone in a paced turn. He knew it wasn't needed, he made sure to smile gratefully at them. "Thank you very much for your work, my dear. Although I'm sure you would hate me for the manner in which I went about it, your aid has proven invaluable to me."
Scone was neither flattered nor insulted. They simply continued to look straight on with their empty gaze. "Thank you, your Highness." Stolas wasn't offended by it.
Tucking away the note in trouser pocket, he then popped open the collar of his romper and pulled out another folded piece of paper, this one tinged golden yellow like the others he had specially commissioned. "That said, I have one last chore for you to do for me. Once it's competed the hypnosis I have cast on you will break and erase itself from your mind entirely. From then on, you shall live the rest of your life as though you had never been under a spell such as this. All the triggers will be stricken from your psyche and you will lose any and all memory of these sessions."
The owl then smiled sadly. "I realize I should have done this a long time ago, but please understand – With how thorough and hounding Stella can be when she gets suspicious of something, I find that this method is the best way to avoid any problems." Looking at them, he added. "Also, I know the lengths that she'll go through if she wholeheartedly believes someone is lying to her, or worse, not telling her what she wants to hear. She doesn't care one fig for the truth, simply what she can use to win more favor. She certainly learned that lesson well from her parents."
Not that they were around to brag or gloat about their daughter and her accomplishments like their were their own anymore. For all their skills and intricate schemes, karma finally caught up to them in one fell swoop. And in Hell, karma was more than a bitter bitch; it was a life-sucking, ruinous, relentless harpy that hovered with a gaping maw near your throat, just waiting for the right moment to snap her jaws shut.
He may not have cared for them much, before and after they became his in-laws, nevertheless he did pity Stella for her loss. Or rather, he would if he didn't know her better.
She barely shed a tear over her, after all, so why the fuck would she weep over them?
". . . As deplorable as it is, this method is the safest for the both of us. But you have my word that after today, you needn't stomach this any longer."
"Yes, you Highness." Scone replied, hopelessly neutral to his vow.
Stolas cleared his throat in an awkward cough. "Right. Now, for your final task." He bent down to their level once again and spoke carefully. "After this session is over, continue your evening as normal. But before you turn in for the night, you must do two things – First, inform the head of staff that you'll be taking the day off tomorrow to run some personal errands for Stella and I. If he objects, tell him it is on our orders and not to bother either me or Stella about it. She'll be leaving tomorrow to visit one of her friends over in Envy so she won't be here to contradict me." Out of her many irritations and aggravations, she absolutely hated being interrupted while socializing for trivial matters, usually resolving them with splashing expensive wine in their faces or kicking them for good measure when she felt merciful.
He extended to them the yellowed note. "Second, memorize the contents of this letter right down to the last period. Once you are confident you have it all committed to memory, touch my crest at the very top of the letter. It'll disintegrate the paper instantly. No traces should be left but wash your hands just to be safe."
Scone took the note and only stared at it for one moment, registering its shape indifferently before tucking it into the same place as the previous note. "As always, tell no one of what you read on this paper. Follow my directions on it exactly. It's absolutely vital that every single thing is done precisely."
"Yes, your Highness. I shall not fail you." Scone promised.
Stolas smiled at the dull response. "Good. I trust that you won't." He had to. He straightened himself back up one last time and nodded. "Now that you have your orders, you are to continue on whatever task you were on before I stopped you. Speak of this to no one. As I promised, after today I shall never compel you for any reason ever again."
He knew Scone wouldn't react to it but he smiled down gratefully at them. "Once I snap my fingers, you will wake up. You'll have no conscious memory of this interaction but you will still follow my command even so. I apologize for any strain this puts on you."
"Thank you for your kind words, your Highness." Scone bowed low. "I live for no other purpose than to serve you."
Stolas was thankful that they couldn't see the displeased frown on his beak. He hated how the exact spell he had used always had the recipient turn so subservient. It was one thing when they acted so out of their own fee will, but it was another matter when they forced to.
Well, at least, they wouldn't have to again after this. Or at least towards him.
Stolas gathered himself. Pressing his thumb and middle fingertips together, he looked straight into Scone's eyes as he stood back up. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, your Highness."
"Very well."
SNAP!
Just the bulb did with the flip of a light switch, Scone Horndelle came back to life to with a gasp.
