Peter felt a wave of unease wash over him as they stepped through the portal to the Fire Lake mansion. The sprawling estate towered before them, its elegant turrets and ivy-covered walls greeting their arrival.
He stole a glance at Satana, her fiery hair whipping in the breeze. Her intense black eyes met his-warm yet piercing-and inside his body recoiled, the demon within writhing. Shadows of his past as Spider-Man flashed in his mind before being swallowed by the dark energy pulsing within him.
"Welcome home, my love," Satana purred, sliding her fingers down his arm.
Peter tensed, her seductive touch igniting his nerves. "This place..." he muttered, "it feels..."
"Like you belong?" Satana finished. She waved her hand, the grand doors swinging open.
The foyer gleamed, marble floors reflecting the light of the crystal chandelier. Portraits of Satana's ancestors watched them, their gaze heavy with centuries of history.
Peter's breath quickened, memories rising unbidden. Swinging between buildings...Aunt May's smile...Mary Jane's laugh...
He clutched his head, groaning in agony. The demon thrashed violently beneath his skin, foreign symbols flashing across his body in a chaotic pattern. Complex geometric shapes and arcane letters appeared on Peter's back, each glowing with an eerie life of its own. Red outlines burned like coals in a demonic forge, and a five-pointed star materialized on his forearm - each point glimmering like molten blood, connected by perfect lines in a circle. The signs vanished quickly, yet the pain remained intense.
Satana steadied him, concern in her eyes. "The transformation is still ongoing. You must rest."
She led him upstairs, her touch gentle yet firm. He focused on her fingers laced with his, using her presence as an anchor against the storm within.
The bedroom was lavish, with plush velvet chairs and antique four-poster bed. The familiar setting eased Peter's mind, his racing thoughts calming to a dull roar.
Satana guided him to the bed. "Lie down. I have something that will help."
Peter obeyed, sinking into the soft mattress. Satana returned with a vial of viscous liquid. "Drink this. It will soothe the demon."
He swallowed the bitter concoction, and then lay back, staring at the strange ceiling painting. Satana joined Peter on the bed. She curled against him, idly tracing patterns on his chest. Peter relaxed into her embrace, the potion dulling the ache.
"Are the demons the heroes?" he asked, gaze fixed on the ceiling fresco.
Satana glanced up at it. "Yes, my love," she said in a near whisper. "It was crafted by one of my father's favorite artists." She gave Peter a troubled look. "If it disturbs you, I shall have it removed; I had forgotten about it."
Peter nodded silently and then froze. "Your father chose this painting? Did he used to sleep in this bed?" In a daze, he started to rise from the mattress.
Satana leaned over him and gently pushed him down. "Sleep, my love," she said gently. "It's time to rest." She murmured a spell and her hand glowed faintly as it rested on his forehead.
Peter lay back and closed his eyes. "Don't even remember how we met," he said softly. "Want to remember that, at least."
Satana watched Peter as he drifted off, his breath deep and even. She gently brushed an errant lock from his forehead, her heart aching.
With Peter asleep, she allowed her composure to crack. The weight of the secret threatened to crush her. She rose from the bed and paced the room, wringing her hands.
How long could she keep up this charade? Peter was too perceptive, his memories too tenacious. Soon he would unravel the web of deception she had spun.
And when he learned the truth...
Satana shuddered. She couldn't lose him. Not now. She paused. What was wrong with her? It would be an embarrassment, a loss of prestige.
She glanced back at the bed where Peter lay, so peaceful and vulnerable. Could she make him understand? She didn't understand herself.
Satana, thought back to that fateful conversation. She'd been visiting Mephisto, and perhaps she'd been played.
Mephisto had been bragging about how he'd stolen Spider-Man's marriage. Apparently, the web slinger was fated to sire some great hero and Mephisto wanted to prevent it. Peter had been foolish, made foolish decisions, and then tried to deal with Mephisto.
Satana's foolish husband stirred in his sleep and she sat next to him, gently stroking his hair until he fell silent again. The conversation with Mephisto echoed in her mind and she wondered if she had made a grave mistake.
"But didn't you want his soul?" Satana had asked the archfiend
"Oh, I'll have his soul," Mephisto had boasted, clearly pleased with himself. "The mortal fool thinks I gave him a divorce. He doesn't understand that I have his marriage." The devil shook his head mockingly.
"He's been educated, he's been told it's a sacrament, a holy union, but he doesn't understand."
Satana felt a sudden wave of dread. "He believed you were undoing his marriage, when in fact he was giving it to you."
