Chapter 1: Instructions: Crank My Heart to Warm It Up
Chapter Text
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I beheld the light of dawn, and in it found a reflection of myself
Rising and setting without thought
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Behind a shrouded glass veil, Blitz winced at the slow rise of Hell’s morning sun. Coffee cup in hand, its’ steamy vapor still strong enough to caress his face amongst humid dew, he stared down at his feet and the cracked sidewalk they traveled upon. A single sip brought a rush of sweetness; sugar, caramel, apple. It briefly soothed the density in his skull which pulsed just beneath his thinnest layer of skin; bastard of a hangover. Music blasted on loop in his ears; the gentle touch of cushioned headphones only helped smother the outside world.
To shake the morning malaise, an upbeat track would have been best, but with the repercussions of overindulgence bashing at his head, he chose something softer. Each lyric, amongst the gentle pluck of strings, dropped from his mouth as a melodic mutter.
“Brush my hair…
Read my lines…
It’s time to go…
Wear my suit…
Put the makeup on…
Put on the show…
Up…Up…Up…
To the heavyside layer…
Up…Up…Up…
…I’m going straight up…”
A familiar, upheaved slab of concrete halted his feet: crosswalk. Blitz craned his head up and glanced both ways across the street. No cars, no people, no bullshit. Despite the clearly displayed red light, he trudged across, eyes refocused on his feet. Black leather boots, scratched and bulky, dug into the heel of his foot worse than any ten-mile hike ever could. Luckily, he didn’t need to walk far.
He turned a corner, and in an instant, the sun’s rays vanished. A colossal building, his father’s building, loomed above him; no more than three neighbors down. Music faded and Blitz couldn’t think of a better time to take off his headphones. They slid down his bare face directly into his hand, then clattered as he pushed the cushioned bits along his neck and swung them around; completely free of the blockade which were his massive, curved horns. Blitz raised his coffee cup for one final sip…only to feel the sharp tongue of a blade tease the front of his neck.
“Wallet, now.”
Oh great, a good morning mugging, just what he needed.
“Not carrying, asshole.”
“Bullshit. Empty your pockets our I’ll slash your fucking windpipe.”
“Why don’t you empty my pockets?”
An aggressive hand forced its way down his front pocket; burrowing like some pissed off badger until it found fuck all to steal. The knife then switched hands but never moved away from its position in front of Blitz’s neck, so the thief could dig in his other pockets; all the while, his tail slowly unsheathed a hidden knife of his own from the confines of a boot.
Idiots, they always forget about the tail.
“Motherfucker, you really don’t have any—GAAH!”
The thief screamed, Blitz seized their wrist and bullied their arm to straighten out, then slammed it down against his shoulder at the elbow. Bone crunched and muscle gave way; sending the knife tumbling harmlessly to the sidewalk. He whipped around, yanked his own blade free from their inner thigh, and smashed the pommel directly into the demon’s face. Doubled over in pain, hands clasped across a bloodied and likely shattered nose, was a hunched and scraggly, emaciated Hellhound.
“You bhrok mah nhose!” it howled, syrup thick, snotty life force oozing out from between its raven-like fingers. “You phuckinhg psycho!”
“Aww; well, here’s something to wash it with!” Blitz’s elbow snapped, as he hurled the remaining contents of his coffee cup directly into the hound’s face; who screeched in agony, as fur burnt, flesh turned crimson, and steam drifted into the air. The would-be criminal writhed upon the ground, back bending and arching with sharp, violent snaps of momentum; a sight which Blitz experienced zero pity towards.
Just another day in Imp City, all things considered. There was always some idiot lurking around every corner, waiting to fuck someone’s day up. It could be a driver, a pedestrian, or in this likely case, a beggar teetering on their last rope. Twelve years stuck in the same rat hole, and nothing had changed in all that time. Sourness twisted his frown into a scowl; idiots were just that: idiots, desperate or no. There was almost zero chance the mutt would take the lesson they’d just been given to heart, but maybe there was at least one thing Blitz could do to deter the same behavior.
He wiped his bloody blade clean with the bottom edge of his shirt, nestled between two fine leather flaps of a rugged, spiked jacket before sheathing it back into his boot. Then, he picked up the thief’s discarded knife and held it up to the light; a butterfly knife, meant for stabbing over slicing. Dexterous fingers flipped the blade open, beams of metal danced alongside flashes of steel, then snapped the case shut with a sharp clack.
“I’m taking this, and if I ever see your mange-ridden mug again, I’m burying it in your belly.”
Leaving the wounded stranger to their fate, Blitz walked the final leg of his journey in the span of fifteen seconds.
Cold air conditioning struck him in the face with all the bite of a cruel winter’s day. Each step boomed in the hollow chamber that was considered the building’s lobby. There were no chairs, no tables, no statues, or even plants to liven up the atmosphere. All that existed was a singular desk at the center of the room, with a single receptionist, and a single elevator which sat behind her workspace. It was a place of business, not leisure; and if you didn’t have any business, the emptiness was all you got to experience.
Hands jammed into his jacket pockets; Blitz stretched and bent his back to one side in a lackadaisical lean. “Adria, I didn’t know you were working today! If you’re here, who’s watching the kid?”
Cash’s receptionist, a blue-skinned succubus, regarded her employer’s heir with a firmly closed lip and a steely glance from beneath her glasses. Lanky as a goddess but dressed just like the most stuck-up office clerk in bureaucratic history, her corset barely peeked above the rim of her desk. “I procured a suitable babysitter.” Like her appearance, even her voice was tight and gray; sharpened to a fine, frozen point. “Mister Buckzo is expecting you; best not to keep him waiting.”
“What’s the rush? I’m practically inside his office already.” Blitz leaned against the front desk and offered up a serrated grin; one paired with utter smugness. “I’d much rather talk to you anyway.”
Adria’s deep purple gaze narrowed, then dipped. “…there’s blood on your shirt.”
“Oh, is there? That’s so funny; I hadn’t noticed.”
“Did you stab someone again?”
“How’d you know? ~” he crooned; elbows planted on the desk and hands against his cheeks. “In my defense, they tried to mug me and made me waste a perfectly good cup of coffee.”
An unamused sigh slipped free and the tiny black dot at the corner of her lip twitched in what he assumed was agitation. “Are they alive?”
“Prettier than when I last laid eyes on ‘em.” Nothing but teeth, upturned lips, and genuine eyes hurried alongside his words. Before the conversation could continue, white-marked palms rapidly drummed atop the desk then pulled away. “Welp, no better time to see what the old goat wants than now, before your high beams melt through me. Good talk, Adria; say hi to the kid for me.”
Whatever her brand of response, Blitz was already half-way into the elevator by the time it could be delivered. As the chrome doors slowly shut in front of him, he splayed his fingers and shook a hand in farewell; grin ever-present. The instant he was alone, however, all expression of joy dropped from his face. Sore fingers gently swiped the sunglasses from his face, so that others could rub at his eyelids while he leaned back against the nearest wall.
Deep within his flat stomach, a growl rumbled; coffee wasn’t enough to satisfy him, but breakfast was never his strong suit. Too many bagels, toppings and overindulgent presentation; buttered toast and scrambled eggs were more than enough, but he’d have better luck finding gold in his toilet than finding someplace that had actual, simple breakfast. Pride was, after all, nothing but presentation and stubbornness.
It was that same source of indignation which rattled a rock of annoyance around his empty stomach. Why the hell did Cash have to drop an early meeting on him without any warning? Waking up at the crack of ass was the worst; made him feel like a zombie wrung dry. So, if the old goat expected any sort of fucking courtesy, he was in for a rude awakening.
After what felt like twenty minutes leaning against the elevator wall, the mechanisms which defied gravity came to a slow but powerful halt, and the door slid open with a singular, boring chime. There, standing directly in his only exit, was his sister. Hands on her hips, which were barely covered by a snug dress, an imp of similar size shifted a sucker stick to the opposite side of her fang-filled mouth. “Sup, fuckface; you’re late.”
Lethargic energy peeled Blitz’s back away from the wall and forced him to stand properly. “Oh no.” he sarcastically droned, waving his hands about half-heartedly. “Somebody stop him, he’s fucking with people’s assumptions. Whatever will we do if we can’t control him? Aaaah; free will, oh shit.”
Barbie Wire’s brow raised, wholly unamused. “You done?”
“Bitch, I’m just getting started.” Blitz clicked his tongue, threw his shades back onto his face, and walked past her. “So, what’s up; Pops stab himself in the ass with his own horns again?”
At the remark, the protective shade of his glasses vanished with a rough yank, as Barbie snatched them away; keeping pace all the while. “It’s about The Gala.”
An inward groan, haughty, heavy, and loaded with ample, anxious misery plummeted from his lips as a long, obnoxious exhale. “The fucking gala, again? What is it this time? Satan’s backsack; if I have to hear one more thing about this fucking ritzy-ass birdcage bonanza, I’m gonna bite someone!”
“Oh, shut your ass; this is important.”
“So is my sleep schedule.”
As the siblings approached the entrance to their father’s office, they each planted a hand upon one of two doors and pushed forward. For a space on the top floor, it was rather plain; maroon walls, gray carpet, and a single wide desk covered end to end with occupational ornaments. A computer monitor, a fountain pen placed atop a miniature iron stand, but most importantly, a plaque at the front inscribed with the name CASH BUCKZO. Windows as large as walls lined the farthest wall, acting as a view of Imp City and the vista beyond; through which sunlight poured and warmed the floor.
Sat at his desk, back faced towards the door as he started at a colossal, curved television, was their father. Blitz couldn’t help but absorb what was on the screen; just the news, so nothing inherently interesting. Before he could even think about taking a closer look, the screen blinked dark, and Cash swiveled around in his chair and planted his elbows atop the table.
With his long billy-goat tuft of a beard, white button-up shirt, black suspender straps, and a pair of reading glasses affixed upon his face; he silently glared at his son for a moment, a gleam in the reflection of his eyes.
“You’re fifteen minutes late, boy.”
“And what an unforgivable crime it is. You wanna waste your breath reprimanding me, or just tell me what the fuck you want so we can both get out of here?” An immediate, sharp slap slid up the back of Blitz’s head, one which felt more for show than effect. In response, he hissed through his teeth and looked to his sister, “Damn Barb, chill.”
“Thank you, Barbara; saves me from getting up and doing it myself.” Cash jabbed a finger in his direction. “Show your father some fucking respect, you little shit, or I’ll whip outta this chair so quick you’ll wish you were back in your mother’s box.”
“Either way, I’ll be in the shadow of a dick.” Another slap, quick as lightning and harsh as a spider’s bite, cracked the back of his head. “Yeow! Fuck, Barbie, it was a joke!”
“The only joke around here is your recent behavior.” Cash procured a vanilla folder from beneath his desk and dropped it on the table. Crisp paper brushed against the air as he turned piece after piece over and listed off a series of its contents. “Drunken displays in public, multiple cases of vandalism, grand theft auto, excessive violence—”
“Excessive?” Blitz curled his face at the word. “When some ten-foot lizard tries to crack a pool cue off in my ass, what do you want me to do, just take it?”
“I want—no—I expect you to remember that everything you do out there comes back on us and everything we’ve built!” Cash angrily slapped one of the documents, then straightened it back out with a harsh snap. “And with the Goetian Gala coming up, we’ve got more eyes on us than ever.”
Blitz grimaced; so that’s what had his father so pissed. Normally, Cash didn’t care what he got up to as long as he showed up whenever muscle was needed or a body hidden, but a few fancy feathered birds perk a brow funny, and all the sudden shit got real. “Right, wouldn’t want to fuck up your ass-kissing.”
“I shouldn’t need to remind you, boy, that this event is gonna open a whole slew of doors for us; but only if it goes well. They don’t just expect us to supply the entertainment; they’re inviting us to attend and act like proper fucking guests.”
“What?” To Blitz’s surprise, Barbie beat him to the punch. “When did we find out about this?”
“Late last night.”
Surprise banished a modicum of fatigue from Blitz’s mind; Cash almost never kept Barbie in the dark, so to see the surprise alongside a slight twinge of betrayal and hurt only soured his mood. “Great, maybe I can knock up a duchess or something.” A roll of the eyes followed to which there was no retaliation. Was his father taking that joke seriously, and more importantly, did he somehow…approve of the idea?
“Can that idea for later; we might just need it. For now…” Cash grabbed his fountain pen from its perch and pointed it directly at Barbie. “…you stay focused on arranging our end of the event; make sure the performers know what’s expected of them. The Ars Goetia are expecting top notch quality, and the Buckzos are gonna fucking give it to ‘em in spades!” He then flicked the tip toward Blitz, honed as a razor’s edge and riddled with all the menace of a true blade. “You, on the other hand, need a whole heap of reprogramming before I even consider letting you near these fancy folks.”
“You mean fancy fucks.”
“Don’t sass me boy.”
“What’s the point of going through all this horseshit, when you know that they’re never gonna respect us?” The remark barked with one helluva bite; one that appeared to cow his father, if only a little. “We’re imps…or did you forget?”
Uncomfortable silenced filled the penthouse office, and neither his father nor sister refuted what had been said; for the truth was inescapable and cruel. It was in said silence, that a peculiar expression slid across Cash’s face; one nurtured by decades of dedicated consideration and plotting.
“It ain’t about respect, Blitz…” For the first time since the meeting began, the large-horned imp stood to his feet. He almost looked regal, leaned over his polished desk, pressed tie left to dangle and hands splayed with staunch resolve. “…it’s about getting close. We get close, we get a better shot at finding what we’re looking for; and we can’t do that unless we play nice.”
In two sentences, his resistance shattered.
Right.
Answers.
That was the point of everything; climbing the social ladder, stockpiling wealth, cutting down anyone who stood in the way of getting big enough for the birds to take notice…and invite them into the cage for dinner.
All for answers.
Closure.
Revenge.
“…Fine, fuck it, fuck it.” Blitz sighed. “What do you need me to do?”
“Get your shit together. Lucky for you, I’ve hired a professional who should make that a cake walk.” Metal creaked as Cash dropped back down into his chair, hands clutched at the edge of both armrests. “From now, until the day of the Ball, you’re going to have an attendant.” To his surprise, Blitz watched as his father swiveled in his chair and canted his head towards the left. “You can come out now.”
Then, directly behind his father, a stranger materialized from thin air! Clad in a black, gold embroidered jacket which hung loosely from two thin shoulders, the towering figure gazed down at him and Barbie with four glowing, ruby red and iris less eyes perched above a stoic beak. Curved like a dagger it remained motionless amidst a sea of white; its tip branded with a cap of black. Livid feathers faded into swathes of black upon their head and white upon the exposed tuft which protruded freely from their chest. A chaotic arrangement of zipper, buttons, buckles, and leather straps were all Blitz could make out of their clothing; too intricate and complex for his mind to take proper stock of.
“Go ahead and introduce yourself.”
What Blitz believed to be an owl bent at the waist and gracefully bowed; a large, taloned hand upon its chest. “I am Stolas, Attendant of the Ars Goetia, and it is a pleasure to meet you, sire.” Sleeves shifted, leather stretched, and metal jingled, but all Blitz could stare at were those four red eyes. One pair atop the other, it felt as if he was transparent; like every secret he ever held, every hidden emotion, and the culmination of his inner fears were illuminated in full.
Reprehension in his heart, he tore his attention back towards his father; a scowl upon his lips. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”
“Blitz…” Cash growled in warning.
“This is how you want me to ‘get my shit together’; pinning one of them on me? I was fine playing ball, but this…this is…”
“You will play ball, whether you like it or not!” Spittle flew from the older demon’s mouth, as his anger finally burst free from their restraints. “From now until the event, Stolas will be glued to your side like fly-mutts on a shitbowl. He’s going to teach you everything you’ll need to know and keep you from staining our reputation any more than you already have.”
