Page 50 of The Misfit Mage and His Darling Demon

“Maybe, but it doesn’t require cock warming.”

“I’m not certain what mortal concept that is, but it sounds truly delight—”

“Liar.” I glowered. “I’ve seen your browser history.”

Bez grinned; his cheeks went a bit flushed, but not in an embarrassed way. Nothing ever embarrassed him when it came to his curiosities around sexual explorations, one of the handfuls of things he’d masterfully learned how to look up online. That and murdering people in MMORPGs, which I considered slightly therapeutic and better than actually murdering them. Though, I hadn’t told him how I hacked his characters with upgrades to make his slaughter fests successful. He didn’t understand the first thing about grinding for levels, and he certainly didn’t have the patience for it when he destroyed a Nintendo Switch over a few busted poke balls and a shiny Eevee.

He stared at my unyielding expression, giving me puppy dog eyes like that’d work. “Fine. Can’t blame a devil for trying.”

Bez interlocked his fingers of my left hand, pressing both to his heart. He channeled the mana from his tattered host body, which I quickly synced to. In a matter of moments, his head fell onto my shoulder, the weight of his unconscious body pressed down on me, and each breath I took drew me further into a drowsy state.

14

Beelzebub

Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck.

The gray overcast sky was a familiar horror to the woods I’d spent my first winter hiding within, the lush blankets of snow now seeped and stained with blood. I’d hoped to pick up at a later part of this memory, somewhere in the nearby cabin or the following day back in town.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Wally with the truth. Of all the people in all the worlds, in any and every time, he was the singular being I trusted with all things. I just hated the idea of Wally seeing such weakness. My vulnerability. My inability. I wanted him to see my strength, my perseverance, my insurmountable power, so he’d know I could and would always protect him from threats.

“Gods, are those corpses?” Wally stared at the black flames lapping up a stacked pile of bodies, burning so perfectly the fire only ate away the flesh, bone, and remnants of magic, avoiding the forest altogether.

The sweet, steaky aroma tickled my nose, teasing me with the savory smell carried in this memory. Wally’s face turned queasy, likely finding the scent putrid, and missing the delectable flavor of candylike mana in the air, dancing on our tongues like snowflakes. Another reason I didn’t want the memory to pick up here since this particular part involved an acquired taste.

I fought a smile, soaking in the scene of detached limbs and organs strewn about. Some we’d toss into the fire to add as kindling, others Mora would retrieve for a meal or potion or future barter.

Wally’s eyes widened as he studied a particular favorite corpse of the mage who led the charge for this battalion of vanguards. His body dangled from a tree, his head bashed into the trunk—completely embedding his skull through the bark, which required a powerful and precise telekinetic strike that knocked the fool into the tree, slamming his head through the thick trunk without disturbing a single branch or shaking loose the snow. Picturesque. Captivating. Artistically etched into my mind for all of time.

“How many people did you kill?”

“Me?” I smirked. “None.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

I snickered, allowing him to believe I had a hand in this fine craftsmanship that belonged to Mora. She always slaughtered with such finesse, messy and careful and artistic all at once.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Outside some Puritan settlement, well within Collective territory.”

“Why here?”

“You wanted to see how I met Mora.” I pointed beyond the black flames where she stood wearing the host body of an older blonde. Abigail Steward, a judge’s wife and personal favorite of mine. Of all the hosts Mora had throughout thecenturies, I always enjoyed Abigail best, perhaps because of how unassuming she acted as the matriarch of a God-fearing town, the motherly dotting she displayed for everyone, or how Abigail’s seven children treated me like a sibling when I arrived guised as a cousin none had met before. They were such a happy family, unaware their mother had been replaced by a demon pulling the strings to influence a town of hypocrites.

“You needn’t fear,” Mora cooed, daintily stepping around stray pieces of flesh and blood splatter, hiking the edges of her dress up to keep it clean from stains. “There are such few Diabolics here in the colonies, most finding this endeavor unfruitful, but I’m always searching for a new venture.”

Wally followed Mora’s gaze, tilting his head curiously as she spoke at us, through us, to the figure guiding this memory. He turned, taking in my appearance in this memory. His eyes stared at the four horns atop my head, barely distracting from the disheveled mess of knotted, straggly hair. Then Wally’s eyes fell to the slow healing burns on my light gray skin. The freshly charred, ragged clothes indicated these scars hadn’t come from Hell, where I’d escaped, but from mages who sought to rid themselves of such a fearsome beast.

There were gashes sliced along my muscles from enchanted weaponry meant to hack me to pieces since the mages quickly learned a Diabolic with no host couldn’t be bled dry so easily. I tsked. Muscles. Like I had much in that slender form, barely competent and lacking understanding of how to heal the Diabolic essence circulating through me. My wings were widespread because I’d considered flying away when the demon presented herself, slaughtering the foes who meant to detain and destroy me.

Wally’s expression softened, not with sadness but polite curiosity in a way he would use when gently prodding for answers to things he wanted to know. “This is you.”

“Yes,” I said, fighting the urge to fidget like my past self, whose bare feet bounced back and forth in the crunching snow. “That’s who I was.”

Was.

Because that weakling didn’t represent a single shred of who I’d become. I let that nothing wash away along with the blood of mages centuries in their graves. This weak, unwanted thing wasn’t me. He wasn’t Beelzebub. He wasn’t Bez. He wasn’t the persona I’d carefully crafted of the god-king toying with a mortal world out of boredom and curious fancies.

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