"Indeed," Mephisto nodded. "Now all I need do is unite him with a demoness, and he'll be damned under the one flesh rule," he chuckled sinisterly.
"So, I thought of you, dear niece. You two have a history, I believe. You also have human blood, which may help bind him to you. And his fighting skills might be useful to you." Mephisto paused in thought. "I believe you actually have a mild resemblance to his lost love-which could be amusing."
"But if you don't fancy it," said Mephisto when she paused, "there's plenty of demonesses that would relish the chance to trap him. It's a coup, you know, damning a hero."
Why had she said yes? Because Mephisto's throne room had been filled with hungry-eyed hell vixens, and Peter would have had no chance with anyone but her.
"Because I liked you, Peter," Satana whispered as she leaned over and kissed him lightly. "Hell, I even died in your arms." That had been a long time ago now, yet here they were. Peter had finally settled into deep sleep as she tenderly embraced his slumbering form.
This marriage was insane. As soon as it had been sealed, Satana had been bombarded by an unrelenting torrent of love. The original marriage must have been a soulmate match, Satana thought; it was the only explanation for such overwhelming flood of affection. It had to be a strong soulmate bond; the intensity of the love was so great that sometimes she couldn't even think.
"Peter, I love you," she said suddenly, then froze. Looking around, she noticed that he was still asleep and no one else had heard her - at least, nobody that she could detect. The mansion was a mystic fortress, but she felt so exposed - like some simpering schoolgirl.
"I am the Devil's Daughter," she declared aloud. "I am a princess of Hell."
Satana steeled her resolve. She would do whatever it took to keep him. Even if it meant shielding Peter from the very truth he sought.
With new determination, she slipped back under the covers, wrapping her body around his. As long as Peter remained under her watchful eye, all would be well.
She would make certain of it.
The faint light of dawn filtered into the bedchamber, stirring Peter from his fitful sleep. As consciousness crept in, so did the gnawing disquiet that clung to him like a shadow.
With bleary eyes, he glanced around the opulent room. The furnishings and decor spoke of wealth and prestige, but felt foreign and strange. This place was not home.
Home was a modest Queens apartment with peeling paint and creaky floors. Home meant Aunt May's cooking.
Peter slowly sat up, the silk sheets pooling around his waist. He ran a hand through his dark hair and froze. His reflection in the antique vanity mirror startled him.
His eyes appeared darker, flecks of crimson in the irises. The veins on his arms and neck stood out in stark relief against his pale skin.
Peter rose and approached the mirror, transfixed by the changes. He hardly recognized himself. What was happening to him?
Flickers of memories surfaced unbidden. Scaling skyscrapers, web slinging between buildings, battling villains with inhuman abilities. Impossible feats for an ordinary man.
Yet in those fragmented recollections, he had accomplished such things with ease. Almost as if...
A spasm wracked Peter's body before the thought fully formed. He doubled over, grunting in pain. Strange markings glowed under his skin, and then slowly faded.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sensations away. When he opened them, the mirror now held a stranger's visage. His face gaunt, eyes bloodshot. The room swam around him.
Suddenly Satana was beside him. She slipped her arms around him and held him.
"Close your eyes," she said.
"Look what's happening." Peter said. "I'm turning into a freak."
"Close your eyes," she said firmly. And so he did.
Satana was rubbing Peter's temples and softly intoning words he didn't understand.
"Focus on what Peter Parker looks like in the mirror," she said. "Open your eyes."
Peter opened his eyes and saw his reflection looking back. He looked normal, more intense and a little worn out. Still, he looked normal.
"You see? You're fine," Satana said.
"I'm not fine," Peter said. "I need to know what's happening."
Satana stepped from behind Peter to stand next to him, her nude body a vision of temptation. Every centerfold, Hollywood glamour queen, and dangerous bad girl combined into ultimate perfection. She yawned and stretched before leaning against his side. Her smirk in the reflection made his heart race.
"I think we should talk," Peter said firmly. "There are things we should discuss."
"No," she replied with a smile. Taking his hand into hers, Satana pulled him back towards the bed. He was about to object but his voice died in his throat as he admired her graceful movements from behind—so he followed.
She's even gorgeous asleep, Peter thought, not for the first time. Satana stirred and her black eyes fluttered open.
"We're going to have to talk sometime," Peter told her.
"Is that a challenge?" she asked with a mischievous grin. "I'm a succubus; if I don't want us talking, we won't be."
"That's another thing," Peter said. "Aren't succubi like vampires? Don't you have to feed?"