“Pops, c’mon, you can’t—”
“We have two months until the gala; that is exactly sixty-one days until King Paimon expects us to be ready to mingle with the most elite society in all of Hell. You are going to take this seriously, because by Satan’s teeth if you fuck around and ruin everything…” Whatever material lined his father’s chair strained against his grip; furrowed deep under pressure until he saw the lines from where he stood. Anger was common amongst imps; being spawned in the Wrath Ring typically made fuses short and tempers nuclear, but beneath the mundane there was a new aspect, one which forced Blitz to take his father seriously: genuine, potent, and unburdened spite. “…you’ll be no son of mine.”
Shock tore through his mind and froze his body; synapses alight with panic. “Hold on a minute, you don’t mean—”
“Stolas.” Cash interrupted, already swiveled back around until only his horns remained visible. “Get him out of my sight.”
“Right away, Mr. Buckzo.”
Blitz’s head shot towards his sister, who stood at his side with a rather dour expression, hands clenched at her side and seemingly unable to meet her brother’s eye. “Barb? Come on, back me up here; say something.” To his horror, she remained tight lipped, until he felt a foreign set of fingers grace his upper back with surprising gentleness. “Barbie?”
“Come now Master, let us head home. There is much to do.”
Betrayal, confusion, fear; too many negative emotions welled up inside with nowhere to flee. His new attendant’s light touch transformed from a source of intended comfort to one of prickled agitation, and Blitz pulled away with a harsh tug of the shoulder. “Don’t fucking touch me…” Face ripe with shame and anger, he strode towards the exit with fury in every step; enflamed and wounded by his father’s decree and his sibling’s silence in the face of it.
By the time he shoved the doors open his tail was a flailing coil, eager to lash at anything it could to release his rage. On the way towards the elevator, teeth grit, he launched a wild haymaker at one of the many lamps which lined the walls and felt it shatter. Sparks and glass shattered upon the air and floor; two individual spawns of his unleashed anger. It was a small, meaningless victory, and as Blitz reached the elevator doors his fist tightened with far greater intensity. Instead of pushing the button, he struck it with his knuckles and snarled.
Fuck that button.
Fuck that elevator.
Fuck his father…and fuck the Ars Goetia!
The door to the elevator couldn’t close fast enough. Blitz rammed his back against the metal wall, fangs bared in a feral display of seething emotion, and shielded his chest with both of his arms. As he descended back towards the lobby, the ever-constant ding of each passed level became a tick of patience lost, and sitting still became difficult. Back spines wriggled in anger and scratched the metal finish with shallow, light lines. At least he’d gotten into the elevator before that lanky, four-headed lamppost was able to follow him inside. Something about the way the royal had looked at him didn’t sit right, and even though there were multiple floors worth of concrete and noise suppressants between himself and those piercing red eyes, the mere thought of their gleam ran a shiver up Blitz’s arms.
Goosebumps; prickly pebbles of discomfort, a sign to run, to stay away and steer clear. Know when to bite, know when to stomp, and know when neither would word. Growing up in the streets, hustling with demons three times his size, guarding Barbie’s back in the earliest days; he’d learned many lessons, but there was one which sat atop all others, its ass to their spine.
Trust your gut.
Blitz’s gut was screaming at him to put as much distance between himself and Stolas as possible; and the second the elevator door opened, he was going to do just that.
As if listening in on his private plans, the singular door slid to the side with an elegant hiss of air…only for Blitz to look up and see the owl standing at the front desk, seemingly chatting with Adria!
“Ah, Master Buckzo; I take it your elevator ride was both leisurely and meditative?”
Trapped with his back to a literal wall, the flabbergasted imp grit his teeth until the tendons of his flesh clutched tight against his skin. This motherfucker…
“How did you—”
His question lodged itself within his throat, smacked down by Stolas’ sudden appearance directly in front of him! One second, he’d been standing at the desk, and the next, his long arms braced themselves against the frame of the elevator entrance, blocking the imp’s escape. “Your father mentioned you may react this way. I assure you; my only prerogative is to accomplish my duties as assigned.”
“Is cornering me in the elevator one of your prerogatives?” he asked, grateful that his body decided to suppress that natural urge to flinch. It would’ve made him look like a complete bitch…
“No, only to accompany you home and ensure your safety.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“On that we can agree, yet my duty remains.”
There they were again; those eyes. No matter how brave his bravado, they skinned through every layer he possessed with ease. Emotions lay in the eyes, even in the brawniest, most battle-scarred bruiser; and it was through them that Blitz always managed to find someone’s desire. However, Stolas didn’t have any irises, which made reading him a unique challenge. It was in the face of said difficulty which the imp clicked his tongue. “Alright…how much do you want?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much are you being paid to do this? Whatever it is, I’ll triple it.”
Despite the offer, the owl’s facial expression nor body language changed. “My contract forbids the disclosure of that information.”
“Oh, well if that’s the case…” Blitz shoved his way into Stolas’ personal bubble, planted a hand against the owl’s thigh, and stood up on his tip toes. “…maybe you’d want me to pay you in another way?” A second hand joined the first, all with the intended goal of seductively embracing that insanely slender waist. “I know you royal fucks love sitting in your ivory towers, daydreaming about what it would be like to sleep with a dirty little imp like me. So, how’s about you come in here, let that door close, I rock your fucking world…and then you leave me alone.”
A moment of silence passed, Stolas’ expression unchanged in the wake of such a lewd offer. Blitz had no way of knowing whether it was even enticing to the Goetia or not; stone-faced as he was. It wasn’t until both of those lanky arms fell from either side of the doorframe and folded across his chest, did disapproval stain his tone. “Such propositions are beneath you. Please, do not make them again.”
Disbelief rippled through the inner, transparent vulnerability of his body. Caught beneath judgmental spotlights, Blitz fumbled for a comeback; something, anything to regain his place in the conversation. He was used to being yelled at whenever he did something reprehensible, but in the face of Stolas’ disappointment and seemingly sincere request he froze. It didn’t make any sense; they were still both strangers to one another, and yet there he was, humbled and riddled with shame. In the end, Blitz moved his hands off the owl’s body and jammed them back into his pockets.
“Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”
“Then perhaps a jaunt back to your penthouse is required, so that we might become better acquainted?”
“…You’re not going to let me out of this elevator unless I say yes, are you?”
“That is correct, Master Buckzo.”
Defeat diminished his anger into a simmering frustration, with no guaranteed answer of escape. Violence was always an option, but he’d heard rumors about the Ars Goetia, same as anyone else not within their inner circle. If he wagered the bet of knocking the attendant off his feet, he likely wouldn’t make it to the door, judging by how fast he’d just seen him move. Blitz’s head tilted backwards until his eyes met the metal ceiling, and a massive sigh deflated his entire body.
“Fuck it, fuck it: fine. You can follow me back home and by my attendant, or whatever the hell it is you’re hired to do.”
And just like that, Stolas moved aside and bowed, arm extended to usher him out of the building. “A wise choice, Master Buckzo.”
A scowl smeared along Blitz’s mouth as he finally stepped free of the elevator. “Don’t call me that; it’s weird. Just call me Blitz.”
“As you wish, Master Blitz.”
“…close enough.”
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My second shadow is heavy, feeding from my back
If I fall, will I disappear entirely?
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Stolas didn’t make a peep the entire walk home.
In the beginning, silence couldn’t have been a greater gift, but now that home was looming overhead, Blitz found himself annoyed; hadn’t the owl said he wanted to play Twenty Questions? The double-back confused him to the verge of blurting out the obvious, ‘why aren’t you asking me questions’, but he bit his tongue; there had to be a reason. Maybe he’d given off some sort of sign that he, in fact, didn’t want to talk, and Stolas picked up on it; hence the zipped beak.
While waiting, Blitz had sneaked more than a handful of peeks at his second shadow. Long-ass legs made it easy for the owl to keep up, but he seemed to have purposefully slowed his gait to not overpower his new master. That fancy coat of his never slipped off his shoulders either; was it somehow magically attached to him or just clipped on by a chain he couldn’t see? With all those feathers, it was hard to know. What was even more of a scalp scratcher was that the morning sun didn’t seem to bug the Goetia at all. Blitz had to don his shades the instant they stepped back outside, but there Stolas was just…bare eyeballs out for the world to see.
Was he looking at anything specific? Was he looking at Blitz? Normally, he’d get a little mental nudge whenever someone was ogling him, but…nothing. Even as they walked through a second lobby and entered a second elevator, Stolas didn’t utter a single word. The tension was thick enough to lick and leave a mid-air smudge; like saying goodbye to someone and walking down the same path for a bit.
By the time the long elevator ride to the top floor ended, Blitz couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“I’ve got no clue where you’re going to sleep.”
As if granted permission to break a vow of silence, the owl’s head turned in his direction. “I am able to sleep while standing, if required.”
That’s creeeeeeeepy!
“That something they teach you in bodyguard academy?” Blitz joked with a scoff.
“Yes.”
Fuck, he’s serious?!
“Amongst a plethora of other useful skills, that is. Make no mistake Master Blitz, I am more than equipped to garnish you with the skills necessary to attend the Goetian Gala; you simply need to trust me.”
From a pocket hidden inside of his jacket, Blitz procured a black keycard and held it up to the singular door which stood at the center of the left wall. As he turned the handle to his penthouse apartment and pushed inside, thoughts of trust exercises danced across his mind. Sprawling walls of white incubated a gallery of shuttered windows within an expansive realm of loosely tossed clothes, crooked photos, and empty food containers. Repelled by thick curtains, sunlight could only squeeze through the bottom most hem and peek along carpeted floors, leaving only a gloomy reverie to marinate in the stench of cigarette smoke, day old pizza, and imp. The kitchen counter lay buried beneath an army of empty beer cans, energy drinks, shot glasses, and ceramic bongs of various rainbow patterns.
“…perhaps I spoke in haste.”
“Welcome to IMP HQ, home of none other than myself. Watch your step, watch your elbows, and watch out for falling bullshit.”
“IMP Headquarters?”
“Nothing; you wouldn’t get it.” Blitz sighed. No point in blabbing about dreams, was there? “Like I said, I’ve got no idea where you’re gonna sleep. My couch is good, but it’s not meant for—” The sound of clattering cans turned his head, and he watched as Stolas dropped a group of them into an empty garbage bag. When did he find time to go rummaging?! “…what the hell are you doing?”
“Cleaning, of course. As they say, ‘cluttered space leads to a cluttered mind’.”
“Who’s they?”
“The learned.”
“…Well, knock yourself out, just don’t break my shit.”
If he was going to be straddled with an extra shadow looming over his shoulder, he might as well get a clean house out of it. Besides, there wasn’t much chance it would cause any harm, and it gave Blitz the opportunity to compose himself. While his hangover was sure as shit banished by the bat-shittery his father had dropped on him, fatigue was another story.
Christ on a stick, I could use a nap…
Past the kitchen bar, sheltered beneath a secondary floor, the double doors to his bedroom swung open with ease. Just as dim as the living room, yet somehow even messier, it radiated the warmth of undisturbed sleep. A massive bed sat off-frame from the doors, given ample room to breathe, which sat beneath a reflective ceiling. Drawers filled half of an entire wall, their skull furnished with all manner of half-burned candles, empty condom wrappers, and clothes yet to be properly put away. Filled with familiar scents, the space instantly bestowed Blitz with relief, and he began to shrug off his jacket on the way to his bed.
Rumpled clothes strewn about the floor tried to snag his boots…clothes which he didn’t recognize as his own. It was then that he noticed, amongst the bundle of blankets and comforters atop his bed, two figures seemingly slumbered. Upon sighting them, Blitz glanced back towards the door, jaw taut and tongue pressed against teeth.
Shit, forgot about these two.
Red locks and black hair jutted out from underneath the blankets, as did two pairs of horns. Being a big shot brought a lot of perks, and one of those perks involved a copious amount of ass delivered to his door. Gifts, or so they were called, from the Ring Representatives as reward for cooperation in certain matters; and when the Sin of Lust himself sent two hotties to someone’s door for a freaky roll in the sheets, only an idiot would refuse. Blitz leaned over his own bed and clutched at a shoulder, then gave it a light shake.
“Hey, wake up, I need you to go.”
A warbled groan followed, then a massive stretch, and the slumbering demon awoke. Blue skin, silken black hair, and a back rippling with enough muscle to crack a whole bucket of clams rose into view; accompanied by the appearance of a curled, spear-tipped tail. Blankets slid from broad shoulders and dropped into the demon’s lap; the trail to which was riddled with abdomen muscle, pectorals, shredded obliques, and no small amount of ink. Elegant, curved strokes of black marked the incubus’ skin across one entire pec and atop a single shoulder: hearts and thorns, basic lust demon aesthetic. “Blitz? Ugh…what time is it?”
As the beefcake’s jaw stretched wide for a yawn, filled with brilliant fangs, a green tail snaked up from beneath the covers and slapped him across the wrist. “Sean…shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep asshole…”
“It’s still morning.” Fingers squeezed down the inner left section of his right boot, and after a brief second of concentrated gripping, Blitz pulled out his wallet. Flipping through the bills inside, he slipped out about eight-hundred bucks and folded it into a neat wad. “Tell Asmodeus I loved his gift; this is for you two. Split it however you want.”
“Kicking us out already?” Sean chuckled, as he rubbed at one of his white eyes. “Figured you’d want to snuggle more.”
“Trust me, with the morning I’ve had, I’d fucking love to, but I can’t.”
“Aww, honey…” That blue tail reached out and hooked the front of Blitz’s belt, then pulled him to the bed’s edge. “…you’re too sweet: c’mere, one for the road.” Sean sat up, cupped a hand around the back of that slender red neck, and planted his lips to Blitz’s. Slow, heated, and intimate breath filtered between them, and a devilish sweetness sank its claws deep into his tastebuds. Before the kiss could escalate further, blue parted from red, and one figure nudged the other.
“Rita, wake up.”
As Blitz licked the final taste of the incubus from his lips, he watched as the second lump on the bed tossed its coverage clear with a harsh swing. Shoulder blades, thick enough to carve meat on, cut deep canyons through green flesh, as a sensually muscular neck arched to one side. Grippable, tight hips stretched alongside a broad torso; one which was also no stranger to definition gained through rigor and routine. Messy red hair was ruffled and tossed about by clawed fingers, and its owner shook her horned head, only to finally turn towards all the commotion. Amazonian physique graced Blitz’s gaze; all the barbaric strength and tomboyish beauty of an overachieving bombshell wrapped in luscious, emerald. “There better be breakfast…”
Every iota of scorn was directed solely at Blitz, but he couldn’t tell how much of it was genuine. Given it came from a succubus who could not only bench press him, but snap his spine like a twig, he hoped she was simply fucking with him. “Sorry, there isn’t.”
“…you’re lucky that dick of yours tickles my heart, Blitz.” Rita groaned, her bare ass on full display as she stood. “Maybe I’ll just say you owe me one, and come back for another round as compensation?”
“Chill, girl.” Sean chuckled, socks and jockstrap already salvaged from the floor. “You don’t need to come up with some roundabout reason to fuck him, you know.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” A pierced tail, adorned with multiple spiked collars, slunk about behind her toned cheeks, as the succubus rounded the mattress; a predatory, mischievous gleam in her eye. One of her fingertips dragged up along his chin in no time, forcing his head to lean back as she grinned; nothing but fang. “Wouldn’t be the first time he cancelled plans to have his pelvis tenderized; isn’t that right, Blitz?” Her sultry tease wriggled deep into his cerebral cortex, and a playful grin slipped onto his face as he ogled her chest and collarbone. Neurons fired, activated by waves of lustful influence, and he suddenly felt more awake than he had all morning!
Ever since he could remember, Blitz had a thing for muscular demons; no matter their gender. Perhaps it was the sensation of ab muscle against his tongue, or the tight press of biceps flexed against his windpipe, or maybe even how comfortable his head was clenched between a pair of thighs. They didn’t even need to be herculean, simply visible and intimidating. Nothing was better than an athletic tomboy…except maybe a sensitive beefcake male counterpart to round out the dynamic.
