I’m fucked, Desdemona thought, and not in the way I’d hoped.
She paced back and forth in the elevator without touching any of the buttons, seething silently to herself, wondering how such a travesty had occurred. She had planned her whole life around this day. Even as a child, she had told anyone who would listen that one day she would be High Priestess. They had all rolled their eyes back then, or insulted her behind her back, or both.
Even her mother, Delilah, had been cruel and dismissive at first, at least until Desdemona had begun her pyromancy training at the age of fourteen. Eight years later, she had graduated from the Dark Temple’s Academy at the top of her class, having beaten and clawed her way to the pinnacle of the Order of the Devoted Succubi. And now here she was, on the day she had been waiting for almost all her life, and it had gone horrifically wrong.
Mona went over the summoning ritual in her mind. She had practiced the incantation thousands of times. She knew she hadn’t made a mistake, had she?
Her finger hesitated next to the button labeled Priestess’s Dormitories for a moment, but going there seemed like an admission of defeat. She reached higher and instead hit the button marked Hall of Pleasures. It seemed to be shaping up to be that kind of night.
She emerged from the elevator into a den of smoke and iniquity. One of the Hall’s attendants, an incubus named Creech, stood at a small dais. Behind him were three curtains made from purple silk, leading to the different sections of the Halls—the lounge, the club, and the bordello. From somewhere beyond the last curtain, she heard a demoness giggle playfully. The walls of this chamber were dark, such that in the haze, it looked like she stood in a small shaft of light at the center of a boundless void.
Creech was tall and rather thin for an incubus, with pale green skin and a waxy black beard that projected from his chin like a third horn. He raised an eyebrow at her as she approached him, then all too obviously leered at her, his eyes roving suggestively across her body, only rising to meet her gaze once she had reached the dais and aggressively placed her palms upon it. She already wanted to slap the stupid look off his face or set him on fire, but she had come here to blow off steam, not to make more of it.
“Good evening, High Priestess,” he said smoothly. “Has our newly arrived Master already grown tired of you?
“Eat imp shit, Creech,” she said. “Our Lordship is spent for the evening, and I already fully satisfied him, not that it’s any of your business.” She could not suffer the cretins down here in the Halls of Pleasure spreading rumors that the Master was already displeased with his High Priestess. Not here, of all places. She would have rather been devoured by carrion.
It didn’t even matter that the Master wasn’t Himself. She still had a reputation to protect. “I’m here on my own accord. It’s been a long day. Prepare a private booth in the lounge with a packed hookah for me. Then kindly fuck off.”
He grinned at her, bowed slightly, and took a step backward. “As you command, High Priestess.”
Minutes later, Creech emerged from behind a curtain and led her down a long, winding hallway dimly lit by flickering sconces. He stopped in front of another curtain made of glinting gems and beads, and held it to one side. “Here you are,” he said.
She passed through the curtain and into a small booth containing a low table surrounded by plush, luxurious couches and an oversized lounge chair. A hookah sat at the center of the table, loaded with herbs cultivated in the groves East of here by the dryads. It was a valuable commodity, rare in Dreadthorn outside the higher levels of the tower—but she was, after all, the High Priestess. Until the Master had been summoned today, she had arguably been one of the most powerful demons in Dreadthorn. Now, given everything that’d happened, she wasn’t sure what she was. Perhaps, soon, she would be nothing at all—one more dead demon tossed into the Void.
Creech turned and left without bothering to ensure she was satisfied, whistling annoyingly as he retreated. Desdemona dropped her hand, allowing the curtain to close, then collapsed onto a couch and kicked her feet up on the table. Her leather boots thumped on the metal surface, and her robes fell suggestively, revealing thick, toned, pink thighs. It was not only her magical studies she had excelled at. She had taken great care in the matters of physical training, knowing that someday, she would be at the side of a living god, pledged to his service in both soul and body.
Or at least, that had been the plan. Desdemona sighed in resignation.
Creech hadn’t given her a lighter. Was that an oversight or a knowing gesture? She placed her finger into the hookah’s bowl and spoke an incantation, a simple one as old as time. She had learned it at the age of six, without any formal training, from a book she had stolen. At night she had studied the incantation while sitting cross-legged in bed, huddled under a worn blanket, as the rain tapped at the thin metal roof above her and the wind bellowed through a window that had never stayed closed.
The first time she had cast the spell, she’d been so overjoyed she had almost set her sheets, and herself, on fire. When her mother discovered the book, she beat Mona to a dark red and then burned it, not with magic but with a tinderbox in the fireplace, to erase any evidence of Mona’s crime. Mother had warned her of the punishments handed out to thieves, and when the thieves were children, to their mothers. It had been clear to Mona which of these was more concerning from Delilah’s perspective. The woman had tried everything to pressure Mona into giving up on her foolish dreams. But by then, it had already been too late for Mona to be discouraged.
She’d had her first taste of power and wanted more. A lot more. These days, the only things she set on fire were the ones she wished to burn.
She spoke the words, and her fingertip glowed brightly. A mote of flame arced from her finger to the dried herbs, lighting the hookah.
