Page 88 of Wicked Believer
Number One Leader of Team God. That’s me.
I frown a little at the thought.
Ihaveto believe He doesn’t want this, that He’s still out there, that this was always His plan for me, because if it isn’t ...
Azmodeus simply smirks, drawing me back into the moment. “Of course not.” Though I have a feeling he’s patronizing me. “I’m no monster, you know.”
“That’s debatable, I think.”
His grin widens, my insult not even fazing him, as he holds out his arm to escort me. “If you want a true monster, you might take a good long look at who you fuck each night, Charlotte.”
I frown, my hand flitting to the new diamond collar at my neck. It feels incrementally tighter. “Trust me. I’m aware.”
He quirks his head at me. “Are you?”
I take his arm, opening my mouth to answer, but then a sharp tug pulls at my navel, like I’m being sucked forward into a gaping black hole, and whatever response was poised on my lips dies instantly.
Chapter Thirty
Lucifer
Time works differently in Hell. Moves at a slower, more torturous pace.
But even the slow crawl of the circular span of time stretched so thin it nears breaking—making the passage of mere minutes feel like hours—doesn’t provide enough space to satiate my rage. When one of my demons brings the latest headline to me where I’m now draped across my obsidian throne, it’s only early evening topside, though it feels as if a whole age has passed since Michael appeared in mine and Charlotte’s bedroom last night.
I snatch the human paper extended from Kalimor’s trembling hand. I have little patience left, if any.
I glance down at the bold typeface.
Violence Strikes in Regina! Residents Brawl in Mass-Festival Feud.
I curse under my breath. “I fucking hate Canada.”
Astaroth’s successor, the new demonic leader of the quaint rebellion my legions are waging, is lucky that I need him. Temporarily, at least.
“The hounds are corralling him toward the subway, my lord. York Street station. He described it as more neutral territory.” Kalimor grimaces.
“Small favors, it seems.” I sneer, my sour mood reflected in my dour expression.
When I finally stuff down my irritation enough to snap myself topside, I’m standing in the middle of an empty subway station in Brooklyn, near Dumbo, wherever the bloody fuck that is. Manhattan is the only part of the city that interests me.
Beside me, an open subway car waits. Though no passengers have boarded.
Yet.
The car is paused on the track like it’s no longer running. The frozen sign overhead labeled F Train readsOne Minutealong with several large red- and green-lettered exclamations ofYork to Jay Street—Metrotechand the estimated wait times.
As if that would ever inspire me to hurry.
Behind me, I hear a sudden scuffling sound, and I turn to find one of the city’s massive rats scuttering about the place, its bulging hide protruding from behind a nearby trash bin as it searches the otherwise abandoned station for more food.
It hisses at me, unaware of who, or more precisely what, it’s threatening.
I roll my eyes, flashing my true features as a sound like a lion’s roar tears from my throat.
The creature squeaks in terror before it turns tail and scurries away.
The empty platform is littered with rubbish, spilled food wrappers that were feverishly abandoned during the evening commuters’ hurry, billowing past several of the subway’s more permanent residents. Two of them lie supine in their own mess across the floor.