Their face was a plethora of different rapid emotions, confusion being the most prominent understandably, as their eyes repeatedly fluttered open and closed. A debilitated moan left their mouth as they rubbed the heel of their palms into their eyes, like they had just woken from a deep sleep (Which wasn't wasn't too far from the truth). "U-uh, what . . . What just . . . ? What was I -?" They murmered, obviously fatigued.
He didn't answer. Instead, Stolas, in a bold display, utterly blew past their shaky incomplete question and knelt before them.
Only paying half a mind to their jolt of astonishment that gave way to alarm at the Goetia kneeling before a lowly imp, he zeroed in on the now damp stain on their trousers. He smirked. An easy fix. With a simple wave of his hand, the tea splatter dried and faded away in a second, the imp's trousers looked almost completely untouched by his dear wife's rage.
If only I could say the same for myself. He thought somberly. He smoothed his face into an even smile, letting nothing of the past few minutes slip into the open as he peered back up at the sputtering servant.
"Pardon me," He started, ceasing their pleading ramble straightaway at the Prince's full attention. "I know you must be confused. Of course, it's my fault for not being more careful." The lie started its easy slide from his beak as he gestured at their now clean uniform trousers. "I thought I could remove your stains with a simple spell that helps with my own little accidents, but I wasn't paying attention and accidentally scrubbed a little bit of your memory instead."
At their startled expression, he simply waved it off. "No need to worry, the spell was only meant to tamper with short-term memory so I doubt you've lost anything truly important. But nonetheless, I do apologize for inconveniencing you."
Before Scone could start off on another protesting tirade, Stolas arose back up with all the grace he was brought up on. Shoulders back. Chest out. Hands tucked behind neatly. The height difference was hilariously clear between the two demons with the owl at his full height, he noted with some humor, something that Scone couldn't help but warm their face prettily at.
Stolas almost wished that he had time to admire it. "Now then, I believe I've wasted enough of your time. I imagine Stella is waiting for you to get back to her. It's nearing lunch and I know very well how moody she can get when she gets even the slightest bit peckish."
The admittedly pleasant flush on their face disappeared like he had snuffed out a spark of flame on a match-head. It was easy to imagine their level of fright judging by how their face faulted. Before he could even blink, Scone had turned curtly on their hooves and shot down the south end of the hallway, making noises of distress all the way. Halfway out, Scone gave an inaudible curse and turned to rush back towards the Prince. Skidding to a stop, Scone almost fell over in their attempt at an urgent bow, their rising anxiety running them even more ragged than their tryst at Demonic Track Relay. "P-please, please forgive my rudeness, your Highness! Please please please forgive me! I'll accept what ever reprimand you deem suitable!"
Stolas huffed out a chuckle. "That won't be necessary. Just continue on with your duties. But, if you would kindly tell the chefs to have my lunch sent to my study, I would grateful. Also make sure it's piccolo who delivers it. He does make a rather delightful cup of coffee." Plus they know how to properly check food for any "additional" garnishments.
"O-of course, your Highness! Thank you very much, your Highness!" Scone gasped. "Please excuse me, good afternoon!" They barely bent back upright before once again shooting right back down the hall, hoofsteps echoing thought the corridor.
The Prince stood alone in the hallway, idle for only a few precious ticks of time before following Scone's lead, albeit much more sedately, beginning the trek to his private study. The brief tip was uneventful, which was just fine. Stolas was far more focused on the paper that felt as weighted as a loaded gun in his romper. He momentarily wondered if the imp he coerced to "pick up his dirty laundry" sort to speak, could feel the gravity of their task written on that tiny slip of parchment. He doubted it, but dear dark lord, did he hope that they would accomplish it.
Safely inside his study, he swung the door shut tight with a flick of his wrist. With a third snap of his talons, the privacy wards carved on all the window frames and the mantle on the door awoke with a glow. Letting out the breath he had held in for the past three minutes, he pulled out and unfolded Scone's letter with trembling fingers.
The words on the creased surface of it sent a rush of excitement, elation, nervousness and apprehension through that made the tips of his feathers stand on end.
"Copperhead
Xibalba's Keep 11:40
Private room #4"
Stolas down the nervous pellet that was definitely rising in his throat this time, rolling into a ball of anticipation that was welling up in the pit of his stomach. With how he felt right at that moment, he wouldn't be all to surprised if he vomited right there and then.
It wasn't because he was nervous. Not really. No, he wasn't giving in to his wobbling joints just yet.