She lay back on the couch, stretching her muscles, rolling her shoulders backward and forwards. She stretched her arms above her head, and her breasts rose, then fell again as she relaxed.
Part of her still couldn’t believe that whoever it was—this Greg—had declined the pleasure she had offered him. It would have bruised her pride if she had not seen how engorged he had become when she’d whispered sweetly in his ear. It was clear he’d wanted her flesh.
But he had denied her offer. Why? Some false sense of propriety? When she thought of what she had done afterward—begging him to kill her, then trying to stab him herself—she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. She had misjudged things so completely, allowing her short temper to betray her judgment. His reflexes had been too fast for her, and though he had no way of knowing this, she knew perfectly well his avatar was immune to fire. Magically, there was little she could do to harm him. Thankfully, he had seemed more lost and confused than angry with her.
In any event, she still had a problem, a big one, and no plan to deal with it. If anyone found out what had happened, she would no doubt be executed. Over two hundred years ago, before Mona had even been born, the previous Avatar of Greg-Theryx had been known to have a penchant for having High Priestesses, and other council members, executed. He had gone through over twenty High Priestesses during his reign before the wretched Goddess of Light, Sun-Domia, had banished him to the Void.
All her life, Mona had told herself she would be different. She would be everything the Master wanted and more, catering to his every whim. In so doing, she would win his favor and secure her position at the top of the hierarchy of Dreadthorn.
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While she hadn’t been executed yet, she couldn’t help but feel her days were numbered. There was no way the fool currently inhabiting the Master’s body could keep up this ruse for very long. It had taken her barely an evening to discover the truth.
Her mind wandered while she smoked the hookah, her lungs full of the peaceful, calming haze. She blew clouds of smoke until she could barely see through them. It was quiet in this part of the Halls, far from the club and the bordello. It helped her calm down a little. She had always enjoyed her own company more than anyone else’s, or at least, this is what she always told herself when she found herself alone. She’d kept to herself at the Academy, out of necessity. To climb to the top of the Temple hierarchy was not a life goal that lent itself well to making friends. The few people she had ever let in had been mistakes, such as Phaedra, whose betrayal still haunted her.
It had never bothered Mona before, but now she wished she had someone to confide in. Instead, she brooded silently, taking deep breaths from the hookah and blowing the smoke towards the roof, where it swirled and coiled. For a moment, in its chaos, she thought she saw the shape of a skull. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, and when she looked again, it was gone.
Mona recalled the time, as a child, her mother had pulled her aside before her first day at the Academy. “Remember, child,” her mother said, “those who stand out are often destroyed. I know you have this idea in your head that you wish to be the greatest among them. But the greatest never last long.”
She had only rolled her eyes at the sad docility of her mother. “But where’s the fun in hiding? In pretending to be less than I aspire to?” She’d been so sure of herself back then. Now Mona wondered, if she had only slacked off a little more for the past twenty years, maybe she would be in a much easier position now. Maybe Phaedra would be High Priestess, and this would be her problem.
I’m not feeling very calm, am I? I really need to get some rest, Mona thought. She leaned back and closed her eyes, and her mind drifted off for a time.
----------------------------------------
Desdemona awoke to the sound of the curtains parting. Ilmatar stood awkwardly at the threshold, one of the people she least wanted to see at any time, but especially tonight. She pulled her feet from the table and straightened her robes around her lower body, covering herself as thoroughly as possible.
“Good evening,” he said, ducking his head past the curtain as he entered.
In lieu of a greeting, she re-lit the hookah with her finger, drew from it, then blew a cloud of smoke at his face. He coughed into his hands, a pathetic, hacking sound.
“Oh, fuck off,” she said. “I told Creech I was to be left alone.”
“I’m not one to listen to Creech,” Ilmatar replied. He sat across the table from her and leaned forward, his large black horns pointing toward the ceiling. “You don’t look well, Lady Desdemona.”
“Actually, I’m perfectly fine, ‘Majordomo Ilmatar.’” She rolled her eyes at his fake formality. “Don’t you have an ill-advised war to help plan?” Though priestesses were not privy to information on military affairs, the tower was full of rumors. Rumors that had kept Mona staring into the darkness of her chambers at all hours of the night, unable to sleep. Their army was poorly trained, and somehow only partially equipped. The Army of Light outnumbered them two-to-one. Three-to-one. Ten-to-one. The rumors differed on the details but were consistent in their fear.
“Master kicked you out of bed this soon, did he?” Ilmatar replied with a smirk. “He’s tired of your cunt already? Poor girl. Your looks can’t get you everywhere, you know.”
“I thought I told you to fuck off.” She sighed, then took another pull on the hookah. Mona let the smoke sit in her lungs until she felt delightfully light-headed, then pursed her lips and exhaled. “Don’t make me burn you alive, worm. I’m dreadfully short on patience.”
“I see I’ve struck a nerve,” he said. “As for the war, General Shatterbone already has a plan, which the Master needs only to review. Everything is well in hand, so don’t you worry.” But as he spoke, Mona noticed a trembling in his voice. His confidence seemed to be an act.
