“Why is he here?” another grunted. “He never leaves his realm.”
“Must be here for the feast!”
At the mention of a feast, my attention perked up.
“He’s not here to partake in the feast. I heard he’d rather fuck the royal meat than eat her.”
“Imagine that, wanting to fuck yer own dinner.”
Royal meat? A heady coalescence of dread and outrage thrummed through my system and made the flames in my eyes burn bright. I inhaled deeply, barely making out the hint of smoke, fire, and something savory beneath the hot stink of Mammon’s realm.
Without giving the wretched little creatures the honor of my full attention, I sent a powerful wave of magic down the steps with a wave of my oar.
Screams filled the air, followed by the loud splat of bodies falling into the boiling River Styx below.
The souls drifting in the crimson current would latch onto the creatures, drowning the ones who didn’t succumb to the heat before carrying their remains downriver.
The goblins who remained fell dead still, leaving only the echo of my footsteps as I made my way into the Forge.
Rayven had said he planned to eat her, but I’d clung to the sliver of hope that she’d been misled. Maybe it was a good thing if Belphegor had managed to steal her away.
Oh, the destruction I’d wreak if I found out Mammon ate her.
I’d break him in half and suck the marrow out of his bones before tossing them into the Styx like common garbage if he touched her.
Hells, I’d probably do it anyway.
I’d always hated Mammon.
As I made my way around the courtyard, it was clear all hell had broken loose well before my arrival. A giant cauldron on a dais was tipped over, the fire beneath it all but burned out. A savory-smelling broth covered the ground, and the sickening aroma of burnt goblin flesh tainted the air.
I strode through the havoc, kicking a twitching goblin out of my way with a snarl as I stormed past Mammon’s gaudy iron throne. My eyes were set on a towering set of double doors that led deeper into the forge. There was no sign of the other demon lords out here, so they must have retreated inside.
The goblins minding the entrance scrambled to attention with my hasty approach. They grabbed the intricate iron handles and pulled the doors open, a loud groan echoing through the forge as they slowly swung outward.
The Lord of Greed loved gorging himself on all the luxuries being a Lord of Hell afforded him, almost as much as Belphegor. The banquet hall was a large room that took front and center and wasn’t hard to locate.
I burst into the hall in a swirl of my cloak and twisting smoke, my gaze immediately falling to the demon lords seated around the absurdly long table, which had been set for a large feast.
Mammon stood to the left before a grand hearth, staring into the flames, his blazing wings turned toward me. Baal sat at the end of the table with his spider-like limbs folded neatly around him, and Paimon’s enormous blue eyeball glared at me, gleaming with silent curiosity.
“I don’t remember sending you an invitation to my feast, Belial.” Mammon didn’t even bother to look in my direction.
Baal muttered something flippant, but his words didn’t register. I was too busy sizing up Sloth. His massive head stared at me with an unblinking gaze.
The demon lord of the seventh circle didn’t lord over the sin of sloth because he was lazy. What he lacked in physical strength, he made up for with his mystic ability to warp time, even slow it to a stop with a single glance.
I’d need to kill him first.
I donned a manic grin and stepped out from the shadows that clung to the edges of the banquet hall and into the torchlight.
Baal and Paimon both took notice of my oar, and what—or rather, who—decorated it at the same time.
“It’s rude not to invite all your brothers to your little gathering, Mammon. Don’t worry, I brought them all with me so we can enjoy this feast I heard goblins chattering about.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rayven