He scanned the blunt and brief message in his hands over and over, possibly twenty times, until he could see the words with both pairs of eyes shut. His beak moved soundlessly on repeat as he tore up the correspondence without warning, only stopping when the paper was reduced to paper snowflakes. After that, he needed only a second of concentration to conjure a flame in his hands, a much smaller burst of fire than the flare he had displayed weeks prior, turning the feeble kindling to ash in a heartbeat. Once he felt nothing but soot, he extinguished the flame and snapped open a porthole sized portal and tossed in the residue to some forgotten reach in space before snapping it way just as quickly.
Anyone who witnessed any of this would think his methods of disposal seemed a little over the top. But they didn't have to live with any invasive, sycophant witch like Stella for over 5,00 years.
Like a great deal of other things he had the misfortune to learn with his dear wife, Stolas learned that his privacy was nonconsensually considered persona non grata. In her eyes, there was always a secret to find no matter where you looked. From files to the rubbish bin, any demon can uncover something if they looked hard enough. (Not that she would ever look in the trash herself with her perfectly pedicured claws, not with plenty of "already grubby" servants nearby.) And secrets were how Stella kept what pawns and assets she had in line, himself included.
As a result he learned throughout bitter trials to adeptly rid himself of critical trash, both to his pride and chagrin. The measures he had to go through to keep some sanctity, and sanity for that matter, would make a member of one of human spy agencies on the surface weary to the bone.
Stolas stilled his pacing to take a deep breath to calm himself. In and out. In and out. In and out.
It was fine. It was fine. He would only have to tough it out for a little while longer.
His hollow bones stiffened with resolve. He strode confidently to the expansive bookcase that covered nearly the entire west wall of his office. Each shelf was stuffed to capacity with tome after tome, each one either added by himself, pilfered from long forgotten enemies or given as gifts or a token of favor, the collection could hardly be estimated. Any sorcerer would surely find themselves boggled by the wisdom and knowledge scripted within them, secrets of botany, tales of ancient histories an, of course, endless facts about the universe that he once spent hours observing with boundless wonder. He inadvertently took notice of some of the titles he, admittedly, had come to neglect over the years.
. . . . The reasons why weren't important.
He instinctaully reached for one such book, the leather of the cover well-worn and aged well despite his neglect. He ran his wingtips over the embossed lettering with an absent smile. Glamorous Glamours and Superb Shrouds: A study on the guises of Hell.
Even with all his powers of premonition, he knew that there was no certainties of how things from here would go. The future was always an infinite of what-ifs and maybes, each decision in the present only a factor that either resulted in victory or calamity. He himself could be taking his first real steps toward his salvation, or signing his own death warrant.
The only certain future was the one that was always uncertain.
But, really, at this point, what else did he have to lose?
Stolas had long since made up his mind. What way this path would lead him down, whatever came after was inconsequential.
He gave himself a shake. He had stalled for long enough. Scone had their chores, and he had his.
He flipped open the book, his eyes easily taking in each and every word written inside. Enjoyable section, but not the one he was looking for.
This was going to take some time. The owl thought with a pout. With a hapless shrug, he want to take a seat at his desk. Ah well. He was used to working long hours. And this time, he was doing something productive.
With that in mind, he reach out to turn the page.
~X~
It was just another night at the Old Keep.
The decades old radio cut itself in at random from in between static and eighties Latino music. The knobs had long since pilfered so the only means to change the station was by twisting the crudely bent antenna or asking the barkeep to give it a good thwack. The bulbs in the overhead lamps stuttered every five or so minutes, the out of date lights bright enough to grant any piece of shit that wandered in the bar a momentary look at the pathetically small supply of scum-covered tables and rotten chairs. A few of them lay on the grimy, dirty as sin floor due to lack of attention or whoever had knocked it over as they had been dragged out by the surly hellhound bouncer earlier. The patterns from where their heels had been drug across the floorboards made a disturbingly clear trail from where they sat to the unhinged hole in the wall that was at one point laughably referred to as the front door.
The restroom door was cracked open as warning as to the abominable mess that lay within, but even anyone just coming in could easily tell by the vile stench that the toilets in there were never to be used or even approached under the threat of death. Any who couldn't hold it found an easy to access substitute in the almost depleted storage room, as long as the barkeep didn't literally catch them with their pants down. And the final touch was the scattered bottles, crushed cigarettes and condoms both torn and used scattered around with the same artistic placement as puddles on a rainy day. Even though it was a two-story building, everybody who was a familiar face knew that the upstairs was hardly any better and kept mostly to the ground floor.
