The castle was burning.
The succubus Lucia coughed, shouldered her way beneath the fallen timbers of the dining room, and cursed her luck.
“Fucking Dralkian mercenaries,” she said, and then, “What kind of sick mind fills a pie with fucking gunpowder?”
Blood soaked the carpet. Lucia tried not to pay much mind to the broken bodies strewn across the room. They included her summoner, a wisp of a man whose upper half now lay beneath another burning timber. He wasn’t moving, and she could sense none of the burning lust within him that had filled his living days.
He was dead.
“The kind of mind trained to kill demons.” The voice slithered through the recently shattered dining room window. Lucia couldn’t see its owner.
Well, he had her there. Despite her predicament, she was impressed by the raw audacity of the plan. It was a feeling that dueled against her frustration at another demonic contract ended before it could be fulfilled. What, was this the third time in a row? Rotten luck.
She rushed towards the shattered window and grabbed a small poker from the ground, thrown there from the blast and still glowing a faint red. It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do at the moment.
Reaching out through her demonic senses, she felt the hot red anger thrumming through her attacker and she stoked his fear in response, desperate to drown the fire of his emotion with frozen, chattering cowardice. He was no mere mercenary, no. He was an Inquisitor. She doubted her demonic powers would be effective. But she would try.
The weight of the poker was satisfying in her hand. She stumbled as another timber collapsed beside her, trailing red hot sparks.
He was outside, training a musket upon her as she struggled to make it to the window.
“You can’t kill me, idiot!” she called out. At least she had enough run-up to jump dramatically through the window, glass shattering outwards as she landed on the green. The cool air of the night was a welcome relief.
She charged the inquisitor. He raised his musket, but she ducked under the bayonet and swatted his face with the steel rod. There was a satisfying thwack as it branded his face.
The man cursed and stumbled back. Lucia advanced. She wouldn’t have much time left in this world—not with her contract having failed so spectacularly—but she’d be able to vent her frustration.
The inquisitor regained his footing. “Demon bitch,” he managed. Honestly, the fact that he was resorting to name-calling made Lucia feel a little better. Then, he opened his mouth, an easy target for Lucia’s fist …
She felt it before she heard it: a syllable of power dripped from his mouth to bind her. Her legs locked up, and she fell onto the grass as her true name emerged from his lips. A spike of fear, an emotion she encountered so rarely these days, shot through her gut.
Pain lanced through her form as the inquisitor continued to utter her name and bind pain within her being.
She had been a fool. But how in the world had he discovered her true name—discovered what she had only revealed to … ?
By the dead god. She failed to stifle a groan of pain as the man continued to torture her. The milliner’s face rose before her mind’s eye, and if she could spit right now, she would. Idiot, foolish girl, that milliner. Lucia’s body seized up as the inquisitor continued his work.
Never trust a mortal. Truly, she should have never told a soul, mortal or profane. No matter how pretty that soul was.
And then, all at once, the pain ceased. Lucia blinked open her eyes, and saw a long splinter of smoldering wood impaling the man through his gut. Blood bubbled at his lips as he slumped to the ground.
She stood, picked up the bayonet and leaned on it, then finished the job by sticking it through his throat.
“Asshole,” she grumbled. She looked around at this royal mess. The castle was truly an inferno, now.
She would almost miss this place.
A whirl of motion, a flash of pain blooming across her forehead—stars, redness—and then …
Darkness. One all too familiar.
The Abyssal Dream yawned all around her. All sensation drained from her as her demonic spirit was wrested from the body that had been conjured for it.
Silence reigned. All was still, except for the demon’s whirling mind, which settled upon one singular emotion:
Fuck.
***
If she had a body right then, she would have let out a long, frustrated sigh through her nose. As it was, her soul floated in nothingness, a warm soup of darkness that was the demon’s waystop between mortality and death.
She’d actually been killed, or her mortal body had. That inquisitor, damned by the dead god, had taken her out. He’d won.
He’d won, and what made it worse, it was right when her demonic contract was about to be completed. Which meant no payout for her, no rush of power enlarging her spirit, nothing. All that work, and she was no more powerful than before.
That’s … what? The third failed contract in a row? I’m getting bad at this.
She simmered in anger for an age. Time did not really have any meaning here. Minutes might have passed since her body was killed … or decades. But she could not hold onto her anger forever, no matter how hard she wished to. It dissipated into the void that surrounded her after a while, after several heartbeats that might have been centuries.
