Page 37 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

I stared at my breakfast, perfect even under such imperfect circumstances. How I desperately wanted my old, boring routine of a life back. All the times I’d craved adventure and purpose, only to find out after a single day I couldn’t hack it.

A strange guilt crept inside me too, though. Bez and I had struck a deal. A deal I considered double-crossing him on the moment I made it because I worried about the harm he’d bring to the world. But what harm had he brought so far? All the horror happening was from the mages and Mythics.

Then again, the only thing holding Bez in check was our Diabolic bond. Unleashed onto the world, he could and likely would hurt so many. But knowing he had awareness for nearly fifty years inside that orb, alone, no one to share his thoughts with… Did he deserve that again?

My heart thumped. A strange sensation. Not the beat of my heart, but the light tug with each pump of blood coursing through my body like a string tied to my chest, reeling me toward the devil which created such curiosity and insecurity and too much confusion. “I should find Bez.”

12

12

Beelzebub

I strolled inside the restaurant, scanning for an old acquaintance who’d crossed my path. Everything about Alistair’s plan bored me and wouldn’t result in clearing Walter’s name. It’d only add to the confusion of mage politics. Walter wouldn’t want to hear that, though, and I had no desire to explain it to the simple little apprentice. Instead, I continued my pursuit. Everyone dining held a Mythic or mortal scent. Mostly elves and mages here. However, a faint trace of Diabolic energy wafted between the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. I weaved between tables, brushing past servers, and burst into the back kitchen.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the worst devil in all the realms.” Mora slurped a cherry red smoothie. “Still my favorite, which isn’t saying much.”

I leapt forward in a blur, stopping short of snatching her by the throat. Partially compelled because of her aloof attitude after five decades of silence, another part concerned her behavior would oust my presence. Only at the last second, right as my fingertips reached her neck, did the faint black aura appear in the corner of my eyes.

A dust cloud of Diabolic energy quelled her words, making any conversation fall silent in the presence of those working in the kitchen. Mora’s control for veiling her actions had improved tenfold. Better than mine. She’d improved so much since last we spoke. Here she was spilling Diabolic phrases in front of Mythic fry cooks all carefree because none of them registered the words due to the cloud of confusion she’d cast. I needed to work on mine. It’d been so long since I’d used any magics. Each fiber of my being creaked, rusted over from a half-century of that discombobulated state. I needed to practice, work on the finesse every Diabolic required when walking in the mortal realm.

Subtilty had often been my downfall. Devils were supposed to be bold, cunning, and ruthless. They weren’t supposed to hide in shadows because they were the shadows.

“You look as stunning in this form as your last.” I eyed her new body—or newest body.

Unlike me, Mora enjoyed embracing whichever appearance she inherited when picking a new host body, doing little to alter the form through composite shifting. Personally, I hated staring at a new mortal face and needed to resemble myself as much ashumanlypossible. Mora had never held value in her demon body or her Diabolic life. A tilt of her head allowed her long, wavy chestnut locks to drape and frame her face. Porcelain pale skin, so white, most probably mistook her for a specter more than Diabolic. Even her eyes were a bland blue, no real sparkle behind them, lacking the Diabolic pink pigment in her sclera. All her demon features remained hidden, with the exception of her pointed ears.

“Do you work at this elven business? Blending?”

She preferred blending among Mythics and mortals, didn’t relish the violence which came so naturally to our kind, yet knew when and how to indulge in it for necessity.

“Absolutely not. But always hiding in plain sight, darling.” Mora stepped closer, placing her neck within my grasp.

It’d be easy to squeeze. I could strangle the life out of her faster than the haze she’d cast would fade. Kill her long before a single soul noticed.

“Why are you stalking me, Mora?” I lowered my hand, clenching my fist.

“When the long-lost devil Beelzebub reemerges right on the cusp of a coup attempting to overthrow the Collective, it piques interest.”

“Yours?”

“Certainly.” She brushed the back of her hand along my cheek. “I’ve missed you, Bezzy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“How’d you escape?”

“What do you care?” My blood pumped, coursing with unchecked energy as emotions took hold. Mora never revealed her hand, always cautious and playful. Nearly fifty years inside that orb. Part of me wanted to rip her still-beating heart out of her chest, tearing out all the Diabolic tendrils woven into this host body, too. Another part of me wished to hug her after so much time apart.

Mora was the only demon I’d met since arriving in the mortal realm who I hadn’t outright despised or killed for the sake of convenience. The only one I’d ever toyed with the idea of trusting. No. The only Diabolic I actually trusted, considered a friend. A mistake. Mora had taught me better. Trust was a tool used to gauge motivations and achieve mutual benefits, nothing more. A lesson learned when I stumbled upon her as a young, naïve, and lost Diabolic so many centuries ago. It was because of her I learned to blend among the mortals to avoid their ire. Kill the mages who chased me. Feed from Mythics to maintain my strength. And build the legend of Beelzebub so I’d never fear the shadows again.

I quelled the bubbling rage, resigning not to allow the primitive desire to snuff out her life win out. Yet. Had it been because I missed a familiar face? No. No one mattered in the grand scheme of things. Not even myself. All I wanted was a break. Perhaps it was Walter’s goddamned command still circulating inside my core.

Mora had invited me to this city, the best place for a Diabolic to blend. Our aura was hard to detect or track, making us almost invisible to mages or Mythics. However, fellow demons or devils could always sniff out their own. Neither Mora nor I cared for other Diabolics, so Seattle seemed the best place. Honestly, the entire northwest region was flooded with more Mythics than most territories. In a sea of so many different magical scents, a Diabolic could disappear if they desired. Mora did. She kept her profile low, fell in love with some witch, and made me believe in the simplicity of it all.

Then I met Abe, the young archivist prodigy on track to be a chancellor. Abraham Remington had the friendliest smile and kindest attitude toward the unknown aspects of Diabolics. A friend with a dream so big it swept me away into believing mages could truly see me for something more than a nightmarish devil. The worst mistake of my life.

“There was nothing I could’ve done for you after you ambitiously attacked the Collective single-handedly,” Mora said. “It was a foolish thing, Bez.”

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