All in all, the place was as classy as the rest of Hell. And the clientele wasn't any better. A fat and smelly old sinner slumbered away at one table, half asleep in what was probably a bowl of pretzels, snoring and hacking up whatever bits were inhaled. A pair of demons, a perky incubus and a skinny imp, totally unconcerned with the shitty ambiance of the bar, rolled away unabashedly in one of the only two booths as they made out like the Extermination was just around the corner. Their moans and gasps were the only thing actually competing with the din of radio fuzz and the comatose sinner snoring. No one made any move to stop them, the sole waitress only getting close enough to pick up their ignored glasses and scrabble away before she got roped in.
The male imp known as "Copperhead" watching all this from his stool as the rundown old bar gave an amused snort. He observed as the incubus broke away from the imp he was deep-throating for long enough to lick his lips salaciously at the slender, more attractive imp to which she responded by flipping the bird. The other now perturbed imp noticed this and snapped at the incubus, sparking a two-minute argument between him and his client before they were back at it like nothing happened.
He turned his gaze back to the cracked and stained glass he had been drinking from for the past half hour. The vibrancy of his acid green eyes reflected against the drinks swirling inside, its dark ale staring back with its own pair glowing with challenge. He let out another snort. Yeah, he wasn't drunk enough to be seeing things yet. The stuff here wasn't strong enough for that.
Xibalba's Keep had, like many of the bars in Greed, had risen and fallen during the years following the Prohibition. Where legions of mobsters, moonshiners and bootleggers had dropped into Hell like missiles and took to Hell like the hellish sinners they had been damned to become. Those of the few not insipid enough to get ripped apart in their first week, at least. Lucifer's law forbade any of them from actually leaving the ring of Pride, but that did nothing to stop them from extending their hands towards the hellborn. As expected, business flourished and grew like a beanstalk, in Mammon's realm most of all.
Sadly, also as expected, not everyone found great success; the founder of Xibalba's keep being one such sorry bastard, some Latino con/wrestler or something along those lines. Racism was a universal concept, and Hell and it's denizens were not the type to be shy about their views on discrimination. Poor guy's shot came as fast as it went.
Since then, as time went on, the Old Keep has had a long, messy track record of owners, short-lived and otherwise, and not a single one was consistent enough to keep a steady stream of consumers coming in. And so the bar had given way decay, only as good as an outhouse in the middle of Sloth where folks coked themselves up in the middle of a crap.
To sum it up, a shithole no one would set foot in lest they had one already in the grave. Or, if they were looking to add someone else's.
Which was why he was here tonight.
He had got a call through the usual way about a new job. Or at least a "discussion" for a new job. The details of it were a little too minimal for his liking, but the promissory he had been given had too many numbers for him to write it off from the get-go. From what he got from the gist of it, it concerned one of the blue bloods higher up on the food chain and that the price for dealing with them without a question.
He gulped down some more of the bitter brew. Yeah, it was a sweet siren song, to be sure. But any assassin worth their salt knew better than to start dancing to their tune. Particularly more so when the singer was willing to toss out $ouls like it was chicken feed. Any demon that willing to part with his money to that degree usually went about with the perspective view of whatever or whoever was in front of them was easily disposable. Many learned that mistake too late, but he always learned faster than most.
All the same, he couldn't deny the tiny crawl of interest ringing at the sound of future coin jangling.
Plus, if all went well, he would have a front row seat to the death of one of those pompous, high and mighty pricks.
He gave a bloodthirsty smirk akin to the kind you would hallucinate on a king cobra just before it struck. This was one of the things he loved about his work. That this job wasn't always about the profit, it was about the pleasure.
Hence why he decided to waste his time in this rot-gut excuse of a watering hole, half an hour early as a matter of fact, choking down second-rate hooch while he waited for his mysterious client to give the word to meet. Heh. From the whole hacha two-step this guy was dealing out, it had to be somebody with some significant cash to burn. Maybe some low-ranking noble from one those noveau riche clans made up of hellcats. Or maybe some industrialist from Envy who felt "betrayed" by some business deal gone sideways and wanted compensation or some stupid shit like that.
Honestly, it didn't really make much difference to him. As long as he got paid, it didn't matter what the reason was for wanting someone dead. Down here, everyone had done shit or wanted to do shit for shit reasons and there was no point in looking deeper at the shit going on between. Because no matter what way you looked at it, it was all one big mess. And you never wanted to be the one stuck in it or cleaning it up.
