Just the thought of her almost withered my excitement, knowing that, any day now, she was going to command me to fulfill my destiny. Her words, not mine. But there was time to worry about all that later. She’d held off on the whole conqueror-overlord thing for years. Surely I had time. Always, more time.
I sighed in pleasure, breathing in the faint aroma of cinnamon and sage – the air scented just the way I liked it – as my heels clicked over the meticulously polished marble floor of the entryway. Jet black with flecks and veins of gold, just like I asked from the decorator. I know that black and gold can seem a little gauche, but Mother did say that I could decorate to my liking. A few palm fronds and some warm lighting helped keep things light, and crimson drapes and carpeting gave the main apartments a splash of color.
Someone might describe my home as palatial, but it wasn’t anything even close. Only Mother and the rest of the Seven could rightly say that they dwelt in palaces. In my mother’s case, that was the Palace of Veils. Every demon wants a good piece of infernal real estate, but when you’re the son of a demon prince, things are different. And by different, I mean better. But even then, sticking your neck too far above your station was a fine way to attract the wrong kind of attention from the other demon princes, especially if you lived in one of the prime hells.
I checked around the foyer. When I was sure I was alone, I squeezed the Testament of Spheres to my chest, very much like I’d imagine a child hugging a favorite stuffed animal. And sure, maybe from somewhere inside of me, I made a small, delighted squeal. Trust me, I was restraining myself from simply sweeping up the Testament in my arms and dancing with it through the foyer like it was a small, leathery lover, taking it through a waltz of welcome to its new, better home. You don’t understand how much I love books. Specific books, that is.
But restrain myself I did, keeping on the lookout for anyone in the household who would think to mock me for my unusual love of ancient texts and grimoires. I was master of the house, sure, but being rude to me was pretty common, and I couldn’t very well go around incinerating every last servant who had a smart mouth. Not after the first time. Making a habit of it wouldn’t leave me with very much company.
I cleared my throat, tucked the Testament under one arm, then proceeded through the main hallway as calmly as I could.
The attack came so swiftly. Before I knew what was happening, two sinewy arms were locked around my chest, my assailant restraining me from behind. One of those arms ended in a hand that gripped a beautifully forged dagger, its blade reflecting the firelight of my home, its edge far too close to my throat.
“Don’t move a muscle, pretty boy,” the man behind me said.
I narrowed my eyes, but kept my body perfectly still. “Everyone’s being so complimentary today. I’m so glad I did my hair this morning.”
“Sass me again and I’ll slit your throat.”
“Try me and see what happens,” I said.
“I’ve got an even better idea. How about I hack off a chunk of your hair?”
My body stiffened, and I gasped. Now that, that was a threat I took seriously. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“A little off the top,” he said, his breath warm against my ear. “Okay, a lot off the top.”
I burrowed my elbow deep into my assailant’s stomach, unafraid of his knife because I knew he wouldn’t dare to actually hurt me. That thing about the hair, though? He grunted, his knife hand dropping. I whirled in a circle, slamming my palm dead center of his chest as his dagger zinged through the air and stopped just short of the apple of my throat.
“Checkmate,” I said.
“Not exactly.” He narrowed his eyes at me, panting. “In a real combat situation, you would be dead.”
“Then we’re both very lucky that we’re such good friends.”
We stood as still as statues for a few tense moments, my hand growing warmer against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding. Truthfully, I could feel mine, too. One flame spell, or one inch farther with the dagger, and this would all be over.
It was a good thing I composed myself earlier, then, because Pierce was probably the most merciless of the household when it came to both battle and matters of the mouth. I didn’t want him seeing me all giddy over the Testament. It was tough to classify him, too. You couldn’t call him one of my servants, exactly, though his loyalty was beyond measure. Technically, he was my vassal, but I never really saw him as one. I suppose that in the human world, he was someone who could be safely referred to as a friend.
And he wasn’t exaggerating about the whole combat thing, either. Pierce didn’t just live with us because Mother discovered that we tolerated each other well enough. Nobody ever used the word around him, but all had a silent understanding that he was the closest thing I had to a bodyguard. A kitchen knife, a finely crafted dagger, even a ballpoint pen were all murder weapons in Pierce’s hands.
Pierce shoved me, then backed off, settling into a stance