Rita’s eyes drew him in, the grin on her lips spread an infectious reflection onto his own, and Blitz found himself drawn ever closer, unable to look away. Maybe there was enough time for another rough roll in the hay; just one, before he—
“I believe this belongs to you, madam?”
Both demons blinked, as a large, black bra dropped from the sky and landed upon Rita’s horns; like a game of ring toss at some bumpkin fairground. They turned towards the source of the fourth voice, only to find Stolas; hands behind his back and an unreadable expression wrought upon his face, as light from the living room enveloped his form like a halo.
“Forgive me, Master Blitz; I was unaware of any visitors within your home. Would you like me to escort them to the elevator?”
“Oh, hello, who is this?” Sean’s voice lilted with delight, his white eyes ablaze with curiosity to match. “Who’s your tailor; please tell me they take commission work.”
“That’s…” Blitz sighed, the darkness of his skull visible for a brief second. “…Stolas.”
“Skinny fucker, ain’t he?” Rita’s grip released Blitz’s face like a scalding hot sauna rock and walked towards the bedroom door, arms and shoulders preening as she clipped her bra. “You pulling a paradigm shift on us? Find out your cock gets harder for twigs instead of boulders?”
“Hell no, he’s here on business.”
“So were we, darling.” Sean’s ass occluded Blitz’s sightline, in all its bubbly, bitable glory, right up into his tail caressed the underside of his chin. “But we understand; favorites come, then favorites go. All we hope is that you’ll invite us back…” On his own way towards the door, clad in nothing but a tight tank top and black jockstrap, the blue-skinned incubus offered a smile in Stolas’ direction. “…because you know how flexible we can be when it comes to extras.” He was the first to leave, giving a little finger wave on the way out; followed shortly by Rita, who still had clothes to grab from the living room.
Whatever Stolas was thinking, it was a complete mystery. His lack of reaction in general was starting to become tedious. Was it simply another part of his training? There had to be something he’d react to… If having a fifteen-out of-ten like Sean offer up a foursome didn’t do it, then…shit.
“Would you like me to tidy up this room as well? I can have your sheets cleaned before breakfast, if you wish.” Already mid-stride, his question lingered as the owl made his way over to the covered windows and tugged upon a braided string. Blinds shot towards the ceiling at mach-3, and blinding sunlight poured into the bedroom! Blitz hissed at the immediate damage to his eyes and threw an arm up to cover them. “I believe a lesson in organizational methodology is prudent, given the neglect of your dwelling.”
Satan…fucking damnit; the light!
Overpowered by its potent rays, he turned on his heel and bolted for the open doors, using their flat, wide surface as a shield. Yet, where he escaped one source of light, another waited to entrap him anyway. Every blind in the living room had been opened, drowning the penthouse in rays of morning sunlight. Blitz tugged his jacket up over his head, slid it between his horns, and used its inner lining to block the sun completely.
No sooner did he find blissful shelter, did a monotone voice vibrate through the leather. “Your duties seem to have thrown your morning grooming into flux, Master Blitz. I shall run a bath for you as well.”
Unable to completely see where Stolas stood, Blitz whirled on instinct and faced where the voice was loudest. “Stop…doing shit!” he exclaimed in aggravation. “It’s not my fault the old man dropped a surprise meeting on us! I only had time to throw a quick outfit on and snag a coffee, alright?!” When no response came, he dared a peek to see if the owl was still even in the room, only to nearly leap from his skin, as he saw Stolas kneeling directly in front of his crotch! “What the--?!”
Brain in overdrive, his arms rose to react, but then he watched as the Goetia’s fingers pinched the bottom of his shirt…and rubbed against a bloodstain. Red eyes narrowed, tilted downward into curved, menacing talons above and below; enraptured by the appearance of blood. With the knowledge that Stolas wasn’t trying to whip his dick out, Blitz’s body instantly relaxed, yet his attention locked in on the Goetia’s expression; that had drawn a reaction out of him. “Are you injured, Master Blitz?”
“What; no, that’s not mine. Some asshole tried robbing me on the way to the meeting, and I took care of it." Up close, a hint of gentle, fruity cologne perked his nose, and every feather seemed possessed of a magical sheen; like looking lopsided at a mystical mirror. The very air around him felt cooler than anywhere else, to the point that summertime scents and fresh flowers embraced his nose as well. It wasn’t just in his nose either, but in his head, upon his skin; Blitz saw, touched, and smelled an entire new season in the breadth of an instant. The experience put his heart offbeat, his feet off kilter, and his voice mute. In resignation, or perhaps indulgence, he let Stolas look him over.
“I’d like to perform a full, proper examination to ensure that is the case.”
“You don’t—”
“Blood often contains harmful pathogens which can cause great health issues down the line, if not properly identified and treated. If whomever attacked you carried any sort of disease or other ailment, it could be catastrophic.” Then, casual as an accidental glance, one of Stolas’ talons curved upwards and sliced the material from hem to neckline!
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?!”
“Discarding the garment. Germs spread across a vast distance at shocking speed, and if my hypothesis is correct, the entire shirt is compromised.”
“But you touched it!”
“Goetia are immune to the ailments of lesser demons; such is the gift of being highborn.” Upper body suddenly exposed to the sunlight’s warming rays, toned muscle and all, Blitz could barely restrain a yelp of surprise deep in his throat. Before he could get another word in edge wise, smooth talons rummaged through his front and back pockets with nimble speed and care; and in a flash, flicked the thief’s butterfly knife into the open.
“Hey!”
Steel flashed just as quick, so much so that astonishment mingled amidst a myriad of other emotions at how smooth the multiple folding and unfolding motions were. It was as if the owl had practiced his entire life to perform tricks with such a blade yet placed it aside after a brief examination of the clean blade. The second knife, Blitz’s own knife, wasn’t as lucky; as it was likewise lifted from his person with surprising ease. Stolas’ eyes narrowed once again at the light residue of blood upon the serrated blade, mingled in amongst the crimson and black metalwork.
“I will acquire new garments for you; these must be destroyed.”
“Can’t you just wash them?!”
“The timetable of potential infectious saturation is unclear; better to be safe rather than sorry.”
“No, not my curb stompers!” Blitz grabbed for the top edge of his boots, as his tail snapped protectively at his front.
“As I said, I will simply procure you a new pair.”
“They have sentimental value, piss off!” Forced into a standoff, half-hunched over his own feet like some kind of protective bobcat, Blitz’s lips stretched into an aggressive hiss…right before his foot pushed off the floor to make a run for it! He bolted towards the sectional, muscles alight with adrenaline; if he could put some distance between himself and Stolas, he might just be able to hide the boots away and—
Without warning, his feet were yanked out from under him, but before he could strike the ground, Blitz found himself flying backwards! Something clamped down around his body; something thin, but incredibly strong, as the world tumbled around him. Disorientation upheaved his stomach, along with a brief flash of cranial discomfort, until he found himself dangling upside down. Stolas stood before him, wholly unimpressed, a glowing purple thread wrapped around his hand at multiple angles; the line of which headed directly down towards Blitz. Just like a fish on a string, the imp wriggled, forced to watch helplessly while both boots slid from his feet. Without them, his hooves wiggled in the open; two-pronged and flanked by a prominent, stone heel tip.
“Do not worry Master, I will send them to a royal cobbler to be properly cleansed and refurbished; if they truly mean that much to you.”
“Let go of me!” His arms, pinned against his sides, strained against the glowing thread. No matter how hard he flexed, the thread didn’t hurt, but somehow managed to prevent him from creating any sort of wiggle room. At his command, the bonds wrapped around his body unwound…but not before somehow undoing his pants on the way out and stripping Blitz down to his boxers! He had just enough distance to tuck his head and roll over his shoulder to avoid any fall damage, before he turned back around and found his clothes already gone. “You’ve got some fucking nerve!”
“Apologies, Master Blitz, but I am simply doing my duty. A proper attendant cannot allow their ward to suffer ill. I do this only for your benefit.”
That’s a load of horseshit! Blitz jabbed a finger towards the owl; a vein fit to pop along his temple. “My benefit my ass; you just wanted to sneak a peek at my body, you fucking perverted bird! Well guess what, I wouldn’t sleep with you, even if you had the best cock in all seven rings! I wouldn’t fuck you, even if that shit was hypnotic! You could have the best of both worlds; the best tits, the best dick and balls known to demonkind, and two holes strong enough to transform me into a fucking incubus, and I still wouldn’t touch that shit with a ten-thousand-foot pole!”
To his surprise, not only did his words seem to give Stolas pause, but he also bent forward into a deep bow with his hand upon his heart. Red eyes closed, and his usual monotone dipped into something softer; like the veil of dusk set upon a quiet field. “It appears that I have caused you great distress, in the application of my duties. I apologize for upsetting you. I carry no inclination to exploit you socially, sexually, or mentally; that is not my purpose. My purpose, granted to me by our contract, is to ensure you are protected, trained, and happy. It is my wish, as your loyal attendant, that you are given the best quality of all three…and so, I beg your forgiveness that I may grant them.”
Regret welled in his chest, at the sight of such a humble apology, so much so that Blitz rubbed at the back of his neck and stared at the floor: damn his temper… Stolas was just trying to do his job, and at the end of the day, wasn’t everyone? What was the harm in letting the owl pamper him a bit?
“…bathroom’s over there.” He said, arm jutted out towards a door opposite of the kitchen. “Do whatever you need to with my clothes; I’ll…meet you in there.”
“You will permit me to run a bath for you?”
“Yes, but it better be the best fucking bath I’ve ever taken.”
As further words formed on his lips, primed and ready to be launched, the scent of summer flowers rushed into Blitz’s nose and froze his brain. Once again, Stolas had dropped to a single knee, but this time had also lifted one of Blitz’s hands with his own…and pressed his pearly-white forehead atop red skin.
What…what is he…doing? Newfound pressure stabbed at his heart, worms wriggled in his stomach, and a fizzling numbness enflamed the back of his neck. Blitz’s heart skipped, stopped, then skipped again; the smoothness, the light and feathery touch, it was too much…too much… My chest is tight, like I’m about to have a heart attack, but…why don’t I want to stop it?
“If that is your wish, it shall be so.”
Shit…I’m lightheaded…am I dying?
“I shall make the necessary preparations immediately. Please, join me at your leisure.” And just like that, Stolas released his hand, stood up, and walked over to the bathroom. The moment that he did, the thundering subsided, the pain faded, and all was calm.
Dazed and confused, sparks of conscious thought sprang to the forefront, as Blitz slapped himself across the face. “Stop it, stop it; your balls are empty, moron!” he growled under his breath; a reprimand directed at himself. More than a punishment, it was a rallying cry to compose his thoughts and urges. “Don’t make it weird. He’s a Goetia; they’re weird by default. Your weird is his normal. Play it cool…you’re in charge…” Nerves yet to completely stabilize, a cool burning left to blaze in his lungs, Blitz walked towards the bathroom. “…you’re in charge.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Deep in a haze of civility
A feathered serpent slipped into my heart
And poisoned me with loving fangs
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Running water.
Floating steam.
A promised bath awaited, just beyond a light-lined door. One at the hands of a Goetia; a far cry from the hour-long showers which filled his every other morning. Had his heart not been hardened enough by a decade of bad blood and grudges; ones which he often gnawed upon in the late hours of night, in scheduled fits of restless angst? Did years' worth of hatred mean nothing when matched against a gentle touch and equally eloquent fragrances? If he did not hate them, did that mean his love for her had withered over time? Had he become a poor excuse for a son; one who forsook justice at the first drop of tenderness given to him? Did he, truly even, love his poor deceased mother?
Blitz pushed through the door; soul hardened against any future advances. A frown upon his face, frustration in his breast, and newborn stubbornness to tie it all together and make him a man, were donned as he stepped through clarifying vapors. There, at the end of a large tub, one purposely twice as large as any imp could ever need, stood Stolas. His jacket was discarded fully; the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to the elbows. The darkness of his hands extended quite a way, it seemed, and that detail quickly locked itself away in Blitz’s mind. Why? Truthfully, he didn’t know.
It simply felt valuable to have.
“Your bath is ready, Master Blitz. However, before you step inside, I wish to conduct that examination I spoke of previously.”
“Only if you’ll answer some questions while you’re doing it.”
“Of course, ask away.” Once again, Stolas knelt at his feet, tips of talons brought to trace about white-scarred skin in search of fresh wounds. Abdominal muscle clenched in their presence; both in fear of their keen edge and truly unknown intent of their wielder.
“You work for any imps before?”
“No, you are the first.”
“Why?”
“My fee is rather exorbitant.”
“Are you saying we can’t usually afford you?”
“In my own experience, yes.”
Teasing sharpness skated upwards past his pec, for a leisurely vacation along his collarbone. It must have been to check his neck. As the deadly beak of the owl’s finger crossed over throat muscle, its speed, surprisingly, diminished; like it was hesitating at the border of something it didn’t completely understand.
“Why’d you stop?” Blitz asked, a heavy huff loaded to blast from his nostrils.
“…Forgive me, Master. I did not wish to potentially invite harm upon you by touching your scars.”
Oh.
“…they don’t hurt anymore, so touch away.”
Even with permission, Stolas’ touch was wisp thin. “It would seem your attacker failed to leave even a single scratch upon you.”
“Guy was a chump. If he had gone ahead and shanked me from the get-go instead of trying to be intimidating about it, he’d be eating pretty damn good right now. Instead, he’s got fucking third degree burns on his face and a gash in his thigh.” A measured gaze, wrangled to a gentle peripheral glance, turned towards Stolas. “…if we’d been jumped on the way home, what would you have done, as my attendant?”
“Never wish for the opportunity to inflict harm upon others, Master Blitz. Those who rely upon physical violence to influence the world are weak of mind and presence. True control is displayed by those who are influenced to react with violence, yet choose not to, and prosper as a result.” Stolas stood and walked back, only to then bow and gesture towards the bath. “You may enter the tub now, seeing as there are no wounds for me to tend.”
Silently, the imp pointed a finger towards the tiled floor and spun it in a circle, as a signal for the owl to turn around. As he did, Blitz shed his last article of clothing; privates immediately warmed by the slightly obscuring steam. “You didn’t answer my question, you know.” He walked towards the tub and hiked his leg up high, to submerge himself in the steaming hot water within. Hot vapors wrapped about his foot, the closer it hovered towards the water’s surface; a surface which was strewn in a battlefield of bubbles and foam. Blissful heat enveloped his hooves shortly after, then the remainder of his body, as he slid into the tub with a deep, groaning sigh. “Fuuuuuck me…” he droned. “…what’d you put in here?”
Water sloshed, ripples drifted, and bubbles jiggled as a blackened hand dipped in a sponge. “Minerals designed to soothe the body, physically and aromatically.” Gentle pressure braced against his shoulder as the sponge circled up a veil of foam, then slid down his arm, which Blitz lifted. Droplets plopped into the tub, all the way from his fingertips to his elbow, and he watched the trail of Stolas’ hand as it cleaned his arm.
He’d never felt so relaxed before. Being bathed by an Ars Goetia didn’t even register as the massive issue it should have been. The water’s heat felt too good, every stiff joint and muscle in his body given holiday after a thirteen-year campaign: bliss, by another name. All the while, a pleasant shadow loomed beside his head, just out of sight, but he knew it was only Stolas…and thus, his guard lowered.
“This a habit of yours, or did I really just stink that bad?”
“Nobility is more than a bloodline. To be a noble soul is to be poised, relaxed, and confident. A strong posture cannot be supported by weary muscles; doing so only deflates your mood, which needs to be regulated constantly.” Again, water sloshed as Blitz’s arm slid back into volcanic paradise, the soapy foam left to drift upon the waves, as the sponge circled over his toned chest. “Proper sleep, proper diet, proper grooming; these are the pillars of a noble appearance. If you are to have any hope of succeeding at the gala, all three must be learned and applied properly.”
“…so, you’re giving me a bath because it’ll make me feel richer?”