The radio crackled out a scrambled screech before breaking into a choppy Latino jazz number, trumpets blaring out in random blasts like its player was having a heart attack. The couple in the booth fell to the floor in a graceless heap, the thud provoking the barkeep to bark at them again to take it outside only to be ignored once again. He took it all in with an eye roll and drained the last few gulps of his drink.
He had been about to signal for another drink when another drink was placed calmly beside the empty glass. He followed the length of the hand that had delivered it and looked evenly at the waitress now standing beside him. ". . . I didn't order this."
The waitress didn't wince at the accusing tone, probably used to worse from other patrons. She pointed towards the barely held together staircase leading to the second floor. "Guy upstairs in room four. Said he knew you. Asked for the special stuff we keep in the back. It's all paid for so don't sweat over the tab." She quipped before brusquely walking away.
He watched her walk away before turning his attention back to the "already" paid for drink.
He felt his eyes narrow at the cleanliness of the glass. It looked five times cleaner than the rest of the glasses and cups set up messily on the askew bar shelves. He also noted that there were far less cracks and chips in it, looking practically brand-new. He picked up the glass cautiously as though it was a bomb rather than a simple drink. He tentatively swirled the contents with a subtle rotation of his wrist. Hmm. No sign of anything unusual floating floating inside or resting at the bottom.
He ran the tip of his thumb over the rim and brought it to his mouth, swiftly licking at it in a half-second taste test. Nothing added to the rim. No lingering taste of anything. No strange scents either.
He peered at the drink skeptically. It looked safe enough to drink, but so could a bottle of water with iocane mixed in.
He took another minute to consider the drink in his hand. Slowly bringing it to his mouth with the kind of caution reserved for holding an active bomb trigger, he tipped the glass into his parted mouth . . .
. . . Only to bite back the groan of satisfaction at the rich, smooth taste of the liquor now running over his forked tongue. Holy shit, "special" had been right. He may not have the palette of one of those wimpy foodie snobs who brag about artisan toast on their sinstagrams, but even he could spot the sheer quality of what he had just drank.
. . . Which meant this stuff was definitely more expensive than this entire bar put together.
He sure as shit couldn't afford it and he seriously doubted the owner, now carelessly knocking back something that smelled like motor oil, could either. So who the hell -
A thought sprung into his head. Actually two thoughts.
'Room Four.'
'Said he knew you.'
. . . . . Well damn. He felt like a right fool.
He gave a low, belated chuckle. Almost missed his cue. What a rookie mistake.
Even with this in mind, he took his sweet time getting up from his seat, not spilling a drop of his drink as he swiped it off the bar top with his tail. He knew better than to leave it, if the putout look the bartender shot at his back was any indication. He sent a vindictive grin over his shoulder as he made a show of taking another savory sip.
He hoped the guy waiting in room four had more of this stuff, because he was sure as fuck wasn't getting any more of the watered down crap at the bar.
The wood of the staircase creaked in warning and the railing was corroded and on the verge of falling apart, but he wouldn't be a hitman if he couldn't handle some rickety stairs.
He made it up to the second floor without incident, or the pitiful stairway falling out from under him. He made a judgmental sound at the stained planks and rabbit-sized holes in the floor, but continued on. He looked over the faded numbers painted poorly on the doors.
Room number 1, room number 2, room number something that was half a 3, 5 – Satan, who painted these? - Ah. Room number 4.
He smiled. Alright then. Rolling his shoulders, he quickly adjusted of his wide-brimmed hat so the rim of it pointedly hooded his face and straightened the bandanna tied around his neck. Can't make a good first impression looking like sloppy seconds. He then raised a hand to politely rap his knuckles against the door.
"Please come in." A warm, tenor voice floated calmly through the woodwork. The imp picked up faint traces of an accent, a decadent, high class posh one. Yep, definitely a noble.
He breathed in through his nose. Alright. Swallow down the sour face. Just until the $ouls are burning a hole in your pocket. For now, it's time to turn on the charm.
He twisted the knob and casually opened the door, instantly being met with a dark room.
Before his eyes could even adjust, he could tell that there wasn't much to the room. A table, an empty wet bar and two chairs made up the layout, all as old and tired as everything else in the Old Keep. An old-fashioned lamp did its best to give enough decent light so one could make out where to step before they crashed into the table. The smell consisted more of dust than the putrid air downstairs, but that was only a mild relief to him.
