A man in a green suit and bowler hat sits in a waiting room made of flesh. Every few seconds, a large drip of blood falls from the ceiling into a metal bucket.
There’s a succubus sitting behind a desk at the other end of the room. She’s reading a copy of The Sun, a British tabloid newspaper.
“Sorry about the dripping,” she says. “We’re waiting to get the menders in. Every time it rains, the roof leaks. Makes a heck of a mess.”
Drip!
“The sound is quite annoying too. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the man says. “Is he going to be long? I’ve got things to do.”
“Sorry. Won’t be long. I expect he’s almost done.”
There’s a loud noise from the room beyond, the sound of a gong being struck.
“There we are. You can go in now,” she says. Then in a conspiratorial whisper, “tread lightly though. He’s had a bad morning.”
The man goes through the door behind the succubus and into another fleshy room. There are rugs made of human skin, and tapestries showing demons torturing hordes of the naked damned. A huge throne of skulls casts imposing shadows from the flaming sconces that line the walls. High atop it sits a demon in a white suit. He has the head of a lion, and he’s drinking from a large goblet of wine.
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“So tacky Marb,” says the man. “All this. I don’t know why we couldn’t meet at Berwick Street.”
“Tacky? That’s rich coming from someone cosplaying as The Riddler.” His voice is low, and he speaks with a velvety purr.
“You can’t enjoy sitting up there, in amongst all this gore. It’s disgusting.”
“It’s not my favourite place, I’ll admit. But its design works wonders when I need to intimidate the stupid. You wouldn’t believe how many warlocks and Crowley copy cats I have to drag in here to ensure they do as their told.”
“I can imagine. Must keep you busy. It’s a wonder you have any time at all for games.”
“Cute. Even for you.”
“Can we get this over with? You summoned me here. Literally. It must have been a pain, collecting all those donkey teeth. What is it you want? You mean to intimidate me too?”
The demon climbs down from his throne and straightens his jacket. He’s tall, nearly seven feet and he has the imposing presence of a predator. The cologne he wears is expensive and strong, but it’s still not enough to mask the faint smell of sulphur that follows him. He holds out his goblet to the man, offering him a sip.
“It’s a Chateau Rayas, decent vintage. Not blood, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The man takes the goblet and drinks. If there’s poison or magic in the cup, he’ll have a trick to counter it so there’s no need for him to be cautious.
“Not bad,” says the man. “2005? The Special Reserve? Almost makes the trip worthwhile.”
“Good. I’ll cut straight to it. I want you to desist with your meddling.”
The man protests his innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit. I know you sent the flower. Whatever it is you’re planning, it’s not going to work. Queen Centaurea is important, not just to me, but all of us who roll the dice.”
“You’ve delivered your warning. So I’ll take my leave. But I’ll say this. You’re very much mistaken Lord Marbas. You’re roaring up the wrong tree entirely." He drains the goblet before handing it back. “Maybe you’ve had a few too many wines?”