Page 29 of Unholy Bond
I flicked my blood across the map, highlighting the next three targets. “Focus here,” I told the circle of agents. “Plant deeper. If you’re caught, let them see the mark. They’ll think it’s just a new form of punishment.”
My children nodded in perfect unison, then dispersed, melting back into the cracks of the palace. I watched them go, the pride in my work tempered only by the endless thrum of ambition.
When the chamber was empty again, I sat back down, legs knotted, hands on thighs. I let the new memories flash behind my eyes, each one a tiny victory.
The world outside trembled. The black veins on my skin pulsed in rhythm with the palace’s heartbeat.
The foundations were weakening. I just needed to give the right nudge.
Then it would all come down.
Chapter 15: Levi
The trick was not to stand out, but to make it so nobody remembered you were ever there. In Hell, it was a little more involved. A matter of scent, posture, gait, and how many tails you had at the end of your shift. That last one was a new variable since I’d returned to demon form, but I was adapting.
I stalked the corridors of the eastern bureaucracy, Hell’s administrative wing, where the air vibrated with the smell of ozone and the rattle of typewriter keys. Here, the rank and file were not the bellowing tormentors from the outer rings, but the paper-pushers and middle-managers. The clerks and administrators that kept the whole machine bleeding along. They looked harmless, and that was how you knew they were the most dangerous creatures in Hell.
The Void wrapped around me like an extra skin, a shimmer at the edge of perception. It was a better disguise than any glamour, making glances slide right past me.
My first target was a level-two infernal courier, the kind with three arms and a patchy memory. I found him in the copy room, trying to fuck a stapler. He jumped when he saw me, one hand on his crotch, the other desperately trying to hide a stack of forms behind his back.
I didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You got a minute?” I crowded him into the corner. The room was tight, just enough space for the machine, the demon, and a little violence.
He stammered, “I’m, uh, on break, you gotta go through—”
I grabbed him by the face, my claws digging into his rubbery skin, and slammed him into the side of the copier. The machine whirred and spat out a single sheet, now decorated with a perfect imprint of his cheek. The rest of his body went limp, piss pooling under his feet.
I leaned in, letting him see the teeth. “Do you know who I am?”
He nodded. “You’re—you’re Beelzebub—”
“Not anymore,” I said. “Nowadays I go by Levi.” I squeezed a little, the cartilage popping under my grip. “Now tell me what you know about the dissidents.”
He squealed, which in demon form was less a sound and more a vibration. “No, I can’t. I don’t—”
I reached down, wrapped my hand around the base of his tail, and yanked. The stub ripped free with a wet, tearing sound, and the courier shrieked, eyes rolling back. Black ichor spattered my shoes. “Try again.”
He sobbed. “There’s a group. They meet in the archive at midnight.” He stopped to gasp, then continued, “They hate the king. Please!”
I dropped him, wiping my hand on his jacket. He slumped to the floor, shaking, but he’d never forget this moment. I made sure to lock eyes as I left, so he’d know that if he ever betrayed me, I’d come back for the rest of him.
The walk to the archives took me past a dozen more demons, each one more desperate to look busy than the last. I could have killed them all, but that would have drawn attention. Besides, there were better ways to get what I wanted. The old Oceanus in me, the one who’d survived countless palace coups and at least three apocalypses, knew that I’d got more with a whisper and a threat than with a massacre. The only exception was when the threat required demonstration, which I was always happy to provide.
The archives themselves were a hellscape of paper cuts and existential dread. The ceiling was a hundred feet high, lined with pipes that dripped water, blood, or worse. The walls were shelves stacked with ancient ledgers, each one bound in the skin of a different bureaucracy’s previous administrator. It was almost comforting.
I found the secret room behind a bookcase labeled “Audit Reports: 7th Epoch.” I could smell the sweat and fear from inside, the nervous shuffle of feet, the scent of forbidden ambition. I slid the shelf aside and ducked through.
They looked at me in shock, a dozen or so demons of all shapes and sizes. Some had too many eyes, some not enough. A few had limbs so spindly they looked like they’d snap if you breathed on them, but the posture was unmistakable. These were survivors. The lead clerk sat at the head of the table, a gaunt thing with a face like a starved vulture and fingers permanently stained with ink.
He started to stand, but I gestured him down. “Don’t bother. This isn’t a formal call.”
The others shuffled, trying to read my mood. I gave them nothing. I wanted them off-balance.
“Word is, you’re tired of being the king’s personal cumrags,” I said. “You want out.”
The vulture clerk gave a slow, cautious nod. “We want stability. The current regime is—”
“Insane,” I finished. “You want a new management structure. One where you get promoted for actual competence, not just sucking up.”
