Our open veil snapped and pulsed with newcomers far and wide. A Celtic goddess clothed in fire and sunlight. A four-faced god of Canaan standing twenty cubits tall. A Grecian clutching a bolt of lightning. Bare-chested, staff-clutching androgynous gods with white loin clothes and animal heads. A god for this, a fae for that, a cryptid for the other.
Demonic attendants rushed to meet newcomers from around the globe.
Electric slits continued to snap and pop as welcomed guests opened gashes in our realm.
After all, every pantheon was invited, save for one.
Sharks can smell a single drop of blood from a quarter of a mile away. Cut yourself on a boat near shore and pray for death. Human noses showed a shocking evolution to the trait, with their senses picking up the geosmin of fresh rain at concentrations of less than ten parts per trillion. Some of us, in our idlest of chats regarding the mortals, wondered if evolution helped them find fresh water, should their gods forsake their barest of needs.
And then there were the gods and the suffocating perfume of their overlapping scents.
“Can someone bring me a cloth?” A member of my legion appeared at my side an instant later, fresh linen in hand. Its vapor took the form of a temporary hand as it extended the drooping rectangle. “No, I’m sorry. What I meant was: can someone bring me a cloth soaked in enough opium to render me unconscious until this comes to an end.”
The stadium commissioned for the shiver-inducing meeting of storm, love, torture, soothsaying famine, debauchery, seaworthiness, conquest, and borderline innumerable major and minor deities whispered, cried, sat, stood, clustered as they waited.
Gods brought their energy, ranging from hate, lust, raw fury, to the sudden domesticated urge to find a soft animal and stroke its fur while it purred in your lap.
My legion crackled with uncertainty, which I didn’t appreciate.
There were no double agents, no mistrust, when it came to a demon and his legion. They sat in a space that vibrated betweenself-possession and lack of sentience, as each demon’s army of smoke and shadows belonged to only its leader.
My bed chambers were crowded as Hell and its royal members awaited our unholy symposium.
Smoke-like figures changed me in and out of robes and royal attire until I lost my patience. I would wear black pants, a black shirt, and a structured long, black woolen coat jacket tailored mid-thigh. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of being left alone with my legion.
Pale blue dress, blonde hair, doll eyes, and the Soul Eater’s rows of razor-sharp teeth breezed through my room to secure entries and exits. A gray-skinned wall of muscle and metal had been posted outside of my door.
So many had paraded through my room that I may have missed the newcomer were it not for her stark contrast to the Soul Eater’s sky-blue gown as they bumped shoulders during the golden-haired nightmare’s exit. The Soul Eater blinked her large eyes with genuine surprise that anyone dared to touch her. The newcomer, on the other hand, didn’t stop. She treated the exchange with seeming unimportance.
Before this moment, I hadn’t met a god or demon, royal or otherwise, who had no regard for the Soul Eater. An imp—one of Hell’s citizens—had worked her way into a high-ranking position through competency and the rare sixth sense of social intuition.
Ruby skin, black lips, dark hair slicked into a tight bun, and a forked tail slithering through the slit in her sharp attire made her a splash of color in a brooding room of black floors, black walls, black hearts. She stood far enough behind me that I could make eye contact with her by glancing into the mirror.
Her deadpan, hovering presence was one more irritation on an already-unstable trash heap of chaotic decisions and tenuous relationships.
“I need a few of your minutes, Your Highness.”
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, casting a glance over my shoulder to where she hovered.
Hell had created a role, then promoted the imp to oversee it, specifically to prepare me for today’s events. She was a speechwriter, a crafter of outward appearances, a reputation ambassador, and today, more than anything, she was a pain in my ass.
“Prince.” She repeated the prompt, but not the tone. Her eyes slitted. She put a hand on her hip. It was the sixth time in under twenty minutes that she’d called for my attention. “I’m Tzipporah. And I’m going to need you to take that temper down a notch if you plan to make it through the day.”
“For fuck’s sake, what?”
I looked at her reflection over my shoulder while buttoning my woolen coat, running fingers through my hair and readying myself for the final moments before Hell made history.
“First, I’m glad you took my advice on the event’s attire. I sent it down the pipeline a few hours ago. Rigid, royal?—”
The blotch of red remained over my shoulder in the reflection while I straightened my outfit. “Get to it…I want to say…Uzella?”
“Tzipporah. We met roughly six seconds before you misremembered my name. It’s in your best interest to pull it together and do four things for me.”
I choked on my laugh. I turned my back on my mirror, if only to gawk at her. “Youneed me? Tell me, imp, how can I serveyouin this unprecedented, history-in-the-making assembly of global deities as I get up to defend why I’ve dragged a human into the end of the world?”
Tzipporah was unruffled. Bored, even. Her scroll dropped to her side as she sank her weight into one hip.
“Yes.” She put her hand on the popped hip. “For me.”