"You will never again compare succubi to vampires," Satana told Peter firmly. "However you are very ignorant and I forgive you."
"Okay, but how does the feeding work?" Peter asked.
"Sometimes when a mortal and a succubus really love each other," Satana explained, "the mortal touches the succubus in a special way."
"No," Peter said, "that's not what I meant." He thought for a moment. "Oh," he said. "What about protection?"
"We have guards and the mansion is protected by powerful wards," Satana assured Peter. "To answer your question, my love, I feed on you."
"What?" Peter exclaimed in confusion. "No, I would remember something like that."
"Have you ever noticed during a kiss how suddenly it starts to feel incredibly pleasurable?" Satana asked him while smirking mischievously. "Like mind-numbingly good?" She continued before he had a chance to answer. "And after we part, you feel a bit dazed and have moments of disorientation?"
"Yes, but it passes quickly," Peter said cautiously.
"You possess the energy of twenty men, which you restore almost instantly," Satana said. "I'm doubtful I could drain you." She smiled, "It might be fun to try. Of course, I would never actually empty you."
"Of course," Peter said. "You know, you could ask me about stuff like this."
"Why? You're my husband," Satana asked, her voice filled with surprise. "Your soul is mine and all that. What—wait—do you want me to feed off other men? Is that a thing you're into?"
"No, of course not," Peter said. "I don't want you feeding on anyone but me."
"Naturally," Satana said.
Just then, a maid arrived with a breakfast service, complete with newspapers and tablets. The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee and warm croissants in the air made Satana's eyes light up with pleasure. After setting everything up properly, she poured them both cups of coffee and served breakfast in bed for them to enjoy while Peter read the headlines of the morning paper.
Satana seemed content to curl up next to him after breakfast while they took turns navigating through the news updates on their tablets. They browsed sites that provided world news, history, science, fashion trends – anything that interested them or was related to their own lives either directly or indirectly. The luxurious time spent together gave both of them a chance to relax and forget about all the problems going on around them outside the safety of their home.
"I think I'm feeling better," Peter said. "I'm not…I feel okay."
"The worst is behind us," Satana said confidently as she held up an ornate letter. "You won't believe this - it's an invitation to the engagement party of Tony Stark and Emma Frost! Such randomness..."
Peter thought for a moment. "I know Tony Stark," he finally said. "I think I do. " But Emma Frost... I've got a bad feeling about that name. Why did they send us an invitation?"
"I actually went to school with Emma," Satana replied. "Before I... left. She's an old friend of mine; our families have been linked since the pilgrims on the Mayflower." Pausing, she added, "And you know Stark, so we should definitely go."
"Wow, back to New York," Peter said.
"Nervous?" Satana teased. "It will be fun, and if there's trouble, I can always magic us back here.
Things were going so well that Peter didn't want to do anything that might ruin it. Satana looked beautiful in her pink lace negligee, cuddled close beside him. Eventually, they showered before she went out for a morning ride. Satana invited him to come along but he wanted to stay.
Once Peter was alone, he turned on his tablet to the news from New York, selecting stories about superheroes. There were the usual events, some of the names and faces were familiar.
Peter conducted a search for Spider-Man and discovered plenty of results. He rapidly skimmed through the data, trying to recall anything he could. Flashbacks started to return, however, nothing made sense until he stumbled across information about a goblin attack on New York. A fierce jolt of pain surged through his head, causing him to collapse onto the floor.
His vision began to blur as he nearly lost consciousness, feeling faint and disoriented. Unable to gather himself from the ground, he merely lay there waiting for the room to stop spinning. Eventually it did, and his rapid healing activated; in a matter of moments, his strength was restored.
He rose and paced the lavish bedchamber, running his fingers over the fine furnishings as if searching for clues. But the only answers lay locked away in his fragmented memories.
Abruptly, Peter went still. His enhanced senses detected a presence, a whisper of movement in the shadows.
"Who's there?" he demanded, muscles tensing.
A tall, thin figure materialized, garbed in an impeccable suit. "Merely the valet of shadows, sir," he intoned, giving a small bow.
Peter blinked. "Valet of...you work for Satana?"
"And her family. For over a century, sir." The valet drifted closer, tilting his head as if Peter were a puzzle to be solved. "Mistress Satana sensed your...disquiet. She thought perhaps I could assist."
Peter hesitated. Part of him recoiled at accepting aid from this supernatural servant. But his need for answers won out. "What do you know about us?" he asked bluntly. "About how we met and this..." He gestured around the opulent bedchamber. "All of this."