“Wealth has nothing to do with it.” In silence, Stolas finished washing Blitz’s chest, then crossed over to his other arm. It wasn’t until it too was purified by hordes of bubbles and foam, did he speak again. “If you do not respect your own health, your own body, then how can you possibly expect the world to consider you worthy of noble standing?”
“Oh, I dunno…wear a wig, chug a ton of wine, marry a woman I hate, have a kid with her I didn’t want, then cheat with some hung pool boy?” Too relaxed to tighten his words, their intended jest towed dangerously closed to the line of sincerity.
“There is playing the part, Master Blitz, and then there is becoming the part. One is mockery; tongue and cheek reprimands disguised as jest, but the other never fully leaves you. The masks we don are simply ones we tucked away long ago, for fear of what they might bring, and were always part of us despite our claims. That is an actor’s greatest fear; that they are no different than the monsters they play, at heart.”
“…I don’t get it.”
“Think of it like this; if you were to act as you perceive other royals, they would see straight through your performance. To fully integrate you into the festivities, you must become a royal, yet hold onto the experiences that make you, uniquely, you.” With the second arm cleaned, Stolas reached down and raised one of Blitz’s legs out of the tub, only to immediately begin cleaning his foot in satisfying, circular scrubs. “I understand you come from a family of acrobats; no noble house can hold such a claim. Speak of your lineage with pride, with boastful sincerity, and back up your statements with action worthy of affirmation. You need not be ashamed of your origins, only of your current conduct.”
Blitz stewed on those words, much like his body stewed within the cauldron of his purifying bath. For a guy who had been relatively tight lipped before, he hadn’t expected Stolas to monologue so much. What had changed? No one did anything without a reason behind it or a goal to pursue, so maybe he was simply putting his best and immediate foot forward; multi-tasking, so to speak. It was uplifting, in a way, to detect such passion in typical monotone…but the owl didn’t know everything.
“Thanks for the advice…”
“You are welcome.”
Stolas lowered Blitz’s leg back into the bath, then circled around towards the other. Right within the owl’s sightline, clean red hands hastily pulled bubbles over his lap, just in case. As their conversation lulled into mutual silence, inner musings on the bird’s own bathing habits sprung to mind. Did he need to get Stolas a bird bath or anything? Would he just use the same tub; he only had the one. Then, a new perverse thought came to mind, and his cheeks flushed in the presence of more than just steamy bathwater.
Taking baths together would save on water, and it’s big enough for two…
So deep was he in his own thoughts, that Blitz didn’t even realize his second leg was already done being washed! He flinched as his leg embraced water once again, only to watch as Stolas continued to circle around the tub.
“Okay, that’s every bit of me that’s…not personal. I can take the rest from he—”
Knuckles cracked, a familiar shadow loomed, and soft fingers dug deep into the muscles of his shoulders! A deep knead, one which hot instantaneous relief through his brain, caused Blitz to relax and roll his head to one side.
“You’re rather stiff, Master. I’m already detecting more than a few knots; please, enjoy the water while I rub them out.”
Mmm-nope! No, no, no, no, nuh-uh, no-no-no!
In panic, blood rushing to all the worst places, Blitz’s brow trembled at just how fucking amazing the massage already felt. There’s no way he could squirm in front of a Goetia; no fucking way! Yet those digits hooked deep and forced a groan, if not a sharp change in facial expression, from the imp.
“H-hey, you know, I’m actually starving right now. Could you go c-c-”
Satan fucking Christ…
“…whip up some food? We can do the massage after breakfast, right?”
Immediately, Stolas’ hands lifted away, “If that is your wish, then it shall be done.” Then, without further word, he turned and left the bathroom; tailfeather’s swishing with elegance all the way.
Volcanic stew swallowed his shoulders, neck, and chin, until half of his face was submerged, hands hidden while they bullied his uniquely personal problem into compliance. Bubbles popped upon the surface, brought about by an exhale that did its best to empty his mind and think straight. Not a mighty dragon, but a lowly little imp, left to wallow in his own muck ridden memories and the emotions that flowed throughout them.
He’s being paid to do this, remember, he’s being paid to be nice to you; this isn’t real. You’re a flame-stained little freak, and the only reason he’s giving you the time of day is the same reason anyone else in Hell does...you’re rich. Stick your dick in a thousand whores, shake the hands of every Sin; it won’t change a thing. No matter how much money you have, no matter how much power you take, you’re still just an imp.
Reaching blindly with his foot, he snagged the ring of the tub’s plug and pulled up, and as the water around him began to disappear, Blitz welcomed the cold that followed. For minutes, even long after all that remained were dead kingdoms of bubbles, he lay in the tub; goosebumps along his skin. Part of him felt like it was deserved; just the thing to shock him back into reality. When at last the cold, black polish became too much for even his dour mood to withstand, he grabbed a towel, wrapped himself decent, and stepped out of the bathroom.
Quit thinking you could ever be anything more.
Chapter 2: Lizard on a Ledge: The Journey to Second Breakfast
Summary:
Blitz struggles to adapt to his new Goetian attendant's strange ways. When a cherished friend invites him over, for both business and pleasure, he ends up getting more than he bargained for in all the wrong ways.
Chapter Text
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Lost to time and sealed away
Childish wonderment returned to me
Summoned by a demonic angel
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Breakfast passed without incident. Stolas had whipped up an entire spread of options; eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, juice, coffee, all with concerning efficiency. Blitz had a taste of everything, and every single one was delicious. When he asked for his eggs to be scrambled, he got scrambled eggs. When he asked for hot sauce on top, he got to watch Stolas drizzle that shit on. Anything he asked for, he was given immediately and without question.
Outside of eating the best breakfast of his life, Blitz regarded his newly appointed attendant with no small amount of suspicion. Through orgasmic cheek-fulls of fluffy, buttery eggs, his eye never wandered far from the owl. However, there was a problem; his throat couldn’t help but express its satisfaction with every bite, and it did so by moaning.
Now, at first, he figured that would get Stolas’ goat; either be too annoying or too uncomfortable to linger around…but he did. Not only didn’t he shy away, his face also never changed in response to the sounds; good or bad, a completely blank slate.
“Quite a poker face you’ve got.” Blitz said; mouthful of egg. “Is that part of your job, or do you got some kinda stick shoved up in ya?” Swallowing one batch of delectable eggs, a low moan followed, only to be muffled by another fork’s worth of protein-filled delights.
“Proper attendants restrain their emotions to fit the situation at hand. Control over oneself allows for greater agency, and thus, I remain neutral until otherwise needed.”
Blitz scratched at the loose, soft material of his weekend shirt; a faded brown shirt with a horseshoe decaled on its front. “Uh-huh, whatever you say.” Snatching a piece of toast, he dipped it twice into his steaming coffee and took a massive bite; almost the entire slice. “Fuck me, that’s good coffee; makes the stuff I drank earlier taste like shit.” Unable to resist a deeper flavor, Blitz raised the cup to his lips and slurped down three gulps of caffeinated joy. “Keep making this and I’ll probably gain a few pounds.”
“Your enjoyment is noted, as is the manner in which you dine.”
Wrapping up a log’s worth of sausage and a kindling of bacon within a single pancake, Blitz stretched his jaw wide and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. By the time Stolas’ words reached his brain, spicy smoked meat and succulent syrup were already locked in place; effectively muted until he finished chewing.
Passively, the owl watched the imp struggle to gnaw down that boulder of breakfast food, like a baby bird trying to swallow too large a worm. “I had no inclinations that you were in such a severe state of starvation, Master. But have no worry, proper meal preparation shall come in due time. By the end of our time together, you will never want for another’s culinary skills again.”
Wait, what?!
Through a bout of great strain, clenched muscle, and gag suppression, that ball of food managed to slide down into Blitz’s stomach. The noise he then let out wasn’t a moan, as usual, but a gasp for air. “You’re gonna teach me how to cook?”
“That is correct.”
“But…but I’m not cooking anything at the gala, and I know for a fucking fact those preening peacocks don’t make their own meals either!”
“Are you saying you cannot learn, Master Blitz?”
Stunned, the imp stared right at Stolas, his pride wounded and thirsty for retribution! Just as his body spurred to action; a pointed finger, an upturned finger, another aggressive gesture, anything at all…he caught himself. A smile of realization slipped upon his face, and Blitz wagged his fork at Stolas.
“Nice try, but you can’t goad me. I’ve been around the block way too many times to fall for that old bait tactic.”
“I see. Your willpower is to be commended.”
“That’s right.” A sip of tart orange juice invigorated his mind, just as the coffee had, but made him frown at the bitter combination it created. “Being a gentleman doesn’t get you far down here; only guts, grit, and a head like a steel trap.” He shot a particularly nasty look towards the owl, resentment thick in the bile of his gut. “Survival is more important than manners: hard stop.”
Though his words rang with confidence, the memory of Stolas’ earlier blade work created momentary hesitation at their validity. For all he knew, it could’ve been an empty display; just to be flashy and show off, but it also could’ve been genuine skill. Which, if it was genuine…
“I am no stranger to physical conflict, despite my earlier lecture on avoiding it.”
A suspicious scoff of disbelief leapt from shark-sharp teeth. “You look like you’ve never been touched once in your fucking life.”
“Assumption is the gatekeeper of disaster, Master Blitz.”
“Assumption is the gatekeeper of blah-blah- shut the hell up…” he mocked, mimicking Stolas’ tone of voice. “…all of this karate sensei bullshit is giving me a headache.”
“Would you like an aspirin?”
A growl rumbled from the deepest pit of his gut; nothing seemed to phase the owl, and it was beginning to piss him off! Blitz buried his feelings beneath more pancakes, using the forced moment of silence to try and get his brain straight again. That was twice now that his composure had been completely upturned in the same day…and that fact worried him, deeply so.
“I understand that this new relationship of ours is rather taxing for you, but as previously stated, all I wish is your safety, happiness, and well-being. Hard as it might be to believe, given you are justifiably suspicious of my mere presence, it is the truth.”
“See, you say that, but I’ve been stabbed in the back enough times to know better.” Glass to table; a dull thud as he finished a swift sip of orange juice to wash the pancakes down. “You can be friends with some cocksucker for years, and the second it’s convenient…”
When no immediate response came, in all of the expected monotone, Blitz shifted his attention from the table to his attendant. Gears turned within the Goetia’s eyes, clear as day, despite their unyielding, mono-red sheen. Instead of continuing, the imp held his tongue; wishing to see what the response was. He couldn’t help it. It was an old habit from years of running the streets, where intent was king and everyone hid their crowns like thieves.
“Loyalty is a precarious thing. It is a mutual exchange of vulnerability and faith; both of which aren’t commonly practiced amongst demons.” Blitz blinked, as a flash of gold appeared between Stolas’ finger; a gilded coin. Deftly, like a meticulously trained program, it rolled across his knuckles until it reached the end of his hand, then flipped in reverse to repeat the path. “But there are ways to compel loyalty by force…” Another golden flash, ignited by the sun’s rays, kissed across Blitz’s face. With each pass of the coin, its every detail sharpened, and as the background faded away, it became all too easy to keep watching.
A strange wave of nostalgia suppressed his mood. Fried foods, checkered banners, patched tents; all planted on a kingdom of dirt roads and wooden stakes. Horses whinnied, hooves clopped and withered red hands shuffled cards atop a table. Immersed in his memory, he recalled the wonderment he had experienced from playing such games; harmless tricks meant to swindle the untrained eye out of pocket change. Sleight of hand, misdirection: magic. Young red faces, grinning white fangs, a child’s laugh…and then, a wave of pain languished its way upon the shore of his mind.
Blitz snapped free of the memory, vision blurred; only to drop into the middle of Stolas’ continued speech with a curved scowl upon his face. He clenched his eyes shut to try and wipe away the fog, but to no avail.
“—but I’m sure you’re more than aware of said tactics.”
“…that thing you’re doing, with the coin…”
“Yes?”
Palm to his eye, the imp kneaded away to smear his vision clear. Luckily, it worked, but his tail continued to gently squirm and flick with agitation; for the pain lingered in taunting prods of sparse activity yet could be felt lurking beneath the surface of calm. A psychic predator, one which loved to lay in wait until striking, nested inside of him, which caused Blitz to grit his teeth and groan. “…think I’ll take you up on that aspirin.”
Dull drumbeats pulsed in his ear; appetite completely ruined by its cadence of oppressive annoyance. Not even the cool marble of the bar-style table helped, as he laid his head down and rubbed both temples in turn atop of it; hoping to mash the pain into submission. No sooner did he complete the second round, did a fizzing glass of water appear, held by Stolas. Like a fish, he leaned in and practically grabbed the rim with his lips and chugged down gulp after gulp of water. As it slowly emptied, Stolas gently tilted the glass to keep providing hydration, until Blitz pulled back with a ragged gasp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“It would appear the effects of your hangover are still lingering about.”
The coin; bastard probably triggered me on purpose! Sneaky shithead…I oughta…
In the middle of his angry thoughts, the soft touch of Stolas’ palm lifted his head beneath the chin, and Blitz suddenly found himself staring deep into those eldritch red eyes again. “Your pupils aren’t dilated: good. Perhaps now would be a good time for your massage; muscular stiffness has far-reaching effects which may be contributing to your cranial discomfort.”
Instinctively, Blitz yanked his head away and hopped down from his chair. “You gonna hold my dick while I piss too?” The need for distance spurred his hooves towards the living room couch, attention locked in on finding the remote for the television. After a few head turns, he found it and unceremoniously flopped onto the soft cushions. “Go…clean the upstairs or some shit; leave me alone.”
“As you wish, Master Blitz.”
Upon hearing the title for what felt like the thousandth time, his tail shot straight and lashed angrily against a nearby throw pillow with a harsh zip. “What is with you and the Master shit? Every other fucking sentence, you’re calling me Master, like I need to be fucking reminded or something! Do you think I’m some kind of fucking moron; you think I’m slow?!” Furious, he all but impaled the remote’s big red power button with his thumb. Some good old, brain rotting guide scrolling was sure to help him forget about his problems. The first thing to pop onscreen was a live feed of a local horse race; hellsteeds literally blazing trails along the track at top speed. It was then, just as he earned his distraction, that Blitz realized Stolas hadn’t responded to his reprimand; to which he whipped his head around, further venom primed and ready to spew. “Answer me when I’m fucking talking to—”
Vacant space remained where Stolas had stood; the kitchen completely abandoned.
“—you…” Anger dissipated, trailed off into weak wisps of its full strength. He hadn’t heard a single step, but maybe it had just been drowned beneath all of his yelling. Frustration welled in his chest from the morning’s events, as well as its concerning developments; shit couldn’t just stop , could it? It was like fate conspired to piss him off at every turn, when it could’ve just…not.
Thank Satan, I don’t think I could’ve handled a massage right now. My dick’s all weird and…confused. Maybe I need to straighten it out again.
The thought caused Blitz to reach for his phone, which only made him realize it wasn’t in his pocket anymore. He’d taken a shower, changed clothes, but where had he left his phone? Wait, Stolas had stripped him to his underwear earlier, which meant…
“Fuck!”
He bolted up from the couch, as if someone had ignited a flame underneath the cushions, and ran towards the kitchen. Hooves skid across tile, then transitioned into a power slide; smooth as a polished egg and as slippery as a soap-coated slug. Blitz rammed his shoulder against the cabinet door beneath the sink, then threw it ajar; it was the spot where Stolas had been throwing away his cans, which meant if his pants were going to be anywhere, they’d be there!
Yet, all he saw was the ghostly smile of a completely empty, fresh garbage bag.
“No…no, no, no, no!”
A violent shove slammed the plastic bin back, followed by a swift, angular kick which rattled it into a pained lean; halfway out and halfway in. Blitz gripped his horns and paced, breath a seething hiss through cracking, clenched fangs.
“Is something the matter, Master Blitz?”