It wasn’t fair, but there you go. The life of a demon was far from fair. She’d do better next time.
Time, in its turn … passed.
***
Time … passed …
And then it didn’t.
Lucia felt a summoning, a small tug upon her soul.
Another was summoning her. They did not bind her by her true name—thank the dead god—so she had the ability to answer the summons willingly as she chose. Her mind quested down the line of the summoning, sensing the person who was calling out for her.
Each summoner was different, and this one … ooh.
Lucia couldn’t say why, but this person smelled intriguing. It wasn’t a literal smell, but she had no other way to describe it. It was sharp, a blade of focused emotion. It was the dead god’s fury itself.
Whatever contract they offered would be brimming with power. Enough power to make up for three failed contracts, certainly.
She quickly made her decision; not that quickness had any meaning here, admittedly. And, as she did, she made a promise to herself. By the fucking dead god, this will not be like the last time. Or the time before that, or the time before that …
She sped along the connection, ready to re-enter the human world, the terrible, wonderful realm which mortals named Melodia. That’s where all the fun was to be had, after all.
The raw matter of her body phased into existence, and she began to shape it to her liking. She wondered again at the summoner’s ritual: it seemed oddly detached from this process, letting her take the reins. Almost deliberately so, which was unusual—especially for a succubus. She sculpted her body quickly, wondering once again how to fit all the little organs in, the stomach, intestines, kidneys, and … that other thing, the small organ tucked beneath the liver, whatever it was called. Anyways, those she crammed together viselike, forming the drying hip bones as a basket around her sloppy work. It would have to do, since even—
Appendix. It was called an appendix.
She half wanted to leave the damn thing out entirely. It would certainly make fitting everything else in down there more convenient. And did she really need it?
Then, with a snap, her immortal spirit lashed itself fully to her nascent body. Like a bucket of cold water, her creation splashed over her, then solidified quickly into a truly mortal form. And this time, a thick black dress materialized around it.
Lucia’s summoners remembered to clothe her … oh, maybe half the time. If she was being generous.
She alighted on the stone floor and looked around. Now this was a proper dungeon. Torches guttered along the walls, and she could feel the place’s moist dampness settle against her skin beneath the thick dress. She was grateful for the garment; it warded off the underground cold. A dripping noise echoed through the space, completing the pitch-perfect ambiance.
Outside, the sound of rain fell like a blanket, with the din of a busy city street nestled beneath it.
Not a lot of people managed even half of this. Lucia was suitably impressed. The only thing missing would have been the squeak of rats, though the succubus couldn’t honestly say she minded.
“Truly excellent,” she said, the words slipping out before she realized she had a voice again.
The summoner snorted. The intriguing smell of fury Lucia had sensed originated in a tall, broad-shouldered woman, eyes flat and steel gray. Her dark hair was cut short in a military style, and indeed, her dress was probably some kind of understated military uniform. Brass buttons marched down her chest in two regiments on black cloth, above pants of the same material. She wore brown, sensible boots, and held a truly ancient grimoire open in her left hand. The woman’s eyes moved over Lucia’s form, calculating, assessing. Her left hand rested on a short cane that came to her hip.
Lucia side-eyed the grimoire. Some things never change.
Finally, the woman spoke. “Have you a name, demon?” Her voice was soft, though unyielding.
“Have you?” Lucia’s voice tasted the air again and found it sweet.
“Yes,” the woman said, and she walked around the inscribed summoning circle, her eyes never leaving Lucia’s.
The succubus waited for her to elaborate, but then quickly got bored of the staring contest. “What year is it? I’m sorry, you never can tell how long it’s been between summonings. A thousand aeons and you’d think the Abyssal Dream might get a proper calendar,” she raised her hands in exasperation, “but no.”
The woman’s eyes raised, intrigued and bemused. “It’s eleven thirty-seven, in the year of the Calamity, if that means anything to you.”
Lucia shrugged. Almost a century had passed, it seemed. Cool.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” said the succubus, gesturing to the torches, the stonework. “Really makes a demon feel appreciated, you know?”
She could feel the woman’s brow furrow, her step pause. “Thank you,” she said. “Or rather, thank this suite’s previous owner. This was all him.”
“He has good taste. Or had? Whatever. Tell me, what is your darkest desire, mortal?” She wagged her eyebrows.
Another pause, another furrowing of the woman’s brow. “Really?”
“I’m a strong believer in tradition.”
“I see.”
This woman seemed fun to tease. Excellent. “If you are not pleased with this form—”
“It will be acceptable, thank you.”