The valet smiled thinly. "I know Mistress Satana cares for you deeply. As for the particulars, I believe that is best discussed with her."
Frustration simmered within Peter, but he kept his tone even. "Please. I just want to understand."
For a long moment, the valet studied him. Then, reluctantly, he said, "Dark times may be coming. Mistress Satana thought your union could prevent certain...calamities."
Peter's brow furrowed. "What calamities?"
But the valet merely faded back into the shadows. "You should rest, sir. All will become clear with time."
The words were kindly meant, but they only deepened Peter's unease. What dire events had brought him and Satana together? And why did she seem intent on keeping him in the dark?
Peter got up to explore the mansion. Maybe he'd find further clues there.
As he made his way through the mansion's ornate corridors, he caught glimpses of servants bustling about. Some appeared human, while others had more demonic features - horns, tails, and clawed hands. He quickened his pace, unsettled by their presence.
Now that was funny. Peter paused in a sunlit hallway and lifted his hand up, examining it for a moment before closing his eyes and focusing on the monstrous shape he had seen in hell. He felt a change and cautiously opened his eyes. His arm had grown larger, shifting and forming claws.
The transformation began to spread and he firmly closed his eyes again, concentrating on his original form. When he opened them again, nothing had changed. His whole body shifted, becoming more bulky and armored. Two extra eyes opened on either side of his head and he could feel an itching sensation coming from his sides; he was about to gain extra arms.
Peter opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was muffled by his huge fangs. He collapsed onto his knees and let out a strained cry. In the window glass, he could make out a faint reflection of a horrible spider-monster.
"Sir?" An elderly man in a business suit had appeared in front of him. "Do you require any assistance?"
He must be one of the senior staff, Peter thought in shock. The image of this man addressing a monstrous creature with respect and asking if it needed help was surreal. He should run away, Peter thought. Who knows what I'll do next?
"Ah, transformation difficulties. Let me see if I can help." He took Peter's claws in his hands and closed his eyes, concentrating and murmuring quietly.
Peter felt himself changing and watched as his monstrous features slowly withdrew and his human shape reappeared.
"There," the man said. "Better sir?" Peter nodded. The man nodded too. "You'll become accustomed to it soon, sir. It will be like second nature. Ah, let me get you some clothes; maybe you'd like to wait in the study?" He pointed to a set of double doors just down the corridor.
"Yes," Peter said shakily. His t-shirt and jeans lay in shreds on the floor. "Thank you for your help. That would be wonderful."
The man nodded before leaving. Peter thought he should know his name; Satana would certainly remember it. He was a real fraud at this whole 'gentleman' thing; standing stark naked in the windowed corridor, he felt awkward and exposed.
He ducked through a set of ornate double doors into a lavish study. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with leather-bound tomes and ancient scrolls. A massive oak desk stood sentinel, its surface covered in mystical artifacts - a scrying crystal, tarot cards, rune stones.
This was clearly where Satana's family had conducted much of their arcane business. Peter could almost sense the lingering traces of magic in the air, like incense long burnt away.
He drifted over to examine a display case housing an ancient text, bound in cracked leather and faded vellum. Strange symbols marked its pages, indecipherable yet familiar. Peter's fingers twitched, itching to open it. To understand its secrets.
"That would be unwise, sir," a voice said behind Peter. He'd heard the same voice in the bedroom. He couldn't see anyone, but shadows suddenly enveloped him. Just as quickly they fled, coalescing into a tall, thin man standing before him.
The tall man was dressed neatly in a charcoal grey pinstriped suit and matching tie. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall. His face was cleanly shaven and pale as a ghost, his lips and fingernails the same bloodless red. His hair was jet-black, slicked back from his forehead, and his eyes were as dark and unfathomable, actual pools of blackness.
"Your clothes, sir," he said with a short bow.
Peter looked down at his new clothes, a beige linen blazer, checkered shirt, white linen trousers and leather loafers with a sigh.
"Anything wrong, sir?" the tall man inquired.
"Uh," Peter murmured.
"Mortifex, sir," the man said.
"Yes, Mortifex," Peter nodded. "This is great - thank you." He removed his hat and inspected it; a Panama hat.
"I'm not used to wearing hats, Mortifex," Peter said.
"Yes sir, I know," Mortifex said. "It's a sunny day outside. I took the liberty of obtaining one for you. They say a gentleman should never be without a hat." He seemed to recede into the shadows and then vanished.
Peter smiled. He had a feeling that the valet didn't approve of him.
The study had three exits: the double doors from which he had come in, a small door beside the desk, and another set of double doors at the opposite end of the room. Peter followed these and entered a grand library.