The elegant, subdued and haughty voice practically snapped his neck around. Whether it was noise, or the expression stretched across his master’s face, the Goetia paused halfway down the spiral steps which lead upstairs. Hand loose upon the railing, one foot upon a lower elevation compared to the other; it was a half-step, one which could progress either forward or backwards. Blitz sprinted towards him, hooves clamorous and ferocious, only to skid to a dead stop at the bottom of the staircase.
“Where is it?!”
“Where is what?”
“My phone, my fucking phone! You took my clothes off to give me that fucking bath; what did you do with the phone I had in my pants pocket?!”
“Please do try to restrain your tone; you will ravage your throat by shouting.”
Blitz leapt atop the railing of the staircase, speed and posture completely unaffected by the thin platform of sudden shift in height, then seized Stolas by the collar of his fancy shirt! Knuckles white, bones popped along with the creak of his ground jaw and the furious thunderclap of his heaving breath. “Did you throw it away? Huh; did ya?!”
Spittle, feral demonic rage; none of it swayed the Goetia’s rigid expression.
“If anything happened to it, because of you…” It wasn’t enough to simply grit his teeth anymore. No, the anger had grown too great for that. Up through the depths of his gums, buried in the roots of his fangs, the product of his father’s genetics flared until he tasted murderous spite. A rush of cool air surged over the wet flesh within his mouth, all while he was forced to swallow pooling spit; kicked into overproduction from such intense emotion.
While he couldn’t see it, there was certainly an aura of motion in Stolas’ eyes. He was looking at something, but what? After a brief moment, as if waiting for the threat to finish, the owl spoke. “If the value of your cellular device outweighs that of my life, then either I mean very little to you, or its contents are rather precious. Either way…” Out from the tangle of buckles and straps, a thin red line snaked upwards into the air. It seemed sentient, or at least programmed, as it swerved around Blitz and trailed off into his bedroom. “…after disinfecting your cellphone to avoid any potential blood pathogens from spreading, I placed it upon your nightstand.”
Oh.
Oh.
Anger ebbed, muscles relaxed, and in place of fear came shame. Blitz practically shoved the owl’s collar away and gracefully dismounted from the railing; he had to see it for himself. Within seconds, he was back in his bedroom, and sure enough, there was his cellphone; exactly where Stolas had said. It's cool protective casing quelled his anger further, as Blitz swiped it from the nightstand and sat upon his bed.
It’s okay…it’s fine…thank fuck…
Drained of anger, fatigue ran rampant. His head, devoid of all thought, sank against the edge of joined hands. Silent relief filled the space left behind, and as Blitz took a deep breath, his phone suddenly vibrated. Onscreen, through the red meat of his fingers, a neon purple light flashed.
Fizz.
A text sat upon the front of his phone, with his best friend’s toothy, jester-like grin on full display for the profile picture. The text read…
🎭💬*Hey bitch! Barb told me you went through some shit this morning. Wanna talk about it? *
Worn down as he was, the message still managed to crack a smile on Blitz’s face; and without hesitation, he unlocked his phone and crafted a reply.
♞💬*Over the phone? *
Secrecy was everything, so having trusted people who could keep their mouths shut was a true treasure. Through thick and thin, the only constant was family; they never betrayed him, always propped him up, and never left him to rot in the muck. At least…until now. Was the gala really that huge of a deal; one big enough that Cash would actually snip him from the family tree if he fucked it up? His dad wasn’t one to talk shit without being able to back it up, but a lingering doubt remained.
🎭💬*Swing by Lust? Ozzie’s got an envelope with your name on it anyway; kill two birds with one stone. *
♞💬*You free now? *
🎭💬*For you, hell yeah. *
♞💬*Alright, see you in a few. *
Quietly as he could, Blitz grabbed a new outfit from his dresser, then shifted to his closet to grab a jacket and boots. All the while, he eyeballed the door; no Stolas. There was no way he was going to stroll up to Fizz’s pad with a Goetia in tow, so he needed to slip out without being caught. Not only that, but he’d need to blend in on his way to Lust. A rib-cropped denim jacket, studded at the lapel and collar while also lacking any sleeves, covered a loose black tank top slathered with a messy x-shape; as though it were spray painted on. Torn, red plaid pants and ankle-high motorcycle boots rounded off the ensemble at the bottom, while a spiked black collar protected the exposed area of his neck. A perfect punk ensemble; he’d blend right in!
He approached the massive, wall-sized window that was his view of the outside world, then pushed down on a mismatched section of metal. With a simple push and twist, a handle appeared right out of the frame; one which he used to push the window open. Below him, thirty floors of concrete and a whole bunch of open air; his ticket to freedom. Any other chump would’ve been phased, but Blitz was a mother fucking acrobat! Heights that monstrous were child’s play to someone of his immense skill!
Far below, at around the five story mark, telephone lines stretched across every block. They would be his final point of contact, before touching the ground, but he’d need something else to land on in the meantime. As luck would have it, from the corner of his eye, a thick, corded metal cable flashed in the sun; a cable which trailed down directly to a window cleaner’s platform. Maybe he didn’t need to risk his ass that much after all…
Ass to the wind, Blitz stretched his arm to get a gauge for how far he’d need to swing over. It wasn’t too far, but it wasn’t close either. Also, it’d put him in front of his own living room windows for a split second, which meant if he fucked things up, Stolas could see him. “Come on, you big red pussy…” he muttered to himself, thighs flexed, and knees bent. “…no balls, no balls…quit thinking, just go.”
One deep breath later, leg muscles sprung in an explosive display of athletic ability, and Blitz soared sideways towards the cable. Just like the trapeze, just like the trapeze! Hot steel nibbled at his palms and fingers, as the cable shuddered from the sudden increase in weight, but held, nonetheless. Instantly, with his grip secured, Blitz planted his boot’s heel to the cable and slid downwards; wind rushing past as he shot down seven floors in the span of ten seconds.
A grin ripped across his face, as the two poor window cleaners craned their heads back; jaws slack as they watched him plummet straight towards them! Blitz crashed down onto the platform with enough force to rattle the entire structure, sending both working class imps reeling back against the protective railing. Thankfully, his knees didn’t explode, nor did they propel out the top of his skull; thank Satan for all the circus training…
“What the hell?!” one of the imps cried out, the rattle of its voice thick with shock. “Get off, you could’ve killed us!”
Blitz ignored their protests, as he spotted the control level for the platform: perfect. “Sorry, but I need to get to the street, and the elevator just won’t do.” His leg shot outwards, and he kicked the lever in the opposite direction! Immediately, the platform fell from the sky, its brake disengaged, as two out of three imps screamed in utter terror. They clutched at the metal railing, practically mashing it beneath their arm sockets, as the ground rushed to meet them all.
All the while, as they were screaming, Blitz was counting floors. Once the eighth story windows flashed by, he kicked the lever again, and sparks flew like dragon’s breath as the brakes activated. It wasn’t strong enough to stop the platform instantly, but it did kill most of its momentum; just enough for Blitz to plant his hands and a boot onto the rail. When the sixth story window appeared, he leapt off the railing, arms stretched wide and caught the telephone wires mid-fall! Reality tumbled; turned upside down as the imp swung around the reinforced cable, its construction enough to withstand his bodyweight. At the apex of his swing, he clenched his abs, tucked in his legs, and landed directly atop the wire in a squatting position.
“Thanks for the ride boys!” he shouted over his shoulder, just before standing to his full height. Nimble as a cat, he walked across the telephone cables with practiced ease; muscle memory, like riding a bike. Satisfaction, alongside the rush of risking his life, thrummed throughout his body. Goodbye shitty mood, hello escapism!
High above the typical drudgery of Imp City, he walked upon a path of his own making; one which earned him no smaller number of curious and angry looks from the pedestrians below. Still, those heights didn’t compare to what he used to experience within the big top, swinging from rope to rope with Fizz and Barbie. Beneath relatively clear skies, yet unable to escape the stench of the city, nostalgia added its own vapor to the mixture of Blitz’s day. Dare he say that such memories made him happy?
At ease in the breeze, the walk to Pride’s train station was but a stroll in his mind; its’ golden, chrome-like structure an otherwise pleasant eyesore against Imp City’s worn and weary streets. Blitz stopped at the closest electrical box and hopped down; snagging the heel of his boot on one of the provided, metal handholds. Half-way through his wide swing, he kicked back, caught the stud below him with the same foot, and grabbed another. Like a skittish feline, he climbed down and sighed as his boots clacked against concrete. No shortage of foot traffic poured in and out from the rotating glass doors; young and hold, rich and poor; everyone just looking to get somewhere else from where they were. No one paid him much attention, on his way up the many steps, because to them he was just another stranger in a world of the same. He hadn’t rolled up in a fancy car, so he wasn’t rich. He hadn’t worn a suit or had guards to clear the crowd, so he wasn’t a celebrity. There was zero reason to look his way, and yet…
…he felt eyes on his neck all the same.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Ghostly steps
Phantoms follow through the rain
Ripples on my mind
Caused by whom?
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Heel over ankle, thin cushioning supporting his ass, Blitz leaned back in his seat. Buying a train ticket had been easy enough; first trip to Lust, no mess-no fuss. The ticket lady looked relieved when she quoted the price, and he hadn’t tried to haggle it down; a small kindness in a world littered with the moronic and the narcissistically inept. She’d remember him for sure, at least, that’s what he hoped. Having friends in odd places was always useful, out in the streets of big bad Imp City.
Yet, through the entire process of standing in line, buying the ticket, waiting for the train, and finally boarding...the feeling of being watched never faded. At first, he thought it might have just been his imagination; a dash of healthy paranoia to keep his muscles spry and his instincts sharp. But when he took his spot on the relatively vacant train car, the sensation persisted.
Someone was watching him.
Problem was, there was no one around to do the looking. Maybe he was going crazy, or maybe not. Either way, he kept a hand in his pocket and another in the open, just to add an extra layer to the thought process of whatever was peeping on him. Always keep them guessing; was there anything deadly in his pocket, or nothing at all? How fast was his free hand, or was the hidden hand far deadlier, and therefore worthy of prioritizing? Make them look where you want them to look; the first rule of magic.
Outside his window, the countryside of Pride raced by in a blur. Smeared tones of red, forced to rush through the same river, turned the uninhabited wastes into a blazing tunnel of magma. Blitz squinted at its intensity, and eventually, tilted his head away from it altogether. He wished he had brought his headphones, but during his escape from his own fucking penthouse, he’d forgotten all about them. Slipping out from under Stolas’ beak had been far more important.
Heh, Stolas…what’s with him, anyway? Aren’t Goetia supposed to be royalty; like, every single one of them? What’s a royal doing as a glorified butler; and then there’s his weird ass mannerisms. One little smear of blood and he torches my whole fucking outfit…
Blitz recalled the smoothness and precision which his attendant had sliced his shirt off; the smooth edge of his finger which had rubbed against his bare skin, with a measure of confidence possessed by few. Seamstresses, blade freaks, and medical practitioners, just to name a new, but not butlers. It smelled rotten; something about the bird wasn’t right from the get-go. He wasn’t afraid to piss Blitz off but was immediately and seemingly apologetic each time he did. One second, he chastised him for offering sexual deals but then stripped him naked and rubbed him up in the damn tub like that, in itself, wasn’t sexual!
The more he thought about Stolas, the more his paranoia swelled; and as Blitz finally dared a slow glance over his shoulder, the tiniest flicker of a shadow hooked his gaze.
Shit, just what I fucking need right now...
A fresh, slow inhale of air helped him steady his mind. Could it be Stolas? Not likely; he literally jumped out the fucking window. Blitz mentally flipped through all the shit lists he could possibly be on, and when more than a few popped up, highlighted in big fat red marker, he looked towards the front of the train. By train, the trip to Lust was never that long; twenty minutes tops. How much time had passed; ten minutes, three?
Play it cool. Wait for the next stop, then just get off and lose them in the alleys: easy.
To blend in, he fished his phone from his pocket. Zero messages, no missed calls; what was up with that? He had half expected Barb to ring him up at some point and apologize for the way that family meeting went down. Letting Cash walk all over him like that, even after it was clear he sprung the gala shit on her too…it hurt. ‘Course, being siblings and all, he’d already forgiven her, but he still wanted a damn apology. If his dad wasn’t in his corner, he hoped with all his heart that at least his sister was.
Blitz flicked through his home screen; app for the horseraces, pedometer, a handful of social media platforms, and of course, a gallery. Quicker than thought, his thumb tapped the red and white icon to pull up his pictures. An urge appeared at the border between his chest and his neck; one which demanded verification, but right as he swiped upwards the train’s intercom system sprung to life with a click and a crackle.
“Station 4: Ring of Lust”
Damn, that was fast… Blitz thought, as he pocketed his phone and walked towards one of the many train doors. Time sure flew when one was lost in their own thoughts; must’ve been one hell of a flow state. Not wishing to give his stalker time to keep up, he sped walk through the station; polished gold unable to snatch his attention or slow his pace for even a scant moment. On his way to the front doors, he spotted a tall bucket of umbrellas with a sign which read “TAKE ONE” and snatched one up; rain was a constant in Lust, and getting wet wasn’t on Blitz’s agenda. Just as he breached the outside world, he opened the umbrella and listened to the patter of rain as it assailed his new, protective canopy.
Neon lights, sexual de lights; a kingdom borne in above-ground seas of temptation, fornication, and unabashed desire. Lust wasn’t Blitz’s favorite ring, but it was a close third, if only for it being the stomping grounds of his best friend. Bathed in shallow rivers of rippling concrete streets, you couldn’t even look at your toes without seeing a reflection staring back. Every step was a splash, every twirl was a shower, and every wave was a spattering of rain; but not just any rain. Lust’s rain was, by its nature, laced with the power of Asmodeus, the Sin of Lust. It was forever warm, tingled upon bare skin, and incited sensations of arousal. In a ring where fucking was the number one product, the entire place practically ran itself!
Blitz hurried through its sex-store riddled streets; a fire under his ass to ditch his pursuer with little hassle as possible. Unknown intention was always worse than simply knowing. They could be a spy, a reporter, another mugger, maybe even an assassin sent by some pissed off ex…or maybe just the ex themselves. Regardless, he wasn’t taking chances; this wasn’t casino night down in the Greed Ring.
Once he felt like he’d established boring consistency, the imp shut his umbrella and snapped to his left down a narrow alleyway. It wasn’t a long passage, but it was one which had another that flowed into it; a second alley which Blitz snapped into in hope of throwing his stalker for a loop. Then, just for good measure, he planted his hands to both buildings, braced the tips of his hooves to brick, and kicked off. Side to side, one after the other, he kicked off one wall and used the momentum to spring off the other; effectively wall jumping until he reached the roof. It was an old trick from his younger days, back when he was always knee deep in shit and needed an easy out. Most thugs couldn’t scale buildings at all, although there were exceptions…
As Blitz rolled onto the roof of a random building, he hoped an exception wasn’t following him.
“Ha-hah, sucker; eat a dick.” He taunted to no one beneath his breath; a badge of honor for a dexterous accomplishment. Now all that was left was to wait a minute or two, then climb down once the coast was clear. Losing a tail was just that easy! All alone, and pleasantly full of himself, Blitz popped his umbrella back open; nothing but the patter of rain amongst rainbows of neon lust to keep him company. What he wouldn’t kill for a cigarette to enjoy with the rain.
There amongst the quiet drone of Lust’s climate, calm found him and sat at his side. For several fleeting moments, he stared towards the skyline and inhaled the lustful breeze; warm and sweet. How different it was from Pride, from Wrath, from Greed, yet, having camped in each and every one of Hell’s Seven Rings…none of them truly felt like home. A piece of it was missing, lost forever long ago, and all Blitz could do was decipher why it had been taken. Deep in his mental cups, without anyone in the realm to confide in, a lightness of self rose within his chest. The wind of his soul whistled through a vacant hole, a dreary, exhaustive dirge that only played in prolonged moments of silence.
Familiar: yes. Accustomed: no.