The only three things that were out of place in that termite trap of a room were the big, polished bottle of brandy sitting pointedly in the middle of the table, a glass matching the one he had set on the opposite end of the table, half-finished like his was, and the figure sitting silently in the chair farthest from the door. He couldn't see the figure's face, them leaning far back enough to obscure their upper body in the darkness. Luckily the light of the rusty old lamp showed enough of them so he could see the dark luster of the jet black fur of his paws.
He frowned. From what he could see, they appeared to be hellhound paws but the size of them was wrong. Delicate and tiny in comparison to the average hellhound's. Cleaner and groomed regularly too. Maybe this guy was a crossbreed bastard or something along the lines of that, because nobles had a bit of an unspoken rule about being "public" with certain partners of opposite standing. Maybe they were one of those fancier hellcat breeds . . .
Ah, well, what does it matter?
He was a client, and he money to pay. Or at least, he'd better. It wasn't unheard of for some clients to try and hold out on their part of their bargains, leaving the other looking like a broke-back bitch.
But Copperhead was no bitch, not in the slightest.
His features melted into a friendly smile, his eyes going lidded with the attitude of a serpent charming his prey, starting with a silky drawl, "Y'know, I'm not usually the kind of guy to accept strange drink from strange men, but I gotta feelin' that we ain't exactly strangers."
A soft airy chuckle. "Your feeling would be correct." One hand gestured cordially to the empty chair. "Care to take a seat?"
He gave a single nod. "Don't mind if I do." He plucked his drink from the coil of his tail, allowing it to wrap around the doorknob and pull the door shut. He sat himself down onto the chair and draped his arm over the back of it as he slowly drained the last of his drink.
"I take it the drink was satisfactory?" The other noted good humoredly. The imp sighed at the pleasant burn now running through his body.
"Hell yeah. Damn, since when does a dump like this get such good drink?"
The question had been redundant, they both knew that, but nonetheless, the other answered. "I might've made a small donation as to provide the current owner the means to procure it. Although I imagine not many will get the same chance as you have now to enjoy it."
The bottom of his glass hadn't even touched the table before the other leaned over to pick up the bottle. "Speaking of which, it seems like both of us could use a top-off." Unscrewing the bottle cap off, he pointed the lip towards him. "May I?"
He hummed approvingly. "Much obliged." He nudged his glass forward and watched as the glass was slowly refilled. He made sure to scrutinize the other's arm as it revealed itself little by little. Long and fragile like a willow tree branch in winter and as scrawny as a beanpole, totally out of keeping for a hellhound. He made no comment but kept his eyes on the shape shifting in the pitch as they finished with his and started pouring more into their own glass.
"Not too often I meet a client so neighborly as to pour me a drink, let alone buy one. Guess you must come from good breedin'." He remarked casually, but he was sure the stranger could hear the underlying question in his tone.
The other was mart enough not to rise to the bait. "You could say that." He responded coolly. "I believe that business is always better conducted over a delightful meal or a good stiff drink. Especially when the host can foot the bill."
"Yeah," The imp nodded lazily. "Hard to argue with a full belly and a full cup. 'Course I try to stay sober enough to make sure that the host doesn't try and make off with my wallet."
"And I applaud you for your good sense." They replied, sipping at their brandy in a much more relaxed pace than the imp's. "Not many in your profession do nowadays. They seem to be steadily going with the impression that they're the ones who set the terms from start to finish. But even down here, deals are a two-way street. I can imagine that having the cognition to keep that in mind is the reason you and I are meeting here tonight."
"Can't take your shot at the rooster's call, true." He agreed. "Didn't get to where I am now by being a cock-driven dumbass. And I imagine you didn't either."
". . . I suppose that depends on how you see it."
He arched a brow at that. The imp had expected a snarky response, or an arrogant quip. ". . . Rrright."
An uneasy silence settled between them. Each filled the silence by taking a drink from their respective glasses.
After a bit, he broke it by shifting in his chair into a more professional posture. "Well, friend, as much as I love to shoot the shit over drinks, what's say that we get down to why we're both here tonight?"
The other hummed softly. ". . . . Yes, let's." He laced his long slender fingers together in a form familiar to a professor about to give a lecture, all traces of the sudden melancholy from before gone. "From what I understand, you are interested?"
The imp gave a smooth grin. "Oh, I'm interested, but only if I get what I'm owed." He then fixed the other with a sharp glare, adding a rough edge to his smile. "That said, you got what I asked for, right?"
Most folk he often found were easily intimidated by his, heh, "venomous" stare. He could recall one time where a customer even pissed their pants from sheer fright at the sight.
