Page 8 of Demon Lord's Proposal

Something that sets her apart from the usual rabble.

"Boss," Azrael, one of my bartenders, calls out. "We're running low on Brimstone Brew!"

I grunt in acknowledgment, my eyes still fixed on the newcomer. As I watch, I catch a glimpse of intricate sigils etched into her skin. Realization hits me like a sledgehammer.

"Well, I'll be damned," I mutter. "A hexeblood."

It's been centuries since I've seen one of their kind down here. The last of the hexebloods were hunted to extinction in the mortal realm ages ago.

Or so I thought.

Suddenly, the front doors burst open, and a fresh wave of newly departed souls floods in. The bar erupts into chaos as my staff struggles to keep up with the influx.

"Deus!" Lilith shouts over the din. "We can't handle this many!"

I watch as she flinches at the commotion, her fingers twitching as if itching to help. An idea forms in my mind, wild and impulsive.

Without a second thought, I push through the crowd, patrons parting before me like the sea. I reach the girl, grab her arm, and haul her over the bar in one fluid motion.

"What–" she starts, her green eyes wide with shock.

I slap an apron onto her, the enchanted fabric immediately adjusting to fit her form. "You're working tonight," I growl, cutting off any protest. "Start serving drinks. Now."

"But, I–" but before she can reply, I push her behind the bar. "I don't have time for arguments. "

I can see the confusion and fear warring in her eyes, but there's something else too.

A spark of curiosity, maybe even excitement.

Which is, in essence, my job. Finding out what each customer uniquely needs.

If I'm not mistaken, she wears the mark of the alchemist as well. "Listen up," I say, gesturing to the array of bottles and equipment behind the bar. "This ain't your average mortal booze. Each drink is a specific blend of alchemy and magic. You fuck up a mixture, you could send a patron straight to the clearing at the end of the path. Got it?"

"No, I–"

"Good. Now, start with something simple. Hellfire Whiskey, straight up. Bottle's on the top shelf, glowing red. Can't miss it."

As she reaches for the bottle, her hand trembling slightly, I bark out, "And don't even think about sampling the merchandise. Some of this stuff'll melt your insides faster than you can blink."

She jerks her hand back as if burned, nearly knocking over a row of glowing vials. "Melt my–are you serious?"

I lean in, my voice a low growl. "Dead serious. Welcome to your new life, sweetheart."

She gulps, then gingerly grasps the Hellfire Whiskey. She tilts the bottle, and liquid fire cascades into the glass. To my surprise, she doesn't spill a drop.

"Well, I'll be damned," I mutter, impressed despite myself.

A harpy at the end of the bar screeches for service. The hexeblood jumps, nearly dropping the bottle. She turns to me, panic in her eyes.

I nod towards the harpy. "Well? Get to it. And remember, harpies like their drinks with a dash of sulfur. Third jar from the left."

She stumbles towards the harpy, drink in hand. I watch, ready to douse any fires–literal or figurative. "Here you go, um, ma'am," she says, setting down the drink. "One Hellfire Whiskey with... sulfur?"

The harpy sniffs the drink, then lets out an ear-piercing shriek of approval and the hexeblood winces but manages a shaky smile.

As the night progresses, I find myself constantly drawn to her corner of the bar. She's fumbling with a shaker, trying to mix a Banshee's Wail.

"No, no," I growl, stepping in. "You shake it like this." I demonstrate, my movements sharp and precise. "Too gentle, and the ectoplasm won't blend. Too rough, and you'll have every phantom in a five-mile radius wailing at our door."

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