Why did anything happen, he thought. He sure as shit didn’t know. Sometimes, people planned things out and other times they didn’t. Sometimes, it was a universe at work, pulling strings behind a cosmic veil that no one could see. Neither answer made the consequences any easier to swallow; just a different target to take aim at. Blaming people was always the better route, because people could be killed. People could pay, they could suffer, they could be whittled down to their lowest point and bring the wronged a sense of satisfaction and justice. With the universe…that motherfucker wasn’t going anywhere. It was untouchable, unknowing; trying to get back at the fabric of life was an eternal and pointless commitment.
Decidedly finished with his waxing and waning melancholy, he wandered towards the edge of the roof. One look down showed little signs of life in the streets; no cars, no pedestrians: perfect. “Bout to Marry Poppins this bitch.” Feet together, he hopped off the roof and floated down onto the sidewalk, where a sigh of overwhelming smugness escaped him. “Like a fucking cat.”
Unfortunately for him, that moment of bloated self-satisfaction was when the universe decided to drop a steaming pile of bullshit right onto his head; or, more specifically, rammed thirteen gigatons of it directly against his ribs and bounced his head off the pavement! A split second after, everything went black, a set of powerful hands lifted him from the ground, and he felt himself fly through the air until suddenly colliding with something rigid, yet soft. Leather creaked, a door slammed, and the veil lifted with sudden, blinding swiftness.
He found himself seated in a limousine. Dark décor, fancy polished leather seats, a champagne fridge; the works. It would’ve been a sweet ride, if only the fare didn’t involve being sandwiched shoulder to shoulder between two roided out hellhounds in fancy suits.
“Blitzo.”
Before he even saw the source of the voice, he recognized it instantly. “Tex…” Forced to face the music, he fully faced the demon which sat across from him. Dark fur, scarred face, and a broad muzzle which curled with an unimpressed demeanor characterized the hellhound as a bruiser, a knuckleduster, a street sweeper. Uncovered, tattooed arms, thick as brick, commanded enough room for three people and flanked a set of yolked out pecs. Despite a lack of sleeves, a fine tailored suit wrapped itself snug around his gargantuan frame. “…been a minute; you down here on business?”
At the question, a smoking cigar leisurely lifted its way into downturned lips, as if given all the time in the world to give an answer. A steam-whistle’s worth of pungent smoke poured out from between canine teeth and quickly cast the limo compartment’s roof in a veil of pore-clogging cancer. “I’m here for you. We need to talk.”
“Christ on a cracker; couldn’t have just called?”
Vortex leaned forward, a kingdom of dirty smoke left to drift from his jaws. It stunk of cherry, sulfur, and musty dog; that sour stench which only canines carried. So tall was he, that with a single lean, put his nose a mere three inches from Blitz’s face. “If I did that, then I wouldn’t be able to make sure you were listening.” Knuckles cracked with a simple clench, and sharp teeth chewed through soaked wrapping and tobacco. “You promised us a supply of entertainers, oh what, about three weeks back, and here I am with a shocking lack of face paint and leotards.”
“I told you already, that’s Barb’s department, and she—”
“—Still hasn’t picked up her fucking phone. On and off, on and off; we’ve been blowing it up for days, but no answer. You were supposed to talk to her, so tell me…” The biggest hand Blitz had ever seen gripped him by the chin and mashed his cheeks together; rough, uncaring, vitriolic. Tex’s one good eye widened, as if threatening to swallow him whole. “…are you fucking with us, or do you just suck at keeping promises?”
“I just…need more time! We’ve been going through some shit with a new contract, and—” On his right, one of those gargantuan hounds scooted closed and mashed him against its partner in intimidation. Arms pinned, thighs smothered, and face seized between meaty clawed fingers, air was quickly becoming a privilege instead of a right. “—fuck…I’ll talk to her, today, and I’ll get it sorted out…I—hngh—swear...!”
Thick smoke rushed against his eyes; burning and infectious. Even as the grip on his face released, the singe of cigar smoke lingered, seeping through the liquid balls that were his eyes and soaking deep into Blitz’s brain. A nasty sensation, a violation even, down to the irreplaceable hardware of the soul. Pressure on either side of him released as well, only for soreness to tarnish any positive sensation of relief; but it was the best he could ask for, given the circumstances.
“Words ain’t gonna cut it this time, Blitzo; you’ve already shown you’re a bit dodgy on keeping ‘em. So, until we get what you promised, consider all ongoing business transactions between HoneyHound Industries and The Buckzo Family Circus on hold. No more catering, no security, no beezel-booze: nothing.”
“What the fuck, Tex?! You can’t be serious! Cash isn’t gonna—”
“Cash is your problem, not mine.” One final blast of smoke agitated his throat, summoning a cough which quickly surged out of control into a hacking spasm. While Blitz practically coughed up a lung, a dull, searing button of pressure ground against one of his curved horns; Tex had just mashed his cigar out on it, like some kind of impromptu metal railing or cheap ashtray. “You have two days.”
Suddenly, the vehicle jolted to a complete stop, and the patter of rain returned. Seized by the arm, he could barely react in time as the hound to his left yanked him out of the limo and tossed him out onto the hard, wet pavement. Reeling from what was more than likely a bruised arm and elbow, he heard the door slam shut again and watched as the red lights of the limousine trailed away into the distance; Tex’s ultimatum left to replay in his mind.
Swept up and tossed back out, like some fucking bag in the wind; well, at least they didn’t bite his tail off. Hellhounds were known to do worse than just bark out warnings. Counting himself lucky, Blitz stood and smoothed out his stained clothes. Dark water spots sank through the fabric and kissed his skin with vicious nips; a dash of pain to enhance the pleasure, but he was in no mood. A conglomerate of anger, dread, and resigned ‘fuck-it’ energy crackled painfully at his heart. Just when Cash demanded he keep out of trouble too…
Left without an umbrella, his attention shot towards the closest street sign. Getting out of the rain was his first priority, followed by getting out of his soaked clothes and calling Barb. It was the last thing he wanted to do, for the embers of spite lingered in his heart; and yet he couldn’t blame her for his situation. The deal had been his move, his plan, his attempt to help the family business and earn some respect from his pops: a full-hearted shot at proving to everyone that he was just as good as cutting deals as his twin.
Guess that’s where trying to help got you; left to fend for yourself when the effort went south.
Judging by the street name, Fizz’s place was only a few blocks away. As Blitz took off into a spirited jog to escape the rain, he only hoped that he and his best friend still wore the same sized clothes.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Storm of my mind
Disabled with a switch
Unable to be flipped
Only weathered
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Equipped with only a wide, golden grin, Blitz casually stared down a smoking hot receptionist who regarded him with infinitely less enthusiasm. Cloaked in a cool color-scheme of purples and blues, he watched as she held a phone up to the side of her face and waited for a connection; but her disdain for his soaked appearance refused to leave. Puddles of water oozed onto the carpet below, at the end of a trail of footprints through short-haired fibers. It dripped from his horns, the edges of his sleeves, the hem of his jacket; Blitz was absolutely soaked, which he thought would’ve been to the succubus’ liking, “So…they let you fuck on the clock here?”
Fully unamused, she ignored his question, then spoke into the phone. “Sorry to bother you Mr. Fizzarolli, but there is a Blitzo Buckzo in the lobby requesting to see you. Would you like me to send him up?” A pause, a muffled voice on the other end of the line, and then she spoke again. “Of course, sir; I’ll send him up right away.” With a sharp click, she hung up the phone and sighed. “Elevators are on your left, straight ahead. Please don’t touch any of the wall mounted genitalia; they are for display purposes only.”
Granting the bodacious, beautiful babe one final smile, Blitz drummed his hand on the desk and walked away. Sprawling blue carpet filled most of the lobby’s space, stretched out to accommodate a large number of couches, chairs, and tables. Everything from rotating egg seats, sectionals, love seats, and individual furry chairs were up for the taking; a firmness for every sort of ass imaginable. To his left, mounted upon the wall, tits and dicks of all shapes, sizes, and colors hung neatly in a row. Beneath each, a tiny plaque with a quoted name and a short description of features sat for each; they must’ve been products from Ozzie’s line of enhancements and sex toys. Blitz snickered at the proud display; despite how much sense it made to have in Lust HQ.
Someone was paid to polish those.
The image of some low-wage worker furiously rubbing a colossal, ribbed, dragon-shaped dildo brought a near-permanent grin to his face. They probably had to use a ladder, which made the thought even funnier; enough to occupy him the rest of the way to the elevator. As he stepped inside and hit the button for the top floor, his forehead planted itself upon cold steel for a moment of reprieve. Getting manhandled by hellhounds hadn’t been on his list for the day, but he was forced to just roll with it. That was how anyone survived in this business: adaptation. You take a kick in the dick, then stand back up with a smile and keep on walking.
Thankfully, his phone remained undamaged, despite everything. He could call up Barbie whenever he wanted, and he resolved to do so after chilling with Fizz for a bit. Business on top of business; pick up Ozzie’s envelope, then convince his sister to sell an entourage of performers to Tex, which would’ve been easy before…but, now that the Goetian Gala was a thing…
“Fuuuuuuck my tight little red ass…” he groaned with a deep sigh. It did little to actually calm him down; just created empty space for more anxious air to fill his entire chest.
“Command acknowledged.”
Blitz’s eyes shot wide at the silken smooth, female, robotic voice. “Uh-oh.” Water splattered across the elevator, as he whirled around just in time to spot a dick attached to a stick thrust out from the back wall! On instinct, he swung his arm out to deflect it, only for the rigid toy phallus to clock him right in the chest. He quickly batted it away, only for his tail to be grabbed and hiked upwards. “Hey, mother--!” Unable to resist the sudden, powerful tingle that radiated pleasurably up his spine, Blitz blushed and grabbed the robotic arm to regain control over his tail. “I didn’t mean it literally! Abort! Abort the fucking!”
“No female reproductive system detected. Unable to perform “Abort” command.”
“Oh, that’s just fucked up!”
Like some kind of sexual death trap, more dildos sprang from hidden compartments and thrust his way! Blitz slapped, dodged, and elbow struck each and every one; trapped in a dance of combat with the elevator’s AI. Dicks flopped about when struck, but some managed to slip by and tap him in the face, the hip, the thigh, and even once against a cheek; albeit barely. Just when the onslaught of penises grew to be nearly too great, the elevator slowed to a stop and the telltale ding of a bell signaled he had finally reached the top floor. Desperate to save his ass, Blitz rolled backwards out of the elevator; flipping off the chamber of cocks as the door closed.
“Finally…christ; was like a gym locker room in there…” He checked every limb, every hole, and discovered that he was soundly undiddled. “Fizz?” he called out, turning around to face the room proper. Silken drapes, large windows, blue-flamed candles, pink-hued lights, and golden trimming; the closest thing to a palace Blitz had ever been in. It never ceased to surprise him how far his friend had come from sleeping in patched tents and cooking on rusted grills, to now living in luxury. When no response came, he walked deeper into the domain of Asmodeus himself, water still dripping from his soaked attire.
Needing to get dry, he jogged towards the nearest fireplace. They were always lit, according to Fizz; something about making sure the flames of Lust always blazed hot, or something like that. Come to think of it, Ozzie’s pad was littered with lit candles too; must not be too afraid of fire hazards. Either the Sin insurance package was kick-ass, or the fact that it never seemed to stop fucking raining outside gave him peace of mind. As Blitz drew closer, warmth licked at his fingers, then rolled across both hands until his entire front felt nice and toasty. He had to admit, the flames were kinda pretty. They reminded him of bubblegum ice cream, or blue cotton candy at the circus. In no time at all, the darkened, damp denim of his jacket stirred with rigid heat: laundry fresh.
*--zzzz--*
A faint noise perked his ear, “Fizz?” He paused for an answer, lingering on expectation. “You home testing a vibrator or something?”
*--Bzzzz--*
Blitz tilted and turned his head; hands rubbed together amidst a glow of purple and blue firelight. There it was again; the fuck? “Well, whenever you nut; I’m cooking by the fireplace.”
*--Bzzzzz! --*
“…you need some help in there, dude?!”
Just as he spoke, something rammed into his leg. Whatever it was didn’t hurt, but the buzzing had never been louder. Curious to see what had hit him, he looked down and saw a small rat-looking thing with a small trunk for a nose, massive red eyes, wavy elephant-esque ears, and clear, tiny insectoid wings. It stared up at Blitz with a cock-eyed, vacant expression; a gaze which he returned with equal energy.
So that’s where the buzzing was coming from: a quieve.
Its’ tiny trunk uncurled and dipped itself into a puddle of water at Blitz’s feet, shuffling about for a moment before undulating and creating ripples in the little pool.
“You better not piss on me.” He warned, although unsure if the thing even understood a word he said. Talking with animals was always a toss-up. Ones at the circus had mostly obeyed every command, but some were just too stubborn or dumb to teach. Half of the time, being eaten or mauled was more likely than getting to watch a hellcat backflip through a ring of fire. Quieves never had any use in the circus; hell, most of them were found post show, carting away scraps of discarded food and half-eaten popcorn bags. They were, in the nicest way, mostly just pests. Although, an old story lingered about them dragging off a kid once…
How did one even manage to find its way into Fizz’s house; he leave a window open? More importantly, where the hell was he? With toasty buns and toasty pecs, Blitz stepped away from the quieve and marched straight for the kitchen; the magical warmth of lustful fire having dried his whole outfit. The day was still young, so maybe Fizz was eating breakfast and just didn’t hear him? With how much he buried his beak in a phone screen, it wouldn’t be surprising if a text would’ve gotten his attention from the get-go.
*--zzzz--*
He pushed against the heart-shaped kitchen doors with one hand, twisted the curvy golden handle down with the other, and stepped through with relative ease…
*--Bzzzz--*
*--Bzzzz--*
*--Bzzzz!--*
…only to be bulldozed down by a cloud of flying quieves!
Tiny bodies bounced off his head and face; careening from the air as they sailed past him and into the foyer. There had to be at least four of the fuckers! Blitz threw up his hands to protect his face, dipping and ducking through the small swarm, then quickly slammed the door behind him. “What the ass is going on here?!”
Aromas of fresh coffee and toasted bread drifted through the air, alongside the morning chatter of the local news from a nearby television. Sat in front of said tv, wrapped up in a fluffy pink night robe and a two-pronged jester’s hat, was an imp of similar size to himself. Save for a white-painted face and a much less vertically inclined skull, they could be mistaken for brothers. With a mouthful of cereal, he turned; cheeks stuffed to the brim with what was undoubtedly a sugar bomb’s worth of energy.
“Uhh…breakfast. Bout time you got here.” He said, voice distorted as he chewed like a chipmunk. “What took ya?”
“The usual.” Blitz grumbled, as he hopped up into one of the bar stools. Great, more breakfast; just the thing he needed. Stomach still full from earlier, he grabbed a piece of toast, dabbed a glob of hellberry jam on it, and bit down. Soft, warm, but not too moist: delicious. “Other than that, your elevator tried to violate me, and I think you’ve got a fly problem.”
At mention of the elevator, a jester-like cackle bounced from white lips; eyes filled with devilish delight. “Ozzie put in a new AI; how’d it go, you get your rocks off?”
“Like I’d ever tell you.” A smile crept onto Blitz’s face, and he playfully bumped his shoulder against Fizz. “So, the fly thing?”
“Therapy quieves; Ozzie got them for me.”
An eyebrow raised; not out of disbelief, but from absurdity. “All of them?”
Fizz nonchalantly shrugged. “You know how it is, pal.” A pause lingered between them, filled with the senseless, low volume from the news and the clink of a spoon. “Started having some repeat nightmares about… back then …The quieves help me sleep; well, them and some of Belphegor’s top shelf pills.”