The walls of the library were lined with books, reaching to a lofty ceiling. Rows of shelves were filled with ancient scrolls and artifacts from forgotten lands. Strange maps decorated the walls, depicting places Peter had never heard of. Paintings of strange landscapes and scenes hung between the aged wooden bookshelves.
In one painting a grand city rose into the clouds. A strange being of crystal and flesh stood at its center.
Peter walked over to a glass display case containing a horned skull with three eye sockets. Next to it was a stand covered with a thick velvet cloth. He looked about for onlookers, and then pulled off the cloth.
A giant, greenish crystal ball, with strange glimmers of light reflecting across its surface, entranced Peter. He found himself mesmerized, gazing into its depths. Suddenly his spider-sense began tingling. Something seemed to move within the crystal. Peter pulled himself away and then hastily replaced the cloth. He stepped back and the tingling faded.
The other exit from the library was a set of double doors leading to another hallway. No secrets there. Peter returned to the study and tried the third door. He found stairs leading down, which he followed until the wooden walls of the stairwell gave way to cut stone. It descended for about 50 yards before opening into a cavernous room.
Storage cabinets lined the walls, and pegs for hanging clothes were scattered about. Most of them were empty, while a few contained tattered robes. The cabinets were covered in dust; they hadn't been used in a long time. But the chamber floor had been recently swept clean.
It was near pitch-black, yet he could still make out his surroundings. Weird, but there was a light switch on the wall and he flicked it on. A few dim red lamps illuminated the room, yet nothing had changed.
Peter picked the opening on the left and stepped inside. To his surprise, he found himself in a large, dimly lit chamber, its walls adorned with esoteric symbols and ancient scripts that seemed to shimmer in the flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of incense—frankincense and myrrh, he guessed—mingling with a metallic undertone that reminded him of blood.
Dominating the room was an intricately detailed circle painted onto the floor. It was a complex design, a double ring of concentric circles filled with arcane sigils and geometric shapes. The outer circle was inscribed with characters from the Enochian alphabet, their forms precise and their meaning elusive. The inner circle contained a hexagram, its points touching the boundary of the circle, each one filled with alchemical symbols—Mercury, Sulphur, Salt—each glowing faintly as if imbued with latent power.
On the other side of the room lay another, smaller circle. This one was simpler but no less unsettling. It was a single ring, within which was inscribed a pentagram. At each point of the star lay a small dish filled with elemental offerings: a half melted candle, a feather, a stone, a vial of water, and a handful of earth. The pentagram itself was painted in a substance that looked disturbingly like dried blood, and at its center lay a small, ornate dagger with a hilt shaped like a serpent.
Summoning circles, Peter realized—a common tool used in ritual magic. But these were not just any circles; they were meticulously crafted, each symbol and letter painstakingly rendered, as if by a master of the occult arts. The very air within the circles seemed to hum with energy, a palpable tension that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
How did he know this? He just did. His mind was crammed with strange information, spells, sigils, and rituals. Maybe it was crowding out his own memories.
Peter started to walk towards the dagger but got a strong spider-sense warning him away. He looked around, this place was used recently. The candles weren't burning low and he somehow knew that when he left the room they would go out. Some kind of magical energy saving feature.
How did he know Enochian? He did though. He thought he could use these circles. Peter leaned back against the wall and tried to sort his memories. He felt dizzy and a hint of pain. But he knew a lot about magic. More than he should, much more.
Peter shook his head and snapped out of it - there was nothing here. He went back to the main chamber and proceeded down the center corridor.
The following room was larger, with a rectangular shape. There were cut stone seats - no, pews, Peter realized - facing an elongated slab atop a raised podium. Above the stone was carved a Sigil of Baphomet on the wall.
Peter felt his skin crawl. It was obvious what happened here. He slowly walked down the center aisle. There was a thick layer of dust on everything. This hadn't been used in a very long time, which was a small mercy. He tracked through the dust as he walked.
The altar stone was covered with reddish-brown stains—bloodstains. Iron rings lined the top of the altar, for binding sacrifices. Deep grooves were carved in the surface to channel the blood.
He looked up at the Sigil of Baphomet engraved in the wall. Ten feet wide, it was intricately detailed, as if made with loving care. An inverted pentagram was overlaid on a goat's head. Its eyes seemed to be gazing directly at him; he could feel its hatred. Vast rage poured out from it and a desire to inflict pain.
"It's a beautiful likeness," Satana said from behind him. "You can really sense Father's spirit."