In his other hand, he willed a blade used to sever Heaven’s power link from an angel’s wings without completely removing them.
“When we’re done, you shall, forevermore, be known as Azagoth, Reaper of Souls.”
Chapter 1
It was a room few knew about, and even fewer had seen. Not even his mate had known about it until a couple of days ago.
In his quest to ensure that his mate never left him again, Azagoth had come clean about a lot of shit since Lilliana had returned to him two weeks ago, tanned, pregnant, and bonded to a hellhound. But the confession about the existence of this chamber had been a two-parter.
He’d also had to tell her what he planned to do in here.
Inhaling stale air layered with the stench of fear, pain, and sulfur, he trailed his finger over shelves laden with dusty potion bottles and clay pots filled with ingredients any sorcerer would kill their offspring to have in their possession.
But they’d do far worse than that for just five minutes with the object that made this chamber so…special.
It wasn’t the pulsing, transparent cage in the corner, constructed from the veins of a shadow wraith. It wasn’t the brimstone altar in the center of the room. It wasn’t the glowing Symbol of Azagoth forming a giant scythe above the door.
It was the engine that fueled his realm, the furnace of eternal hellfire that formed the entire east wall.
Power radiated from the violet flames, evil power that beckoned Azagoth closer. Already, he felt its malevolence penetrate him, filling a well that had nearly run dry.
Loving Lilliana had opened his heart and allowed the evil inside to leak out.
Now, he had to let it back in.
But only for a little while.
He’d promised.
But the flames called to him, whispering like a lover whose orgasm would burn every ounce of good inside him to ash.
And that was the thing about evil…it felt amazing. It was incredibly freeing when you didn’t give a shit about anyone except yourself. And in a world designed for pain, the more you liked doling it out, the happier you were.
Azagoth had been very, very happy for a very, very long time.
And then Lilliana had come along, exposing his emotions and making his heart beat, and for the first time in eons, he’d been the one to feel pain. He hadn’t liked it very much, and he’d turned into a “ginormous asshat,” as she’d called him more than once.
It had taken her saying goodbye for him to realize that he needed to let her in more, not less.
So, he’d told her about the room he’d flagrantly named the Genesis Chamber and the power it gave him. And he’d promised he wouldn’t touch the flames no matter how much they enticed him. The charge he’d get from being this close would be enough to fuel what he was about to do.
As if it heard Azagoth’s thoughts, a griminion, a three-foot-tall male wrapped in a black cloak, spilled out of the spiral staircase behind him and skittered over to the altar in the center of the room. The place where he’d been born.
Grateful for the distraction from the lure of the eternal hellfire, Azagoth patted the altar top. “Hop up here, Asrael. I don’t think this is going to hurt. At least, not as much as your creation did.”
Asrael, given Azagoth’s angelic name, had been the first griminion and the mold from which all others were cast. Whatever was done to him was done to all griminions.
Which was why Asrael never left the safety of Sheoul-gra.
Heavy footfalls echoed into the room from the staircase, and a moment later, Hades ducked through the doorway, his blue Mohawk brushing the top of the frame and bringing down a cloud of dust.
“Why the fuck did you summon me during my weekly prison inspection?” He frowned at Asrael as he brushed dust off his bare shoulders. The guy had never liked shirts, which his mate, Cataclysm, bemoaned because she couldn’t buy him some sort of traditional human garment called an ugly Christmas sweater. At least Hades was cool with pants, even if they were form-fitting, nausea-inducing, color-shifting things. “And what are you doing to him?”
Azagoth drew a glass vial and a plastic container from the bag he’d brought. “I’m upgrading my griminions.”
Hades’ gaze drifted to the eternal hellfire, longing flickering in the ice-blue depths of his eyes. Unlike Azagoth, he’d never touched the flames, but he still felt the infusion of evil and power it delivered. Sweat beaded on his brow and chest as he fought the pull, and in a jerky, uncoordinated motion, he swung back around to Azagoth.
“Upgrading?” he asked, his voice gruff with the effort it took to resist the hellfire. “To do what? How much more efficient can they be at collecting evil souls? They sense death within seconds.”
Griminions didn’t collect only evil souls. Sometimes, they brought iffy human souls as well, and it was up to Azagoth to sort them out. Keep ‘em or send them for Heavenly processing, most likely into what some called Limbo, and others Purgatory, where they’d linger until Judgment Day.
But Hades’ question was valid. In thousands of years, Azagoth hadn’t made any changes to the little demon helpers he’d created. He hadn’t needed to. With the notable exception of Satan, no one had ever threatened him or his family.
Things had changed.
“Imagine how much more efficient they’d be at gathering souls if they didn’t have to wait for death?” Azagoth measured one precious drop of the liquid from the vial into a bowl made from a human skull. “If they had the capability to kill.”
“They already have that.”
“Only if I gift it to them individually.” Even then, the ability to cause a heart attack or an aneurysm was only temporary. “I’m going to gift all of them. Permanently.”
“Interesting.” Hades watched as Azagoth used a pole to push the bowl just to the edge of the eternal fire. “But won’t Heaven flip the fuckity-fuck out?”
“Yes.” What Azagoth was about to do wasn’t just forbidden; it was epically forbidden as his son Journey would say. He’d been on an epic kick lately, edging out mucho as his favorite—and much overused—word. “Which is why I’m not telling them.”
“So…why are you doing it?” Hades wiped his brow as sweat began to drip. “I mean, I’ve always thought griminions should have had the power to kill from the beginning. But why now?”
Normally, Azagoth would be annoyed at being questioned, but Hades had been with Azagoth for thousands of years, and whatever plans fate had for him, Hades was tied to them, as well.
Flames licked at the bowl, and the liquid inside, venom from Satan’s fangs, began to steam. Azagoth drew the bowl back and carefully placed it on the altar next to Asrael.
“You said it yourself yesterday. Shit’s getting weird. Bael’s death will have consequences, and I don’t trust Heaven.”
He’d stopped trusting angels long ago, and now that he was no longer responsible for making Memitim, his usefulness might be waning in their view. He needed to be proactive to protect himself, his realm, and his family.
“You didn’t kill Bael,” Hades pointed out. “Cipher did. Moloc will want revenge on him, not you.”
And wasn’t that a sore subject? Azagoth had wanted that kill. He’d wanted to claim the death—and the soul—of the fallen angel who had murdered several of Azagoth’s sons and daughters. Instead, Cipher had killed him, and Bael’s soul had merged with that of his twin brother, Moloc.