But not this one. They made a brief, nonchalant sound as they took another sip of their brandy. "But, of course." Setting down their glass, one hand slid back into the dark. The imp could just about make out the sounds of rustling cloth as the hand returned to the light, holding out a thick manila envelope towards him. "As requested, with a little extra, as interest."
The imp took it and weighed it in his hand for a minute before giving an approving nod. He had yet to see the money, but he wouldn't be surprised if he found a couple hundred thousand $ouls inside. "Not bad. Been a while since I received such a hefty fee upfront." He began to open it -
"Or rather half of it."
That calm retort stopped him cold. ". . . Pardon?"
The stranger either acknowledged the warning hiss and chose to ignore it, or simply didn't give two shits or was playing the dumb bureaucrat, swirling his drink absently in one hand while the other lay upon the tabletop. "What you have there is half of the price that you asked for your services. By my estimate, with the interest included, even if you were to choose to walk away after I've given the details of your assignment, the amount should be adequate compensation for, what I'm sure is, your valuable time spent."
". . . Again, pardon?" The imp asked, gritting his teeth.
The other continued on entirely unphased by the imp's hackles rising. "I can understand your confusion -" Yeah, THAT'S what he was feeling right now. "- But this is purely a precaution. If you choose to take on this assignment, you will have to agree to my terms." He tapped one finger against the table's surface pointedly. "You'll receive half of the payment for now, and the rest will be delivered upon completion."
The imp felt his hands curl into fists, his claws digging into his palms. Despite the flush of anger, running through him, he made sure to keep his face from giving away too much of how he was feeling towards this prick right there and then. "And may I ask, why the precaution, friend?"
"Just as you said," The other stated simply. "I don't fancy having my wallet picked when I have too much on the line. And as much as smooth talker as you are, and as much as you surely see me as some snotty, pretentious blue-blood, I do have the brains to keep my eyes open for wooden nickels."
He tried to keep his cool, but still felt one of his eyebrows twitch. "You think I'm that stupid?"
"I assure you, I don't think that in the slightest." The bastard replied politely. "I have every intention of honoring my end of the deal, but I'm not going to pay full price for someone more than capable of leaving me high and dry if the horns are sounded. And I can promise you, there are going to be very big horns. I will not be left up the creek with what I'm about to do."
The imp couldn't see it, but he could feel the moment that the other's eyes locked on to his. "Or rather, what I need you to help me do."
A dark chill went down his spine. He couldn't remember the last time he felt pinned by a single stare like this. Especially by no hellhound. ". . . Help you do what, exactly?"
"I need your assistance in killing a prince of demon royalty." The stranger stated, acting like it was completely straightforward. "Or rather, making him disappear."
He narrowed his eyes at them. ". . . I'm not sure I follow."
"Let me be blunt then. Your role in this assignment will not be that of an assassin, but as more of an assistant, if you will."
"Excuse me?"
"Your confusion is understandable. I know I would be bewildered if someone needed me as the podium for the book rather than the reader, but some things require more hands than you physically have. Even the power of to levitation can only do so much."
"What the hell are you - ?"
"For this endeavor to succeed, I need you to bring me the tools that will make this facade of death as convincing as possible. By which, I mean permanently."
The imp blinked incredulously. The emphasis on that statement was all too clear to him. "You . . . You're talking about angelic weaponry."
"Precisely."
Copperhead waited only a second before scoffing. "Oh please, what the fuck makes you think- ?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't act the fool with me. Your reputation with procuring and using angelic weaponry proceeds you, Mister Striker."
"Striker" tensed at the sound of his name. After a moment, he leaned back into his seat with a frown. ". . . So you know who I am?"
The other ran a finger along the rim of their once again near empty glass. "My sources are good at keeping their ears to the ground, particularly when someone of your merit manages to get away with multiple counts of high profile murders; overlords, millionaire sinners and hellborn, a noble or two when really put to the test. If one can find you and scrounge up enough $ouls for your fee, there is next to no target that escapes from your sights."
"I'm that good, huh?"
"I say so with the rose-tinted glasses off, my dear hunter."
"Then drop the bullshit."
The other demon had the nerve to play innocent. "I beg your pardon?"
"Ya'll know so much about me, yet you really ain't as smart as you sound."
"Oh? How so?"