“I’m guessing…Ozzie keeps the supply steady?” Equal measures of concern and understanding littered Blitz’s voice. All too familiar with the exact nightmare his lifelong friend was talking about, the agitation he had gained from the day seeped away. “I didn’t know you were having them again; that’s…that’s rough. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks pal.” The abrupt stretch of advanced tech clanked and whirred behind Blitz’s head, and a white envelope magically appeared in his peripheral. “Enough about me though; you came be so we could talk about whatever you’ve got going on. Here: the envelope Ozzie promised you.”
Classical Fizz; changing the subject just when things got awkward. He’d always been conflict avoidant, even when they were just kids; but there was a good reason for that…one which not even Blitz was going to question. Gingerly, he plucked the envelope labeled as Dildo Revenue free of prosthetic fingers; his own natural tips bumped up against a thick, rectangular bulge. “He sure knows how to keep business partners happy, doesn’t he?”
“That’s Oz: the people pleaser. Plus, the escorts always tell him how nice you are.” The barstool spun in a complete three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, taking Fizz along for the ride. The dual ears of his jester cap whipped around jingled, until he came to an abrupt stop; instead of just turning to face his friend, he opted to be a little extra about the process. “So, what’s this bullshit Barbie was telling me about; something about Cash and you?”
“Alright; get this…” Legs splayed, elbows locked atop knees, he joined his hands together with a dramatic clap. “…the old goat just dropped a fucking bombshell on us. Apparently, we’re providing entertainment for the Goetian Gala this year.”
“…but I thought you already knew that.”
“That’s just the primer. The real kick in the dick is that those fancy feathered fuckheads don’t just want us to organize, supply, and perform at the party. They actually want us to join in: personally.”
“No shit?” Fizz’s eyes widened, and he propped an elbow on the table to cradle his cheek in a heart-marked palm. “That sounds awesome; you get to drink fancy champagne and flirt with royals, right? I know they can be…” Hesitation seized his tongue, pinched carefully between his jagged teeth. “…weird, but this is what we wanted right; to move up in the world?”
“I don’t think they honestly want us there; something’s up, I feel it in my gut. But…that’s not the shit bit; it gets worse.”
“No wonder Sean and Rita always give you glowing reviews; the foreplay is over the top.” he quipped, a playful little pout on his face to indicate his clear impatience. “Stop edging me and get to the money shot already.”
“Cash hired one of them to watch me.”
Fizz’s eyes flickered, as if in search of something he missed. “Hired…hired one of who?”
“A Goetia.”
“…a Goetia?”
“Yeah.”
“He hired a Goetia to watch you?”
“Yes!”
“…why?”
“Because he thinks I’m a colossal fuck up, that’s why! He started ranting about how I needed to be “reprogrammed” and that I’m under watch for two whole months until the Gala; and if I don’t do what this creepy asshole says, I’ll be kicked out of the family!” For the briefest of moments, the stress overwhelmed Blitz, and his forehead planted itself atop the kitchen table with a dull thud. “Barb just…fucking stood there and let him run roughshod all over me too; like she agreed with him or something, can you believe it?!”
“I gotta admit, pops always had a short fuse when it came to you, so I’m not surprised about that. Barbie going against you though, her own brother, that’s a stretch in my book.” Both of Fizz’s arms extended and curled into loops, then both hands gave a spirited wave: jazz hands, as if to accentuate his point. “She’s always had your back, you know that.”
“Well, it didn’t fucking feel like it this morning…” Blitz grumbled. “It felt more like I was being dangled out to dry. I mean, she snorts up a whole bag of H-Eight and mows down a dog park; Cash doesn’t say a word, but I steal a few cars, get in a few fights, fuck a few whores; then all the sudden I’m a disgrace to the family name! She should be getting saddled with a lanky-ass owl, not me.”
“This owl have a name?”
Blitz peeled his face off the table, an exasperated sigh on his lips. “His name is Stolas, and he’s a pretentious prick.”
“Does he do anything besides follow you around?”
Flashbacks of all that Stolas had done earlier that same morning; the sudden appearance in the elevator doorway, how he started picking up garbage the second they got back to the penthouse, the way he ripped Blitz’s clothes off because of a little bit of blood and then bathed him in the tub…Okay, maybe that last bit could be kept a secret. “He’s like a butler; calls me Master till I get a damn migraine, cooked me breakfast, but he’s way too fucking handsy for my liking.”
“Handsy, like…he touches you?”
“He offered to give me a massage about twenty times.”
“Seems butlery to me.”
“And how would you know? Ozzie got some hidden cabinet imp I don’t know about for when he needs his feathers preened?”
“First of all…” Fizz snatched up a piece of soggy toast and took a nimble, swift munch out of it. Crumbs flew from his beak as he talked, as if on purpose. “…Ozzie doesn’t need a butler for that, because that’s my gig. Second, he’s ninety-percent fluff and muscle, so I rarely need to preen his tail feathers. Third --!” In the middle of his speech, the toast tumbled from polished, dark metal and struck the table; leaving a scattering of crumbs as Fizz sat back in his seat. Limbs rigid, beak locked shut, irises narrow as the edges of his eyes widened; something froze him on the spot.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Just as the question left his lips, an unnatural chill raced up his spine. Something he couldn’t see, something right behind him, radiated an aura which pricked every last hair on his burn-scarred body. The sensation, combined with his friend’s expression, rooted Blitz’s ass to the bar stool and relayed a single command: don’t move. Whatever was behind him wasn’t native to Ozzie’s tower; given the fear in Fizz’s face, but what could it possibly be? Was it a mega-quieve, formed by a fusion of every last one in the building? Could it be a completely naked Asmodeus who had just gotten out of bed?
“So, this is where you ran off to.”
Blitz’s heart sank, his mind spun, and a dash of aggravation returned to spice up his life; the voice behind him immediately recognizable. “Oh, Satan fucking damnit: seriously?!” Fear vanished altogether, as he whirled around in his seat and stared into the four unblinking eyes of his Goetian attendant.
“Do try not to invoke the Dark One’s name in such a crass manner, Master Blitz; ‘tis unbecoming of a royal.” His cool focus pivoted past his shoulder and latched onto Fizz, who audibly gulped and shifted at the unwanted attention. “Particularly, it’s rude in front of company.”
“I’ll invoke whatever, however, whenever I fucking want to!” he spat back, like a feral cat. “How did you even get up here in the first place; I didn’t hear the door open.” Blitz watched, stunned, as Stolas completely ignored his question and strode right past him. “Hey, I’m talking to you, Feathers!” Belligerent anger turned to shock, as the owl bowed his head towards Fizz.
“Do pardon the intrusion. My only desire is to retrieve my master and return home, so that our lessons may begin without any further delay.”
The confusion in Fizz’s voice hung in the air, as if unsure of its very existence, let alone the situation at hand. “L-lessons?” Trapped between two demons, his eyes constantly flicked back and forth from one to the other. “What lessons?”
“Ignore him Fizz.” Dual hands groped upwards and snatched Stolas’ waist, then bore all their weight to the side to try and spin him around. Yet, the Goetia didn’t budge an inch! What the—How can someone so fucking thin be…so…heavy?! he thought, as muscles bulged fruitlessly beneath denim sleeves.
“Etiquette, dining, dancing, vocabulary; a variety of subjects, all tailored towards preparing him for the Gala.”
“So, you’re not just a bodyguard?” he asked, watching with a wary expression as Blitz failed to move the slender avian even an inch.
“While his safety is of utmost importance, there are a multitude of other factors which contribute to his well-being. Relationships, being a prime example, are a necessary element for me to comprehend; so that I may fully grasp the nature of his behavior.”
Stolas gave no reaction to Blitz’s touch, nor to his strained groans and frustrated snarling. Inane babble spit from between his teeth; fueled by a debilitating lack of progress and stubborn willpower to defy presented odds. Veins bulged in the imp’s neck and upon the backs of his hands; it was like trying to push a boulder out of a hole in the ground, except it was also weighed down by an underlying layer of cement. Was it magic? Maybe some kind of weighted clothing? Not knowing pissed him off just as much as not being able to move something so seemingly, easily movable! Weren’t bird bones supposed to be hollow?!
“Oh…kay, so you’re like some kind of life coach? I guess that makes sense, but what doesn’t is how you got into my house; the receptionist didn’t call me to let you in.” Despite how freely he spoke, an aura of discomfort squirmed off the imp’s shoulders in waves of clear uncertainty. Even without being able to read his friend’s mind, Blitz knew what was causing it: Stolas’ weird ass eyes.
The crisp clack of a beak, a sound most uncommon for either imp to hear, halted Blitz’s pulling and pushing altogether. It contained not amusement, disappointment, nor anything in between; more of just an acknowledgment of the question itself. “Any explanation I could give would not undo the transgression of my trespass. However, know that this sanctum’s security was not breached with ill intent, and it shall not happen again.” Stolas’ head snapped around, one hundred and eighty degrees, and stared down at Blitz. “From now on, if you wish to see Master Blitz in person, you’re more than welcome to visit his abode in Imp City; otherwise, he will wander nowhere without my supervision.”
Blitz bristled, then flipped a middle finger up at the glowering bird. “The fucking nerve on you; you can’t stop me from seeing Fizz, he’s family!”
“Family or no, I have witnessed what comes of you wandering the streets by yourself. This is not a discussion.”
“You’re damn right it’s not a discussion! I’ll go where I want, then I want; just like I’ll say what I want, how I want, and to who I want because you don’t control me; you fucking…oversized cue-tip!” He pounded his fist in defiance, tail whipped into a frenzy, as back spines flared and chattered in anger. “Cash might be feeding you with the family bank account, but don’t think that means I won’t kick your scrawny ass.”
Silently, unfazed by the retort, Stolas’ head snapped back around to look at Fizz, who jumped and shrank back in his tall seat. Talons touched tips, as his royal posture cast a tall shadow across the kitchen table, as well as the imp who still sat beside its edge. “As you can see, there is much work to be done in the months ahead.” Slender wrists tilted, then with a swift flick, a card appeared from out of nowhere; jet black and slowly rotating as it levitated midair. Gently, it spun down in front of Fizz, who blinked at its presence, but hesitated to touch it. “If you wish to contribute any information which might aid in this grand endeavor, do not hesitate to call. My number is on the back.”
Fed up, fists clenched, and Blitz cocked an elbow back. That’s it; I’m clocking this fucking turkey square in his flat fucking taint!
“Oh, and please, do give my regards to Lord Asmodeus.”
Determined to knock some respect into the Goetia, he launched his fist out in a powerful hook…only for the world to flash before him and change instantly! Stolas stepped aside, and Blitz struck only empty air; mind reeling as he found himself no longer standing in Fizz’s home, but the penthouse back in Pride. From purples and blues to whites on whites; transported in the blink of an eye. Blitz’s entire body crackled, his head filled with a thick miasma of disorientation; stance humbled into a half-squat by the consequences of his hail-mary swing.
“What…what did you do?”
In response, Stolas pulled the envelope, the very same given to Blitz, out of his vest pocket. Without explanation, he held it out for the imp to take; a gleam of assurance and confidence in his piercing red eyes. “Let this moment serve as an important lesson; any attempt to escape my protection is futile. The sooner you understand this, the more comfortable you shall be with the current situation.”
“Fuck you!” a harsh swat struck the fat envelope with an equally ferocious slap. In response, as if a punishment, his entire stomach flipped and launched a humbling ripple of nausea straight to his brain. The world blurred, unsteady legs trembled as they squatted in search of stability, and a horrendous, gastric burp squeaked involuntarily from his mouth. “Ugh…what…why do I feel so…?”
“Nausea is a common side effect of instantaneous relocation, in those who are unaccustomed to it.” A firm hand braced upon his spine, gently easing it into a straightened position, while a second braced his abs; like a mother comforting a child’s tummy ache. “Simply breath, listen to the sound of my voice…and relax.”
Don’t say things like that so…so sweetly, you asshole! Blitz winced, but ultimately listened, and slowly inhaled. Immediately, Stolas’ hand gracefully guided it upwards, and to his surprise, Blitz felt both lungs fill with more air than he ever thought possible. The exhale was glorious, like lifting a lifetime of burden off his back, but frustration lingered. Why was he letting Stolas touch him again? Was he just that easy? No, it was something else; something in the concern the owl displayed: a motherly aura…
“There, doesn’t that feel better? This is exactly why I insisted on the massage; you are far too tense for what is considered healthy.”
Indeed, feeling better, but disgusted by his own weakness, Blitz pushed Stolas’ hand down and away, then slipped free of his grasp. With a harsh grunt, he brutishly swiped the envelope from his dark hand. “You tailed me, all the way to Lust.” The tip of his nail snagged the edge of the envelope’s flap and sliced it open, then fully ripped the rest of it ajar. Inside was a thick row of straight bills; freshly pressed as if they just came out of a printer. One peek at their corners showed a single, triple digit number; and since Ozzie was never one to mix bills, Blitz knew he was looking at a few grand in hundreds, minimum. “I never saw you, but I knew someone was watching. Mind telling me how you did it?”
At first, Stolas said nothing, and instead regarded the question with a blank expression. It was impossible to tell whether there were any thoughts rolling around in that feathered head, or if he was booting up some preplanned response to dodge the question. Then, out of nowhere, a flash of gold danced atop his talons. It was blinding, yet Blitz recognized it as the same coin from earlier that morning. “I used this.”
“…alright, listen; I know you Goetia probably think all imps are stupid, but do you seriously think I’m that fucking dumb?”
“I do not think you are dim, Master Blitz; quite the contrary, in fact. You simply don’t possess the necessary pieces to construct the puzzle. However, with a few clues, I’m sure your critical thinking skills can cobble together an answer.”
Hands planted upon his hips; Blitz peered at Stolas; his bullshit detectors on full throttle. “Yeah right; you’re just trying to butter me up, so I’ll do your stupid…dance lessons or something. Well, no dice; I ain’t falling for it.” As he turned away, money in hand, a sense of smug finality crept along his face; forcing it into a downward and resolute scowl. But then, just as he had one foot past the threshold to his bedroom…
“Very well then sir, should I facilitate communication between your sibling and HoneyHound Industries, in the meantime?”
…he stopped dead in his tracks. For a scant moment, he fumbled the package but snatched it up with a violent lurch; tail so rigid it could be used as a harpoon. Suddenly, an immense fear to turn around dried out his mouth; tongue left to crackle and wither. “How do you know about that?”
That deal was private; an exchange of words between him and Tex. There was no paper trail to follow, no text messages to download, or calls to trace. It was old school; a simple sit down and handshake to seal the agreement. That’s how it had been done long before Stolas had even been hired, so how could he possibly know about it? The only moment that he could’ve found out would’ve been during the limousine ride. Blitz’s mind raced for an answer, only for the flick and spin of a coin to snap his attention away from his own thoughts. Finally, he turned, fear overshadowed by terrible, burning curiosity, and watched as Stolas performed the same trick he had previously done twice that day.
Suddenly, an epiphany struck.
“…you bugged me.” he muttered in shock.
An uncharacteristic twitch of the beak, into what Blitz believed to be a smirk, amplified his feelings. Altogether, the coin stopped moving and rested upon the top of the ‘thumb’ of Stolas’ hand; perched like some trophy for his realization. “Very good.”
“But…I changed clothes! How could you have slipped that on me when I--?” A new thought felled his words, as if an unearthed memory he’d always somehow known; yet, it struck him with the force of a thunderbolt. Blitz’s hand slapped down against his pants, feeling the comforting and familiar bulge of an everyday object; something he rarely parted with. “…my phone.” Surprise slipped into a metamorphosis of anger, begrudging respect, and bewilderment. “You bugged my phone; hid that coin under the case while you were cleaning it earlier.”
“An astute, and correct, observation Master Blitz. Yes, I did indeed bug your cellular device, because given your reaction to our relationship and the behavior you exhibit as a result of it, I deduced you would eventually attempt to slip from my grasp; as you had tried once before. Given how strongly you detest me, the option to grant you some much needed personal space felt the most appropriate; and so, I let you traipse through the Rings, all while keeping a respectable, defendable distance.”
