Page 11 of Lake of Sin

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You have struggled with your pleasure. I want you to fight that struggle. And so, I do not want you to fuck the Prince. I want you to make love to the Prince.”

I blanched. “I don’t?—”

“I want you to look into its eyes, and give more than your body, for I want you to do the same to me. I want all of you, little priest. No part of your body, your mind, or your soul should remain thinking of Earth or of Heaven. I see in your head the young man you fantasise of.”

Shocked, I realised it was speaking of Oliviero!

“I see the regrets you hold for your unmet desires. You may solve this with the Duke, but for the Prince, you must solve your worry. Be vulnerable. Be fully naked for him, Alessandro.”

And I was horrified by this, full of despair and embarrassment. It was so much worse than splitting my hole over a demon’s fingers, or letting acentaurenter me. It was the feeling I had encountered when those lesser demons had puttheir mouth on my cock and my hole, when Furfur had touched me for my own pleasure. But the vulnerability I had felt then had been nothing compared to how I would feel under a truly loving touch.

I shivered. I said, “Yes, my Lord,” and waited for Asmodeus' final remarks. They never came.

I knew what I had to do, but I was terrified.

5

By the time I had emerged from the tunnel, my body ached. My knees bore the most damage; the caps were red-raw and bruised. Indents scooped into my palms and dirt covered all limbs. The coolness of the tunnel had given me goosebumps, but the keep itself was warm, and a fine sheen of sweat had begun on my lower back.

The keep was very fine and veryhumanin design. I went rigid just being in there. My body stiffened on impulse, and I felt shamed for my nudeness—which I realised was the point of this place’s design. After Asmodeus’ insight, I understood better that my wantonness was a state I could achieve, one that fell behind a wall of fog whenever I was reminded of my humanity or my once-faith. Anything close to human made it more difficult for me. I wondered vaguely if the monstrous bodies of my lovers so far had allowed me to be free with them.

The imps walked me forward through lustrous corridors that seemed to go on endlessly. The walls were decorated with all manner of art or hanging bronze armour, and again, the art appeared human. Painted portraits of unknown nobility lined the walls, and much was in a style I recognised as Italian. Thismight have been an amalgamated castle, with influences from across Europe, but I could imagine it most suited to Italy. I could imagine in that moment that I was still a priest, summoned to take a final confession, or bestow last rites upon a wealthy lord.

The imps’ surcoats flapped as they moved. In this light, I could better see the designs they bore, which was a sigil like the many I had laid before during my time in Hell.

Indeed, the room they brought me into was a large bedroom, fit with a four-poster bed, a swooning sofa, a desk, a carpet, and a large expanse of floor before the door. On that wooden floor, the sigil sat etched.

Once I was inside,the imps closed the door without a word, and I was left to my own devices.

Usually, I would have gone to my knees and fumbled with some blade or another to bleed into the sigil and summon the next demon with speed. But here I hesitated.

I was frightened, you see. More frightened than I had been for any of the demons. The false bravado I’d possessed for Marchosias seemed a distant dream. If all I had to do was bend over and take whatever this Vassago wanted to do to me, I would!

But the thought of looking in his eyes as he touched me, fingers trailing over my skin, kisses soft, thrusts slow—my stomach rioted!

I sat down on the swooning sofa and put my head in my hands, and when that did naught to calm me, I shot up and began to pace the room. I opened the closets expecting to find them empty but instead found them brimming with clothing. All manner of tunics and fanciful clothes burst free. I closed the wardrobe and walked next to the desk, which had papers written in some infernal language I could not understand, though the occasional word became familiar the longer I stared at it. I could read “Vassago, Prince of Hell” and“the good-natured prince” as terms that occurred excessively throughout the letter. Besides the letters was a sharp letter opener and a leather-bound journal. I left the letter opener for later and unwrapped the book, which was a sketchbook.

And in it, there were drawings of me.

As realistic as the most precise portrait, these drawings showed me in every stage of my descent into Hell. Some showed me in my cassock, or with my clerical collar, or on my knees glistening with the fluids of other creatures. They showed me wanton and desperate and alive, and all of them were drawn with great care.

Perhaps with affection.

I dropped the leather-bound book and stepped back from the table. My heart raced—not because I had been watched by this Prince, nor that it seemed to have captured every blemish and detail of my body, but because of that affection.

I had two choices: stand here in fear eternally or turn around and face this demon. In a moment of immense bravery, I wrenched the letter opener from the table, stalked to the sigil, and slit open my palm as I had done so many times before. My stomach lurched as the blood dripped to the ground. I did all this standing without my usual reverence; I stripped the sacrosanct from the ritual. I felt too nervous to bow, too shaken to show much deference in that moment. The sigil shone a bright gold, and an answering rumble shook the castle. Then: silence.

I waited, poised in eerie stillness. Time conspired with my anxiety to weaken what little confidence I had remaining in my body, and it became impossible to watch the door at all. I turned with embarrassment burning my face and stumbled back to the desk, where I carefully replaced the letter opener and waited for the wound in my hand to knit itself up.

It didn’t.

The door creaked open, and I spun to face Prince Vassago.

Andhewas not what I expected.

Vassago appeared as I would imagine any beautiful human prince. His eyes were warm, and crows-feet pulled the skin around his eyes towards a look of eternal amusement. In fact, all the lines on his face suggested human emotion: smile lines at his cheeks and across his forehead. He looked like he might have been from Italy, like an emperor of the Holy Roman Emperor, possessing that dark raven colour in his hair and the warmth in his skin. He had a dazzling, wide smile that he flashed at me immediately, and his eyes were a warm brown struck through with amber. His hair was slicked away from his face with a moustache that curled at the sides. Beautiful sapphire earrings dangled from his lobes. The Prince dressed in a heavy, fur-lined cape with a stunning blue velvet doublet with gold buttons and decorations. A lopsided hat draped over his head, and red-and-white feathers burst from the right side. Underneath it all, Prince Vassago still smiled that dazzling, welcoming smile.

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