The last time Greg-Theryx had risen, their Master had been defeated by the Army of Light. His Dark Host had been routed. The demons had fled back to Dreadthorn, and the rest of the monsters had returned to their own lands, no longer united under one banner.
But this time the Master didn’t even arrive when we called for him. Has he forsaken us? Is he a coward? Did he not wish to lose yet again? These were blasphemous thoughts, she knew. But she seemed to be living in blasphemous times. Their god wasn’t even a god at the moment. He was just … some random guy. She sighed.
“Seriously, couldn’t you go find a different booth, Ilmatar? You just had to come here and mess with me?”
“Creech said the others were all taken.”
“Of course he did, that bat-fucker.” Desdemona rolled her eyes. She’d seen plenty of empty tables through the curtains while walking down the hallway.
“I take no pleasure in your abject failure, you know.” For a moment Ilmatar looked almost sad. “It would be much easier for all of us if the Master had taken to you. When the High Priestess goes down the chute, the rest of the retinue often follows.” He reached for the collar of his waistcoat and nervously pulled at it.
She laughed bitterly. “Yes, because I’m so concerned about what’s best for all of you. And Master took to me plenty, multiple times, in fact, so don’t you worry. Our Lordship merely wished for seclusion to collect his myriad thoughts.”
“As you say. He was notoriously difficult to please in his previous incarnations, so I must admit that I was, and remain, concerned.”
“Concerned for your own neck, you mean.” As for his previous incarnation, that’s thankfully not something we need to worry about. Our new Master is shaping up to be quite different from the old. He wouldn’t even stab me with his cock. And when I stabbed him, he didn’t so much as slap me. What a weakling. He has no idea what kind of trouble he’s found himself in. “So why are you here, Ilmatar? Shouldn’t you be in the bordello eating ass?”
Ilmatar shook his head, his dark eyes downcast. “As you know, Desdemona, I am not a patron of that questionable establishment, and I find it to be a poor use of tower resources.” He smiled nervously. “But don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Ah, how could I forget? The only person you like is yourself, you perverted little narcissist.”
He laughed. “It’s not my fault that I have exacting taste and a keen eye. If the Master does grow tired of you, which he no doubt will, I’m sure I could help him find several suitable replacements from among the other priestesses.”
Mona shook her head. “They won’t be half as good as me, Ilmatar. I worked my ass off preparing for this day.” To demonstrate, she whispered a few words in demonic, then flicked her hands towards the hookah, casting a single ember into the bowl. Though it was a tiny flame, such exacting control was rare among pyromancers. Most could burn down a building if they wished to, but it was rare to meet one who could light a fire without doing so.
He only rolled his eyes, however. “They won’t be half the pain in the ass you are, either.”
That’s not always a bad thing, she thought. “You sound like my mother.” It was one of the most insulting things she could think of to say, though Ilmatar probably didn’t know that. He rolled his eyes but said nothing.
Content to ignore him as much as possible, Mona leaned back and stretched her neck, staring into the cloud which had formed above them, trying to divine something in the shifting movements of the smoke. But divination had never been her forte. At the Academy, there had only been one field of magic that had suited her: pyromancy. She just had that kind of personality.
If anyone—Ilmatar, Shatterbone, Phaedra, even Asmodeus—if anyone finds out I made a mistake, I’m dead. If Greg, or whatever his name is, changes his mind and decides I’m dangerous to him now that I know the truth… If he commands me to be replaced, I’m dead. General Shatterbone will chop off my head before Greg finishes the sentence. And Phaedra will be kissing the “Lord’s” feet before my body hits the floor.
As Mona stared at those cursed patterns of smoke in the ceiling, an idea came to her. It was a foolish idea, perhaps. An idea that was doomed to fail. But it was worth a try. If nothing else, it could buy her time.
She wasn’t the only one who was doomed, after all. Sooner or later, if they found the truth, the other demons would try to summon their true Lord. When that day came, they would need to unburden the avatar of the soul that currently resided within it. Though she dreaded to admit it, she had a natural ally in her plight. She just had to pray he wasn’t a complete idiot or that at least he could be trained.
She must have been smiling, because Ilmatar raised an eyebrow at her and said, “You look happy now, for some reason. Have you made peace with your imminent doom, Lady Desdemona?”
“Our imminent doom,” she corrected. Mona smirked at him and shook her head. “Sadly, no. I was smiling because for a moment, I forgot you were even here.” She took a last drag on the hookah, then set down the hose and blew the smoke across the table towards him. As the cloud enveloped him, he began to cough again.
“Ack,” he said after a moment. “You know I hate that shit.”
But he was speaking from behind her now, as she’d already parted the curtain and left. She made an obscene gesture with two fingers extended over her shoulder. “If you don’t like it, don’t come harass me when I’m smoking it, you cretin.”
“I just wanted to know our prospects in case I needed to put my affairs in order,” came his weak reply, but she had already pushed Ilmatar from her mind. The time for entertaining herself at the Majordomo’s expense was over. If she was going to survive, she would need to get started right away.
After all, it wouldn’t be easy to teach a mortal to play god.