“You lookin’ for the Boss?” Greenie leans close to me, invading my personal space. He surprisingly smells like burnt cinnamon and smoke. Like magic. His teeth gleam in sharp points that look all too threatening within his mouth. He snaps them a hair’s breadth away from my cheek, and a tremble runs down my back.
I steel my spine against the nerves assaulting me and I turn my head slowly to face him. My hands reach out blindly in front of me to grasp around the shot glass as I bring it close. “I am,” I drawl. “So if you aren’t him, then you can kindly fuck off.”
Shocked gasps echo around me, and a smirk touches my mouth as I bring the glass close to my lips. The concoction inside smells like green apples. I shouldn’t drink it. Then again, I shouldn’t have just insulted the asshole at my side, but this is hell. If I act weak, they will treat me as such.
Hell and the Academy have that in common, actually.
Bracing myself, I down the drink in one swallow.
It burns down my throat like a river of fire scorching through my body. My eyes water, and I almost cough it back up, but force myself to betray nothing.
Jesus and Satan, that is fuckinghot,and Ilivefor spicy foods.
Don’t throw it up. Don’t you fucking dare. You are not a lightweight!
My stomach gives a violent heave, but I slam the shot glass back down on the counter and rasp out, “Another.”
The satyr-demon hybrid of a bartender raises impressed eyebrows and tops the drink off again. Shit, I don’t think I can handle another one. But I do. I drink that one as well and slam the glass back down then hiss through my teeth.
“Now, is anyone going to tell me where I can find ‘the Boss’?” Are my words slurring? No, but my tongue feels heavy.
What the fuck did I just drink?
Note to self, do not drink any more of that spicy green apple shit.
Even if it is kind of delicious once the hellacious aftertaste wears off.
Do I have time for one more?
My heart says yes. My blood alcohol level says no.
“What business do you have with him?” Greenie asks.
“Yeah, and who are you?” I can feel the strangely colored eyes of Dottie graze across my torn and bleeding wings.
I probably look like I got a thorough ass kicking. I did, but that’s besides the point. I wish I had enough magic in me to shove my wings into my back so they would all stop staring.
Before I can answer, a loud shot rings across the bar. All of our gazes swivel to the balcony above to see an office door rattling against a wall. From the door, emerges a man. “That,” his voice rains down in a deep, silken drawl, “is Izara Castillo. Princess of Hell.”
Whispers and conspiracies crash around me. But my eyes are glued on the man, roaming over every single inch of him. The heavy thwomp of his black boots slam over the wooden floors. The stairway creaks as he walks down them and makes his way over to me. Long legs are clad in tight leather, and his chest is gloriously bare, carved in line after perfect line of taut abs.
He prowls towards me like a predator, and I press my wings, my back, to the edge of the bar. The pain is there, but I don’t feel it when all I am focused on is the man in front of me. I’m sure he’s a man, a demon, and an angel combined. He looks human enough, but he’s too tall, too beautiful, and he has twin black horns rising up from his forehead with sharp ends. And from his back there are white, feathered wings that are graying at the tips.
Dark hair spills down his shoulders, and when he’s in front of me, the strands fall against my skin as he cages me within the space of his arms.
Pure white eyes take me in, and a smile curves at his mouth. “Hello, Princess Izara.” He leans closer, and I try not to flinch as his lips graze across the lobe of my ear. “Welcome to my domain.”
* * *
He pulls away from me, giving me room to breathe once more. His arms widen at his sides as he gestures at the bar.
I press my bare feet down on the wooden floors and stand to my full height. All sensation of dizziness has vanished from my body. It’s like the haze was swept away with his arrival.
“My name is Azazel, fallen angel, corrupter of humans, a.k.a. the Boss of the second circle of hell.”
My swallow sticks heavily in my throat. For a moment, I can’t speak, I’m so captivated by the myriad of contradictions that is his beautiful body. This is what happens to fallen angels? They get stuck in hell and become a hybrid…thing? Not quite one, but not quite the other either? His wings look like they’ve been burning off. Like a slip of paper crumbling in the remnants of a fire. They look to be made of ash and feathers, slow curling tendrils of smoke emanating from the bottom.
“Azazel,” I echo. “I’m… well, you already know who I am.”
