Most Higher Demons could teleport—though they called it Lacing because they had to weave the planes of the world together to do it. The Cyclian runes burnt into my one of a kind antique rug told me one thing—the incubus was a lower level Demon.
He dropped me a smile that could melt even the tightest of whities and handed me a parchment envelope.
“Apologies.” The incubus purred.
I waved away his cloud of lust magic and I opened the envelope. It was an invitation, a request for a meeting with the London Council of Cyclian affairs—Cyclian being the fancy name for anything that originated from Hell.
“RSVP?” The incubus licked his bottom lip.
“Of course.” I wanted to go to the meeting as much as I wanted a full body wax. But life was full of sacrifices.
The incubus smiled a bright and blinding smile, empty but beautiful, like most Lust-Demons. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and produced a pouch.
The perfume of decaying flowers filled the room.
“Don't you dare—” I unfroze, reaching forward to grab the transportation pouch before the Demon could inflict further damage to my carpets.
I was too late.
Smoke filled my nostrils; I was left coughing and alone in my office.
“¡Mierda!” I hissed.
The heat from the Demon's spell had melted the ice in my coffee.
My Friday nights were typically filled with online shopping, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and possibly a true-crime documentary if I was feeling adventurous.
Years ago, when I had been a lowly assistant instead of a Broker, I was on the London Demon scene. Going home with whatever man caught my eye. Incubus. Kitsune. I’d even been blown by a Shax Demon—the only pureblooded Demon lower than a Hell Hound on the totem pole of power.
London was full of hidden places. Dahlia, often called them 'Folds' which I hated with a passion. Folds sounded too much like something in a heterosexual romance novel, especially when talking about pockets in reality.
Several of the pockets between dimensions held nightclubs, bars, libraries. Places that could only be accessed if you had a connection to Hell and knowledge of their existence.
The Rose brothers owned several businesses, tucked away in the space between worlds. I had stopped frequenting their clubs after Vincent and I had broken up.
I stared into my full-length mirror, adjusting my black silk tie for the seventh time. The view from my penthouse apartment had turned dark, dotted with the Victorian street lamps below.
I had no idea why the Council of Cyclian affairs would want to speak to me. For a Demon, (Hell Hounds fell into this category loosely), I was quite dull.
I’d never killed anyone. I paid my taxes. Occasionally I gave my Starbucks barista the name of a Disney prince instead of my own name—that was as adventurous as I got.
I had long since spurned Hell Politics and higher purposes.
I had my reasons.
I passed Jamal on the way out of the building. He was the child of one of my neighbours, and I was sure he was stealing my newspapers before I had a chance to collect them from my mailbox.
Every morning, the Sudoku puzzles at the back of my collection of newspapers were filled in (correctly). Mrs Jameson had mentioned that her youngest son, Jamal, liked to do Sudoku. Logic dictated that he was the culprit.
My driver, Simon, held open the door of the town car. A black umbrella rested on his shoulder. The elderly man offered it to me, but I declined and ducked inside the vehicle.
Simon’s warm eyes wrinkled at the edges as he adjusted his mirrors. “Going anywhere nice, Mr Luiz?” He asked fondly as he started the engine.
“Business meeting,”
“Not looking forward to it?” He guessed.
“What gave me away?” My lips pulled into a smile.
“I would ask what kind of person holds a meeting at this time of night, but I don’t want to know.” Simon laughed as he pulled into traffic. “I've got the address. You just sit back and relax.”
“Easier said than done,” I spoke under my breath, but I had a feeling that Simon heard me.
“You spend too much time working, Mr Luiz.” The driver informed me.
“Maybe you're right.” I glanced out the window, as the rain trailed down the car window like tears. “I need a vacation.”
The drive was spent in silence after that, as Simon weaved through the dizzy traffic off of Aubrey Walk.
Central London was rammed with traffic. Tourists and taxi-cabs. We drove for a short while until we came to Clerkenwell. I recognised the understated sign of my favourite eatery, Le Chat et La Boîte, a French boutique style restaurant in possession of three Michelin stars and my favourite Renaissance painting behind a red velvet rope.
Le Chat disappeared in the distance as Simon took us down a one-way street, past brick walls of Instagram-worthy graffiti. A siren wailed in the distance.
We pulled up to a blocky building that had no doubt once been a factory.
An iron lattice arch sprawled over the entrance, and the red brickwork hinted to creation during the industrial revolution.
The windows had been replaced with high arching double glazed panes—and many were furnished with curtains, implying that the building had been repurposed into flats.
I liked my penthouse in Knightsbridge, but it wasn’t truly mine. If I had the choice, I would have gone industrial. Exposed bricks and iron pipes.
I had stepped into my old bosses life like a pair of ill-fitting shoes.
My home was furnished to her tastes. Old world and white painted woodwork. When I went to the office, I sat at Dahlia Clark's desk and filled her paperwork. I even used her personal dresser.
I had thirteen fully formed personalities floating around inside my head—and although many were dormant, I had to ask myself.
Whose life was I living?
Mine, or Dahlia's?
Simon held open the door of the sleek black town car; I thanked him with a sharp nod.
“Do you want me to circle the block?” Simon asked.
I smiled wryly and eyed the looming building. “Head off for the night, tío.”
“Of course, Mr Ramirez.” If Simon noticed my tense stance, he said nothing. Instead, he got in the car and drove away.
The address on the invitation has mentioned the building but had not mentioned a specific flat number.
That meant only one thing. A doorway between worlds.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the pavement and opened the outside door to the block of flats. A small room sat like an airlock, between the front door and the outside world. Filled with buzzers to every domicile in the building. The inner door was locked, but I did not need to go inside. I had never visited that particular pocket before, but one was often like the other.
Hell Magic swirled in the air like fragmented memories and spilt liquor. The world parted around me as I stepped onto just the right spot. My connection to Sin pulled me through to the hidden pocket between realities like a warm bath.
Full arch windows looked out onto the greyscale of Limbo, with undulating swarms of winged souls dancing in the air. Electronic dance music coupled with some kind of Fae ballad thumped through the air. It was loud enough to almost feel the beat in my veins.
I stepped forward, all sound swallowed by the music and the crowd of Hellspawn, as my loafers eased onto the bare concrete floor.