I can’t create a portal myself, not while I’m this weak, so I’ll have to pass whatever test the ruler of this ring of hell has for me.
Steeling my shoulders, I step towards the shack.
The door gives way beneath my palm and swings open. I brace myself, step through, and the door slams closed behind me.
Music and soft light with dancing shadows dominate this place; it’s a vast space that must be magical, because the outside was so small and the inside has stairs and upper levels.
It’s… holy demonic shit itisa bar…
My gaze sweeps over the low swinging bulbs, to the record player in the corner that playsDevil Went Down to Georgia. Noise rattles around me: the clink of glasses and laughter, of pool balls clanking rapidly against one another.
Metal poles are embedded into the floor straight up to the ceiling. On one of them, a demon dances. A female demon with red skin, a pointed tail, long shimmering hair, and tight leather that rides up into the intimate parts of her anatomy.
Other demons loiter the place. Demons of all kinds and all shapes. Monstrous creatures as big as the fucking hulk in leather jackets and fur patches sticking out from the sleeves, and small pixie like creatures with buzzing wings and little jeans.
Fucking pixies in jeans.
I think that’s what amazes me the most.
Not the shining black satyr behind the bar with curling horns and steam fuming from his nostrils, wiping down the counter. Not the other creatures riding magical motorcycles made of faerie dust. Certainly not the demon bad boy motorcycle club in open leather jackets that reveals every pane and angle of their naked green chests.
Fucking. Pixies. In. Jeans.
I feel so out of place as I take a tentative step inside, then another, and another. A few curious eyes glance my way as I wander into the bar, but I’m otherwise ignored.
Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.
I go over to the bar and seat myself onto a stool.
The satyr—with skin that looks like shining obsidian—looks me over with bright orange eyes. “What’s your poison?” he asks in a voice like crackling fire.
“Um…” I clear my throat. “I don’t…”
“One shot of acid it is.” He turns, grabs a shot glass and pours a sizzling green liquid in it, sliding it over to me.
I look at it distrustfully.
“Anything else?” He looks bored with me already.
I gently push the glass away with the backs of my knuckles. “Actually… I’m looking for someone.”
He shines a glass with a rag. “Yeah? Who?”
“The ruler of this circle of hell.”
As soon as the words escape my lips, I swear it’s like a scene from a fucking movie. The record player scratches and Charlie Daniels’s song stops instantaneously. All voices cease speaking. A small faerie creature steers his glittering motorcycle to a screeching halt and slams against a wall, making a high pitched agonized sound as he slides down, surrounded by fading sparks.
The hairs all over my body rise with trepidation. A lump chokes my throat but I force it down. All eyes are on me… I can feel it.
And then I feel the heated presence of bodies surrounding my back. Figures shadow behind me, and I steel myself, my blood covered wings twitching in pain and a little bit of fear.
Two figures sidle up on either side of me. One, the green-skinned demon with his open leather jacket and straight features, the other a polka dot skinned creature with no shirt at all.
My friend Dottie here seems a bit less intimidating than Greenie but looks are probably a bit deceiving in hell.
The bartender sighs and slides the drink back towards me, giving me a look that says, ‘You’re gonna need this.’
I try to look brave. Like I’m not currently surrounded by demons or pissing myself from fear. My magic is depleted, I’m in pain, and if they choose to attack I’m so, so dead.
