Page 9 of The Misfit Mage and His Devilish Desires

“Fuuuuuuuuck.” I dragged out the word, blinking away the shock as I stared at the hand coated in Diabolic essence and a trickle of blood.

Speaking of blood, the elven woman’s exposed neck sputtered blood upward like a little fountain. I backstepped, ready to hurl at the intoxicating smell that sprayed through the store, painting the floor with sweet, sticky red blood. Yuck. Blood was not a yum factor. This was my devil essence coursing through my veins, demanding something gross while tampering with my senses to alter my tastes—quite literally.

If this weren’t such a dire situation, I’d consider performing a study on my tastebuds in various situations to see what stimulated the essence to circumvent control while rewriting my natural programming. No hijacking, though. Once I swallowed the lump in my throat, the desire to lick the floorboards clean faded, which meant the sensory tampering from my essence was short-lived. A working hypothesis. But right now, I had bigger issues to contend with, unfortunately.

“Bez,” I snapped. “You can’t just kill customers. I don’t know how many times we have to discuss…”

I paused my tangent—one I’d given Bez multiple times when he threatened to eviscerate a customer. There was something off about his nails. Black essence coated his bloody hand down to the wrist, but his nails were painted. Bez didn’t paint his nails. They were sharper, longer, and more curled than Bez’s, too.

I looked past the headless elf corpse still standing and spurting blood out and found a shirtless, powder blue-skinned man standing behind the body. A body that finally tumbled forward.

“Um…” I widened my eyes. “You’re not Bez.”

“Apologies. I simply found her behavior atrocious,” the powder blue-skinned guy said with a raspy voice and a wicked smirk. His teeth were sharklike and added to the smile thatquickly filled his face. “I’m Prince Corson, here to greet the devil of the Diabolic Oasis.”

“Huh? Greet with a beheading? You can’t just…” I fumbled with words as I took in this Diabolic’s features. And he was a Diabolic, too.

The hands coated in essence was an obvious indicator, so his very human aesthetic was probably a partial possession, hence the skin color, or he had a humany demon body similar to Bez. Like Bez, he also had a very muscular build.

He wore a thin leather strap across his chest on an angle that connected to an armor plating on his right shoulder. His left shoulder remained exposed, perhaps to reveal the many tattoos that covered his entire arm, along with his very large bicep, easily bigger in circumference than my entire head. Between his muscular physique, his bloody hand, and his menacing smile, I took a tense breath from all the intimidation his mere presence radiated.

The guy looked like he’d stepped out of a Roman warrior catalog, wearing only a black leather skirt, easily a modern version of the pteruges the soldiers wore to battle, and a pair of caligae which was sort of a mix between a sandal and boot, at least the black pair he wore.

He ran his bloody fingertips—well, clawed tips—through his ruffled shoulder-length hair, a dark blue with white and gold streaks. His nails matched the streaks in his hair, with every other nail being either white or gold.

“I find it quite surprising that you endured the elf’s dreadfully dull demeanor for as long as you did.” Corson waved his hand, casting telekinesis with his demon powers to toss the elf’s corpse into a corner of the store. “Bizarre even that you didn’t simply obliterate her upon the first offense she dared to utter at you.”

“Offense?” I found the tremble in my legs and attempted to appear as nonchalant about Corson’s arrival as his wicked demeanor did. “Wouldn’t have many customers if I killed them every time they annoyed me.”

“Yes, but the ones who did continue their customer services would be more respectful of their betters.” Corson shrugged, his expression aloof yet definitely curious by the way his eyes studied every subtle shift in my body. “Whatever. A docile devil should make what comes next easier.”

“Easier?” I swallowed hard. “What do you want? Who are you, exactly?”

“I’m here for you, Walter Alden, devil of human mage origin,” Corson said before he pressed a hand to his chest, feigning insult. But despite how his mouth twisted into this offended expression, his eyes still had a smile. “Do you not remember me?”

His bright sapphire blue irises shimmered with the whites of his eyes a sky-blue barely a few shades different from his complexion. It made his dark blue lashes pop and the vibrance of his irises all the more intense.

“I haven’t forgotten you since our last encounter where I tried to murder you.” He chuckled. “I sort of braced myself for your wrath, anticipating vengeful ire from you at mere presence, yet you have this lovely, fidgety, frightened expression—sort of reminiscent of the first time we met.”

“Met?” I thought back to every Diabolic I’d encountered, which mostly consisted of Bez and Mora here in the Diabolic Oasis. Even with other demons in the city, they avoided me, whether because I had devil essence or I had Bez or both.

The only time I’d really encountered other Diabolics was when I was trapped in Baron Novus’ villa, where the demon knight Eligos released demons to help him slaughter Bez, me, Mora, and Kell. There was the demon possessing the pink-skinned Fae, but she had red eyes like Bez. There was the creepy sunshine-yellow demon that blew himself up, but I’d never forget his creepy, hungry voice.

“You were the one possessing the birdlike Fae,” I answered, finally recalling this demon who attempted to kill me in the maze tunnels before Bez ripped out his heart and then devoured him with Mora. “You’re dead!”

“I was.” He tsked. “I fucking hate Oblivion.”

The empty void where all dead Diabolics went, eternally resting.

“How’d you get out?”

“My mommy brought me back,” he said with this mocking, pitchy voice.

“Your mother?” I trembled. Only one thing could pull a demon from the depths of Oblivion. “She’s a devil?”

“Sort of a big shot devil, too. Lilith, the mother of macabre and mayhem. Maybe you’ve heard of her.” His minxy expression shifted into a menacing smirk. “She’s certainly heard of you, Walter Alden. And she wants you.”

“Me?” My voice cracked.

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