“Acceptable.” Lucia stretched her arms and presented her cleavage suggestively as she yawned. She had seen this mortal’s heart. She knew what would set her heart racing. “Just … acceptable?”
The woman shrugged. Shrugged! And then had the temerity to add, “Yes, quite acceptable. Are you ready to deal, and should I simply call you demon?”
Lucia groaned, then sat herself down on the floor of stone. “Lucia, to you,” she said.
“Excellent. And you may refer to me as Duke Talia, Privateer Captain of the Glorious Navy of the Commonwealth. Though . . .” she trailed off. “Perhaps Talia will do.” The woman—Talia—was beginning to smile, and it produced the most uncomfortable feeling Lucia had experienced in some time. “Do you want a chair?”
Lucia opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, and she heard herself say, “That would be good,” as if offering the demon you just summoned to your unholy service a bleeding chair were the most normal thing in the world, but there she was. Talia dragged a reasonably upholstered seat across the summoning circle, and placed its twin opposite. Talia sat down in the latter, pulled out a sheaf of folded parchment from her jacket, and started reading out.
“I, Duke Talia, do solemnly put under oath you, Lucia of the Abyssal Dream, to serve me in my sacred aims, wholly and completely, and with no harm to come to my body nor spirit in the course of—”
“Oh wow,” said Lucia. “Pre-written contract and everything.” Usually, Lucia found, her summoners were surprised they even managed to nab a bona-fide demon; this woman came prepared.
“Your demonic wiles are no match for me,” Talia said flatly, in a tone like she was discussing the relative prices of tea at market. “Though if you would prefer to read through your contractual obligations yourself …?”
Lucia snatched the parchment from Talia’s hand, skimming through it. “Ugh,” she said. “I’m no good with this language.”
“I thought demons knew every mortal tongue?”
“That doesn’t cover legal speak,” Lucia said. “Or, you know, all that posh stuff. Upper class register I always have trouble with, particularly Pallian. It’s not even a proper Paradisan tongue!”
“Hm.”
Lucia turned back to the contract, mouth moving as she attempted to translate the legal language into something actually understandable. Boring, boring, neat turn of phrase there, boring, boring, wait, go back.
She narrowed her eyes. What—
“Wife? You want me to be your wife?”
“Outwardly, yes. You would pose as a mortal woman and pass as my Duchess.”
“Okay, wow,” and Lucia blinked, then shook her head slightly to clear it. It did not work. “Let’s, uh, circle back to that,” and she continued to skim. She flipped through four more pages that seemed to cover every eventuality (“ … and in no way, form, or manner should you knowingly render financial assistance to my enemies …”).
Lucia looked up into her summoner’s eyes. “All right. These seem fine, but still … wife?”
“It is essential that you are not perceived as a demon. A cambion, perhaps, but this is an unlicensed summoning, for one thing.” Talia leaned back in her chair, adjusting her gloves, her eyes steady on the demon’s.
“It’s hotter when it’s illegal,” Lucia quipped, though she did still pause. Unlicensed did move the needle a bit. Inquisitors were not known to be merciful when it came to unlicensed demon summonings—most were nervous around perfectly legal ones, to be honest, and she didn’t expect that to have changed all that much since last she walked the earth.
“All right,” Lucia said. “How long will I need to keep this charade up?”
Talia pursed her lips. “A few weeks at least; perhaps a few months. Certainly long enough to avoid suspicion over your untimely death, which should otherwise be easy to engineer. Your body suffers mortal wounds the same as any human, I take it?”
“Yeah,” Lucia nodded. A few months wasn’t a bad deal. What she wasn’t seeing, however, was the source of the fury that simmered within Talia’s frame even now. She wanted to get at that. And just posing as this woman’s wife didn’t seem to involve that emotion, the raw fire that could form the foundation of a much more lucrative contract.
But, Lucia would take what she could get. For now.
“Deal,” Lucia said, and Talia nodded sharply. She handed over a fountain pen and indicated where Lucia should sign.
Lucia did so with a flourish. Talia took back the contract, added her own signature besides Lucia’s, and the pact was sealed. A heavy, comfortable weight settled around Lucia, binding her body to this world for the duration of the contract. Without it, her soul would be inexorably drawn back to the Abyssal Dream, no matter how much she longed to stay.
“Excellent,” Talia said. “Now, if you would follow me, you are to fulfill your first marital duties.”
“Ha!” Lucia said. “So you do think I’m hot!”