All pretenses of niceness were gone. He had entertained them for long enough. "You called for me to drag my ass down to this landfill with your word that you would pay it all upfront, only to give half of it with whatever bus fare money you call interest instead of the price I demanded for my talents. You waste my time with this Envy Capitol Two-Step when its obvious ya'll don't have a single sense of what it is you're doing and you try to hide it with all those fancy airs you're puttin' on. And on top of it all, you just go ahead and expect me to happily play water boy to this little Houdini vanish act ya'll seem so set on, when you've obviously got the means to do it yourself. That said, what in Satan's name is your real angle here?"
"No angles. I meant what I said – I want to make a Prince one with the dead. I'd be more than happy to explain the details of it, if you're willing to accept my offer." A small breath like a laugh was heard. "If you think this is something beyond your skill-set, I'll send you off with what you have in that envelope and look for someone else. You needn't suffer the indignity of failing such a high-profile hit."
Striker shot to his feet and smacked both hands against the tabletop, making the glasses and bottles tremble. His eyes sharpened to point where if they were blowtorches then they would cut through glass. An agitated and frightful hiss filled the air, aimed right towards this smug, conniving sonuvabitch minutes away from being drawn and quartered with his Bowie knife. The other demon was silent, but Striker knew that he had his attention.
"Listen here, friend, and you better listen good," He spat with everything molten and sharp in him. "I ain't no on-call thug for hire or some dipshit rando needing a hit to get a hit of coke, and ain't no convenient replacement you can use and screw over for some killing time mind-game you're playing with the rest of those fat cats and upper-crust vultures who call themselves Goetia! I'm good at what I do, I get what I am for and I do NOT back away from whatever or whoever it is that I'm ordered to take out! And I don't let anybody who wants to drop me like a cactus burr get away with callin' me a back-out bitch!"
He dug the tips of his claws into the rotting wood of the table, the sound of cracking like firecrackers popping against his skin and certainly drawing blood but he couldn't bother to give a shit. He fixed the obscured demon with the harshest glare he could deliver. "I ain't helping no silver-spoon fed, lily-liver, head in the clouds bird prince who shits in golden toilet and pisses on our legs and tells us it's raining! If you expect me to just nod my head and say yes, just who the FUCK do you think you are!?"
Snap!
Striker only had half a second to see the other snap his fingers. Without warning, the light of the rusted old lamp suddenly expanded, growing more rich and bright with its reach, filling the room with light. A shiver of magic raced against his back, provoking him to turn around just in time to see a massive glowing circle of magic materialize on the door, arcane runes and letters far beyond his understanding burning like signal flares. He faltered at the sight in spite of his anger, the energy warming like coals raking over his body. "What the -?"
"You're right. You deserve a decent explanation." The other demon said calmly. His tone of voice showed he was entirely unfazed with this impromptu display. "Just because I'm in a rush, doesn't mean I need to carry on with the dramatics."
Striker turned around to ask him what the fuck he was going on now, but the other demon lifting the hood that had up until this point covered his face dissolved the need to ask like cotton candy on his tongue.
With four ruby red eyes glinting in the newly formed light, grey blue feathers darkening in the golden light and beak curved in a neutral smile, Striker felt his spine stiffen.
Prince Stolas, 36th demon of the Ars Goetia, dressed in a thick dark cloak and looking as calm as can be, was completely indifferent to Striker's shock as he said with a straight face. "I am the prince who wishes to die, and I need your help to do it.
. . . . . . . . Fuck him running. He needed another drink.
ME: Totally had to improvise the last few pages of this chapter so sorry if it's a lil . . . MEH. But don't worry the story will definitely pick up speed in the next chapter! And I PROMISE you will NOT have to wait long, for real this time! The love for this story is back and I am going to best of it GODDAMMIT
That said, I owe a HUGE thanks to two certain writers whose Imp!Stolas fics inspired me to get back my own. HelluvaIolite 's "Love Me IMPlicity" & AjWriter 's "Captivating Liberty" are two of some of the best HB fics I've read/currently reading so far and I can't wait to see what else they create with their mad writer SK-ILLZ! (Sorry I watched Moon Girl & Devil Dinosaur and Casey's dialogue is contagious DX) Thanks so much you guys for giving me my spark back!
Also as a bonus, here are some of my HITS trivia for the story:
* Berries indigenous to the Ring of Gluttony. Thick, dark berries similar to black/blueberries but filled with poisonous seeds that could kill higher-tier demons in 30 mins, or lower-tier demons in 8 mins, unless removed and prepared properly. Declared illegal in the rings of Lust and Wraith for being the cause of the "Seeds of Wraith" riots.
Make sure to take note cuz you never know when I'm gonna quiz ya!