He lived in my dimension like a king, eating only the best food and freshest water that a life-saving cat could ever hope for. I wasn’t sure if he had a fondness for mice, but if he did, then Mr. Wrinkles would have been the only cat I knew of in existence that could cook his own food. Firing lasers from his eyes was a total fluke, of course. Mr. Wrinkles never did it again, though his explosive display erased any reservations I held about taking him directly home with me.
I took my spot at my favorite working desk, retrieving the journal Mr. Wrinkles was looking at and perusing my notes. It was a laundry list of how I intended to tackle the contents of the Testament. My pen guided my eyes down the page as I read. Why don’t I use a quill like my namesake, you ask? Shut up. That’s why.
“Short-range teleportation,” I muttered. “First order of business. Then medium – say ten city blocks – and long, before I even think about interdimensional travel.”
Mr. Wrinkles jumped into my lap just then. My pen clattered onto the desk as I dropped it in surprise. I chuckled despite myself when Wrinkles rolled onto his back, exposing his belly.
“Oh, fine,” I said. “Papa can spare a few minutes for belly scratches.” Mr. Wrinkles blinked at me – cat language for “I trust you implicitly and will allow you to live another day” – and commenced his jet engine purring as I obediently scratched furrows into his little stomach.
They say that animals and pets are great for relieving stress and tension, and I have to agree with the research. What does a spoiled, brattish heir of one of the Seven prime princes have to be stressed about, you ask? Why, you’ve just answered your own question. Being one of Asmodeus’s hellspawn came with its own, shall we say, specific difficulties.
“Master Quilliam?” said a voice from the doorway.
I should have shut it as soon as Mr. Wrinkles came. I sighed, turning to peer through the crack and finding the face of one of the servants. “What is it? I’m kind of busy.” It was true. Giving Mr. Wrinkles belly scritches was practically a part-time job.
The servant audibly gulped. “It’s your mother. Prince Asmodeus would like to see you at once.”
7
My feet dragged as I traversed the corridor leading from the Repository to the receiving room, though I fought to keep my pace brisk. Mother didn’t like to be kept waiting, and though the Prince of Lust was rightly known for her specialization in the matters of fleshly pleasure, she was equally experienced in the art of inflicting pain. Two sides of the same coin, truly, and Mother wasn’t shy about reminding both her children and her servants about the darker side of her portfolio.
As for why she was a prince was all up to the hierarchy of demons and the very nature of the ruling class themselves. The prime hells had always been ruled by princes, demons powerful enough to shift their forms into any shape they desired. Gender meant nothing to infernals, though some among them, like Mother, had developed particular preferences for the bodies they liked to occupy on a regular basis.
Weaker demons needed to requisition skin suits from their superiors to wear on earth. These disguises, or husks, as they were called, hid their horns and tails and whatever else happened to be in vogue among the infernals at any given time. Being only half demon meant that I had no need to hide myself in a mortal husk before visiting earth, which suited me just fine. I was more than happy with the face and body my unholy mother had blessed me with. Say what you want about Asmodeus, but the Prince of Lust gave her offspring great genes.
I threw open the doors to the receiving room, Mr. Wrinkles trotting after me and weaving between my legs even as I strode up to the central platform. Five braziers that never went out were arranged around it in an unlined pentagram, issuing sweet smoke that smelled of ancient extinct flowers and herbs, of forbidden pleasures. I clasped my hands dutifully before me, a sign of respect to my mother, and Mr. Wrinkles waited on the floor by my feet, looking up at the walls of the receiving room. I waved my hand, and the doors clanged shut behind me.
Each of the walls was made of brass burnished to such a high sheen that they were as reflective as mirrors. The receiving room itself was shaped like a pentagon. Mother had a similar room in her Palace of Veils, one built with seven sides and installed with seven ornate thrones facing the center, perfect for receiving the apparitions of her counterparts. Fortunately, I had no reason to furnish accommodations for receiving the Seven themselves. I had to deal with one prince in my life, and that was more than enough.
The wall directly ahead of me gleamed, and a physical representation of the prince in question appeared in the burnished brass.
“Mother,” I said, nodding once.
“My son,” she said, her voice echoing around the receiving room. “My beloved boy. You look well.”
A formality, I thought. Nothing more. “As do you, Prince Asmodeus.”
She was clothed in her favorite skin, at least the one I’d seen her wear most often growing up: black hair cut into severe bangs, blood-red lips, and eyes as black as night. Asmodeus sculpted and contoured her features and body shape as often as a human changes clothes, but the eyes looking out of her myriad perfect faces were always the same. Her body was dripping with jewelry, dressed in nothing but long tangles of gold chain and endless trains of pearls and gemstones.
Asmodeus cast a quick eye across the room, then settled on a spot on the ground just by my feet. Her nose
