Page 15 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Bez reeled his arm back, holding all his fingers close together and coating them with a sheen black energy like a metallic blade replacing his hand entirely.

Cackling, he thrusted his hand forward to stab my stomach.

6

6

Beelzebub

I froze. A fraction of an inch from the flabby tender spot below Walter’s liver. Cracking my knuckles which refused to work, I pulled my arm back a second time prepared to impale him. Or was this a third or fourth? I shook my head. Earlier with the blade didn’t count. The mood was off, lacking. This was the perfect setting. He squeezed his eyes shut. Legs jittering beneath me. Such intoxicating terror, defeated resilience, and all mine. Everything I wanted in a fresh kill. Especially since, while I wouldn’t tell him, there was something incredibly satisfying about plucking the idealistic, too soft for his station, Walter from this world.

“Dammit,” I snapped.

Twice now. I brushed the slightest tip of my Diabolic claws against his skin, the only thing between him and me was a thin layer of cotton, yet I choked again. I should be choking Walter instead of hesitating. Why was I hesitating? I wanted him dead. I wanted every mage in this horrid city dead. Hell, I’d slaughter the Mythics for principal sake. Wrapping my hands around Walter’s throat, I figured quick and boring would suffice. All I needed to do now was squeeze.

His pulse pounded against my palm, life literally in my hands. Mine for the taking. All I had to do was snatch it. Rip him to shreds. Eviscerate him to the core, begging for a death I’d gladly give once gratified by his suffering. My fingers trembled, refusing to clench. To tighten. To break his feeble mortal neck.

“Why?” I released him, pressing my forehead against his.

Walter’s breaths were faint. He was exhausted from the beating earlier, the running, the casting magic he had no finesse for. Funny how this body had no problem pummeling him yet now, even with the former host removed, it disobeyed my commands. Why?

His annoying words drummed in the back of my head. Thousands of one-sided chats we’d had over three long insufferable years whispered. The light lilt of his voice and nosy curiosity and gentle lectures. As much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed his conversations. His delusions of grandeur. His absurd kindness to the most worthless people. Still, none of that should stop me. I’d killed those closest to me out of necessity. Surely, some mage who barely landed on my radar could die out of a whim. Besides, all mages were treacherous and deserved what they got.

Despite draining himself, my prey continued channeling mana he lacked for magics he hadn’t mastered. Outside the orb, observing it in action, I finally understood where it floundered. He didn’t have much space in his body for Mythic residue. That weakness coupled with the fact he conjured too much in a strike, compensating for his inferiority, made his spells fizzle out. Abe had that problem way back when. Tragic. Not a surprise such a selfish prick never shared his little tricks for balancing those shortcomings.

“Just fucking get it over with,” Walter growled. “Do it already.”

Bold, shaky words, from a little boy who kept his eyes tightly shut. The grit in his voice was alluring, though.

“That’s my problem.” I chuckled. “You’re in my head. Overthinking Walter, most annoying of his name, can’t make a single move without considering sixteen steps. No more thinking. Primal. Acting. Action.”

I plunged my fist forward, ready to gut him. Who cared if I savored the seconds? I simply needed this finished. My knuckles quaked against the tip of his jaw, a slight crimson glow peeking out at the ready to defend him.

“Son of a bitch.” I leapt off Walter. “You little thief.”

“Huh?” His eyes widened like I’d buy that doe-eyed vulnerability. He knew exactly what he’d done.

How had I allowed myself to contemplate, even for seconds, that I enjoyed his nauseating company? Here I was, deluding myself into thinking such drivel because of this absurd urge to rationalize the reasoning behind my hesitation. Another awful side effect of too much time spent listening to Walter.

I grabbed his wrist and dragged him off the couch. Holding him close, I sniffed his jaw where the thievery revealed itself by guarding against my strike. Nothing. Working my way down his neck, nothing. I clutched his soaked polo and took an inhale. Sweat and fear and unintentional primal excitement swirled together with faint traces of mana. I had no desire to explore or unpack those issues.

“Where the hell, literal Hell, is it?” I snatched his hand, staring at his sliced palm. “There it is, you crafty, sneaky weasel.”

I squeezed the open cut, and my entire body vibrated, compelling me to stop. Painful for each of us yet not life threatening. My palm had a slight itch, burning throb, which undoubtedly measured about a fraction of the ache in Walter’s hand. I hated the instinctual resistance to stop, but it worked.

“Stop,” Walter shouted.

“Shut up.” I pressed my thumb deep into the open wound, waiting.

Crimson tendrils leapt from his cut and slashed my hand to ribbons. They were darker than blood, sheen with Diabolic essence, and lined in faint traces of black. I released him, letting him fall to his knees in shock and confusion while I dealt with this little betrayal. My hand quickly healed itself.

“What the hell was that?” He frantically scurried backward watching the Diabolic energy root itself inside his wound again, slowly stitching it back together, but the essence likely prioritized on the facial, chest, and internal injuries he’d suffered.

“Gods, you’re loud,” I said. “It’s my essence, which you stole.”

“W-what?”

“Yeah, you stole a piece of me.”

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