9
ASMODEUS
I’m sitting at the very top of my ziggurat fortress, staring out over the desolate lands around it and the cliffs beyond. Somewhere there, Simone is sulking in her cave. Sighing, I rub a hand down my face.
For weeks, I tried to seduce her, but it’s been extremely difficult when she won’t even talk to me. Every time I visit, extravagant gifts in tow, she turns her back on me. I might as well have been talking to one of the cave walls. I’ve been playing with the thought of just returning her to her people, taking her back to Purgatory, and pretending she never crossed my path. But each time my thoughts go in that direction, my body has a visceral reaction.
Simone is mine. She can’t keep denying me forever.
“Father,” a sweet voice says from behind me. I turn around to see my daughter, Naamah, teetering on the edge of the black stone block, confident and unafraid in sky-high heeled boots.
“Daughter,” I greet her, trying to muster up a smile.
Naamah scoffs. “Did you forget my name again?” She waves her hand before resting it on her hip. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
I roll my eyes, my smile coming easier. “I know your name, Naamah. You act as if I can’t tell my daughters apart.”
I can’t tell my daughters apart. There are hundreds of them, and most of them look the same.
Knowing I’m—as my nephew Sariel would say—full of shit, she snorts, then sits down next to me. Her purple eyes turn toward the Lethe, where most of us have villas or manors, as it’s undoubtedly the least offensive part of Hell. Might have something to do with the river flowing through Heaven as well and bringing some of that influence down to the Underworld.
“Sharezen and I are throwing a party at my home,” she says after a moment of companionable silence. “You should come.”
I raise an eyebrow, considering. “Is there a special occasion?” I hope she doesn’t expect me to remember birthdays too.
She shrugs, her delicate shoulders rising and falling. “Just another orgy in Hell. It’s Easter in the human world, so we’re dressing up as rabbits.”
I curl my lip. “What does Jesus have to do with rabbits?”
“I’ll ask him next time I talk to him,” Naamah replies deadpan.
Throwing my head back, I laugh earnestly. This is why she’s a favorite. She reminds me of me in so many ways.
So is that why I prefer her to my other children? That human psychologist, Freud, could probably spend an eternity studying me. Perhaps I should track him down.
“I’ll see,” I tell Naamah. The truth is, I’d rather stare at Simone’s back than another sweaty pile of bodies.
My daughter scrutinizes me from the corner of her eye.
“You know, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up like Beelzebub. Ruling over an abandoned territory, sitting on your throne covered in flies.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Beel is the lord of flies. I am the lord of lust. By that logic, should I not be covered in pussy instead?”
Naamah waves me off, then gracefully hops back up to her feet. “You know what I mean, Father. I already worry about Uncle Ashtaroth. Don’t make me worry about you as well.”
“My brother is older than most dirt,” I say with a smirk. “You cannot compare me to him.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Naamah mutters, sounding unconvinced. “See you at the Easter orgy?”
I sigh. “Maybe. Send my love to Sharezen.” Not a daughter, but a granddaughter—several generations removed—and someone who often accompanies Naamah when there’s fun to be had.
After Naamah leaves, I decide I’ve tortured myself for long enough. It’s time to visit Simone again. One thought, and I’m in the cave. She’s lying in bed, her back turned to me, the food on the low table untouched. Of course, I have Forneus put together the best food and morsels from the human world and deliver them to her several times a day. And she does eat—she’s not suicidal, just extremely stubborn.
“Hello, little fairy,” I purr, and grin when I see her stiffen. She tries hard to pretend she doesn’t notice me, but I see her glancing at my body when she thinks I’m not looking. Her scent becomes stronger sometimes, the vanilla overpowering the orchids that inspired this cave’s foliage. My Simone smells edible when she’s aroused. And I’d like nothing more than to eat her.
“When will you let me go home?” she asks me then, her melodic voice weaving around me like a spell.
“Abaddon?” I ask her, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Or France?”