A sharp flick banished the bugged coin from sight, and Stolas took two steps forward; his gait long enough to stand before Blitz in the passing of a singular second. That twitch of the beak had vanished, replaced only with the cool, collected visage to which the imp was accustomed. Despite it, a passive aura of menace, observation, and hunger beamed down from his eyes; blood moons amidst the night of his towering shadow. Not even the sunlight which poured into the penthouse could dispel such unnerving dread…
“Hate me all you wish but understand that your protection and education are paramount. You will be ready for the Goetian Gala; no matter how many hurdles, however high they may stretch, I must leap. It is not an arrangement you can retreat from; for its shadow will haunt you until the contract is fulfilled. For better or worse, Master Blitz, you are stuck with me.” Stolas bent in half, and his gaze was unnerving enough to force a half-step backwards from the imp. “Now, either you can cooperate or fight, but as stated before, I am a far better ally to you than I am an enemy. This need not be an unpleasant experience.”
He felt like a rat backed into a tight corner; nothing to hide in, nothing to scale, nothing to save him from the conversation. Blitz grimaced through Stolas’ words to the last; that stare was too much to handle. A grown ass demon, unable to look another in the eye? It was a shameful moment; one which filled him with buckets of self-loathing. He’d gone face to muzzle with hellhounds, shark demons; some of the nastiest souls in all of Hell...but he was too much of a pussy to withstand a simple four-eyed, magical freak!
“Now, shall I solve this kerfuffle of a business deal, or will you?”
Face alight with shameful fire, Blitz finally forced himself to look Stolas in the eye; a fierce scowl upon his face. “I don’t know why you’re even asking; you’ve already been doing plenty without my permission. So, if it’ll make you feel important, get the fuck out of my face and clean up my mess, so I can slink back into my hole like the dirty, pathetic, useless little imp that I am.”
At his words, Stolas continued to stare; conversation lost amongst what space existed betwixt the two. Unnatural quiet fell over the room, leaving Blitz to stare back as he awaited a response. Maybe escaping was impossible, just like the owl said it was. He was too freaky, too quick, too smart, too powerful; the gap between them far too wide to traverse. A power imbalance as old as time; those near the top of the food chain, and those who wallowed at the bottom. Blitz hoped, that somehow, the Goetia could detect the bitter resentment he held behind yellow eyes, buried deep in the confines of his soul. He hoped he choked on it; suffocated on how thickly it coagulated and boiled over decades of bad blood.
The moniker of ‘Master’ from a Goetia to an imp was nothing more but a malicious joke; a cruel irony thrust into his face.
Having seemingly made up his mind, Stolas’ posture dipped lower, neck tilted down in a display of respect and submission. “As you command, Master.” It was then, as he rose, that he flicked open a cellular phone with a crisp clack and held it to his ear.
“…go fuck yourself.”
Chapter 3: Prickly Pears & Magic Coats
Summary:
The dynamic between Blitz and his newly appointed attendant Stolas continues to be one of aggression and one-sided anger; that is until in an attempt to better understand his master, Stolas oversteps and is met with unexpected backlash. Thus, opens the door to mutual understanding; its path long and winding...
Notes:
[Kept this chapter a bit shorter than the previous two, after some feedback. Comments are always appreciated, as they are food for the process.]
Chapter Text
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Hidden trauma
Hidden friends
Hidden self
Remove the mask and smell the flowers
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Blitz had never been angrier.
He stewed on the topmost floor of the penthouse, while Stolas set about fixing his issues with Vortex. Normally, it was a space devoted to storing boxes and other junk but could be turned into a makeshift kingdom of distractions with enough shame or boredom. Thankfully, he possessed both in spades.
Fragments of conversation echoed up from the floor below; each word bringing heat to his cheeks and a deep desire to scurry beneath a bag of blankets. Why the hell had he been so quick to let Stolas call Barbie? Was it just to shut the owl up, or had it just been an easy out too good to ignore? Either way, having someone else fix his issues didn’t make Blitz feel particularly good; in fact, quite the opposite.
It was only through the grace of random crap that he managed to keep quiet. One box contained a bunch of empty wallets. Another held an assortment of circus memorabilia from his touring days. None of it was what he was looking for though, and so Blitz continued to flip open box after box; leaving the lids scattered upon the ground. By the sixth, he wondered if somehow, he’d forgotten where he stashed what he was looking for, but just one box later, his worries were squashed.
Just as he popped the lid, Stolas’ voice grew louder, and Blitz quickly slammed the box closed. He hovered over it; spinal spikes flared, heart kicked into overdrive, all while a tiny hiss of breath slipped from grit teeth…only for the conversation to fade into the background. Judging by the drop in volume, Stolas must have walked into another room entirely. With the risk of being caught lowered, the lid rose once more, and Blitz peered inside.
“There you are…”
Hidden amongst a variety of rolled up blankets and pillows sat a personal treasure; a little horse doll, made from one long black sock and a few cups of rice. Its body was twisted up like a balloon animal and one little button had been stitched in for the eye. Blitz smiled as he lifted it out of the box and recalled how excited he was when Fizz gave it to him.
“…good to see you, Rice Sock.”
Simply holding the soft, homemade trinket was enough to simmer his anger. How comfortable it felt in his palm; how clean and pleasantly squeezable, able to be tossed and kneaded without fear of damage. One could claim it was a stress relief toy, but it could also be heated in the microwave to act as an impromptu heating pad. Of course, the heat didn’t last long, but damn wasn’t it cozy as all hell while it did. Yet, Rice Sock was more than a simple toy; it was a confidant.
“Shit’s real fucked, buddy. I’ve got an unwanted ceiling pigeon shitting all over my life.” Blitz gently tilted the doll and bounced it back and forth to imitate a trot. “What’s he doing? He’s stealing my street cred: that’s what he’s doing. This was my deal. I set it up. So, what if I got a little distracted? All good things come with time, right?” Leisurely, playful energy tossed the horse up into the air, and one large red hand opened wide to catch it on the way down. The dry rice created a satisfying shifting sound, upon hitting his palm. “Tex is just…fucking impatient, that’s all.”
Blitz spun Rice Sock atop his palm, following its spin for about two rotations, before gripping it at just the right moment. Not only did the spinning stop, but its pronounced face jutted straight towards him, as he looked right down its singular button eye.
“Could I take him?” Blitz scoffed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Guy with that much visible muscle is totally compensating for something. He’s literally all bark and no bite…but he had two guys with him; them I’m not so sure about.” A heavy sigh absolutely deflated his posture, leaving him on his back atop the carpeted floor; back spines comfortably folded down beneath his back. “Anyway…once the streets find out that I had some fancy pants Goetia close my business for me, they’re gonna label me as some kind of bitch. All those stabbings, the stolen cars, that time I fucked a waitress through the pool table: dashed to pieces. No one’s gonna care about any of that now!”
He dropped the toy atop his face and let its dark texture smother out all light. Heat from his face spread upwards into the material and rice which nested within, while it molded about his facial features.
“What am I supposed to do, bud?” he groaned; the sound muffled. “I don’t wanna learn all this bougie shit…”
“Master Blitz; who are you speaking with?”
Every muscle fiber in his body shot him upwards into a half-crunch; panic alight in his blood. Blitz scrambled back towards the box, “Wouldn’t you like to fucking know?!” he yelled towards the stairs, just as he tucked his secret pal back in that square-shaped hidey-hole. Embittered by the interruption, anger returned, and Blitz stomped towards the top of the staircase to unload every last ounce of it onto that pain in the ass owl. “The fuck you want: chicken-neck?!”
“My phone call to your sibling was a success. Contact between her and HoneyHound Industries has been established, the deal is progressing smoothly, and you should be receiving proper payment within the hour.”
“Oh, good for you! Thank you so much Stolas; whatever would I do without your stunning ability to flap your beak?” Oozing with irony, every word slipped off his bottom lip like a slimy, bloated slug as he stomped down the stairs. “Can’t wait until Cash hears about this from either of them. Give him another reason to kick me out of the family tree, why don’tcha?”
“I am here to ensure that doesn’t happen. The sooner we attend to your planned lessons, the sooner such fears will exit your mind.” Stolas said it with such confidence that, for a scant moment, a portion of Blitz’s anger fled his body. “Now, come here, so we may begin.”
Begrudgingly, he did just that. Yet, it wasn’t without a sour look.
“First, we shall go over proper etiquette when addressing a Goetian lord or lady. Custom dictates that, upon approach, the engaging party shall raise their head, hoist their headwear, and proclaim the following…” Lengthy gait slid backwards, Stolas’ shoulders dipped down and his hips pushed out; an elegant bow with a ghosting of hat removal: mimicry. Despite the dip, his attention laid itself forward, daring never to deviate from Blitz. “…May the morning warm you; come it upon the morrow.” His posture reverted to normal; straight, stoic, and firm. “Now, you try.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Pardon?”
“What you said; what’s it mean? I’m not about to say something I don’t understand.”
Traces of a smile brewed upon Stolas’ beak. “It’s essentially a wish for a pleasant morning; if not now, then for tomorrow. Assuming one’s state of mind; whether it be in silent duress or immense jubilation, is considered to be in poor taste. The Goetia do not like to be told how they’re feeling, nor do they approve of assumptive guesswork; for judgement by strangers is something we deal with every day. There is no place for it at a social gathering of peers and likeminded dignitaries.”
“What if they’re a total asshole, and I don’t want them to have a good day?”
What scant traces of pride existed on the owl’s beak slipped away. “Rarely is it such thoughts occur before conversing with someone for the first time.”
“And if I know they’re a total dick before even talking to them?”
“Then you simply avoid them to the best of your ability or swallow your pride and offer a meaningless pleasantry.”
“If it’s meaningless, why the hell are we doing it?”
“So that the festivities remain cordial and pleasant. Individual grievances are to be kept under strict lock and key, for the sake of continued cooperation.”
“Continued cooperation…” Blitz folded his arms. “…with a bunch of dillweeds you can’t stand, who dick you over and get to giggle about it while you eat from the same table? Sounds stupid to me.”
“Despite our differences, all those part of the Ars Goetia are dedicated to the same goal. That alone is worth the preservation of peace; no matter how thinly-veiled it might be. As such, the greeting is an important formality whether you approve of it or not. Now, attempt it.”
Embarrassment rushed rampantly into his jaw; he felt like a fucking clown, forced to strike a pose for this royal bastard. Such a bitter pill to swallow, it took all of Blitz’s taut concentration and grit to muscle his shame from his mind. Then, he repeated the motions Stolas had performed; eye contacted established, foot back, torso bent forward. Since the bird was much taller than him, muscles in his neck whined and burned at being forced to crane back for so long. He gripped the brim of a nonexistent hat and lifted it, “May the morning warm you; come it upon the morrow.”
“Good. To ensure this greeting becomes second nature to you, every time we rejoin one another, you shall perform it: pose and all.”
“Seriously?”
“Given our constant close proximity to one another, you shall perform it a minimum of twice per day: once in the morning when you awaken, and again in the evening before you sleep.”
“So, you’re telling me that every time I take a shit, I have to do that? Anytime I want to fuck, I gotta waltz back out the door and tip my invisible fucking hat to ya, stick my ass out, and wish you a good morning? Nah; I ain’t doing it!”
“Master Blitz—”
“No! I’m putting my fucking foot down Stolas; that’s…that’s stupid!”
Four eyes closed, and what sounded like a forlorn sigh left the Goetia. Was he finally busting through that annoying ass, robotic armor of his? Was he finally chipping away at the pompous and proper façade? Blitz dared to hope. Bowing to one of them even once was bad enough; but multiple times a day? No, it wasn’t about to happen. There was no way, no how, no fucking reality where that was—
“I hoped to refrain from the necessity of this, but you have left me little choice.”
Blazing purple tendrils clamped down around his body, with all the strength of an anaconda’s jaw!
From ankle to horns, strange magic wrapped Blitz up like a Sinsmas present; its light so ferocious and brilliant that his vision blurred. Out of reflex, trained muscles twitched and strained against their bonds but were found ultimately wanting, trapped tightly into place. Around Stolas’ hand, the same rope of magic coiled about like a ribbon; one which he reeled in with a rotation of his wrist. Steadily, the heels of Blitz’s hooves spun upon the ground as he was pulled against his will!
“You—motherfu--!” A ribbon swept over his mouth and muffled the insult, just before he was brought before the towering owl. Those same ribbons elongated below his feet and raised him off the ground; an impromptu coat rack for him to dangle upon. Blitz glared at Stolas, eyes strained with anger, as he violently squirmed and roared into the magic blocking his lips.
“We just talked about this. I told you that this need not be an unpleasant experience; yet your fiery temper and short fuse continue to impede our progress. It would seem that you require more than the prospect of saving your own skin, in order to willingly cooperate.” A large, black palm planted itself against Blitz’s forehead; right over his personal marking. Slowly, talons curled inwards to grip at his head as a whole, “Where does your anger come from? What drives you to such theatrics?”
An unnatural, yet pleasant cold sank into his skull, and Blitz shivered at the sensation. It swept over his entire head, nestled deep into the nape of his neck, then hardened his spine as it crept all the way to his tailbone. Like biting into a ball of ice-cream teeth first; it was a discomfort that was outside of his ability to placate. Oddly, as the cold raced towards the tip of his tail, the bonds about his body vibrated with a gentle warmth; almost as if they were…massaging him? The combination of pleasing heat and occult chill bore an unsteady breath from his mouth; left to condensate against the inner layer of Stolas’ magic.
“Shh…” he shushed. “…the more you resist, the longer this will take.”
With zero clue as to what was exactly happening, he did in fact not relax. Instead, the imp bitterly resisted; determined to foil whatever the weird-ass Goetia was doing to him! All the while, as he writhed beneath the sensations which assaulted him, Blitz watched as Stolas’ expression slipped from stern curiosity. It was slow, but obvious; raised eyebrows sank downward, the curve of his beak sank into what was unmistakably a scowl, and the grip of his hand briefly tightened, then relaxed.
“I sense much turmoil in you, Master Blitz. There is…anger, regret, love…all unabated, despite your every perceived solution. A question lies unanswered; one which your soul screams to know, but its source is…muddied, obfuscated, hidden.” Blitz watched as Stolas’ brow furrowed, and he couldn’t tell whether the bird was simply balls deep in concentration or in some sort of pain. “Show it to me, so that I may understand…”
In an instant, a flash of pain jolted across Stolas’ face and a sharp hiss seared into the air. His hand yanked away, steam rising from its surface, and black talons curled like hobbled old men. While the expression was the most intense he’d ever seen the bird make, it quickly faded back into his obnoxious, neutral state. To his surprise, the wrappings which bound him slowly unraveled and lowered him back to the ground; left to float gracefully in the air as he was freed.
Blitz gulped in air with a massive gasp, aftershocks of heat and cold left within his body. “You…” he heaved, vision yet to reach full clarity. “…absolute fucking shit head! Just what the hell was that about?!”
“…”
“What did you just do to me, huh? Who the fuck do you think you are; tying me up out of nowhere like that?”
“…”
“Hey, asshole, I’m yelling at you; fucking say something!”
“…It would appear that I underestimated the depths of your pain, sire. Whatever trauma afflicts you, it is so great that I was completely and forcibly repelled from my investigation.”
An odor of singed flesh wafted across his nose, and it was enough to abate a fraction of his rage.
His hand smells cooked…and he’s not even wincing.
While the attendant did, in fact, not wince in pain, a certain soft melancholy overtook him. A piteous look; as if he had just discovered something powerful enough to change his view forever. The magic in the air faded from view. “It’s clear that a much greater degree of patience is required of me, going forward. While I do not fully understand the source of your anger, I have felt its sting, and that is enough to grasp its severity.”
Stolas sank into a deep bow, seared hand planted above his heart, and head lowered.
“I apologize for my conduct. It was wrong of me and shall not occur again. Of this, you have my word.”
Back in Cash’s office, Stolas’ bow had come off as performative, fake, and ultimately mocking. Now, as it was performed for a second time, an air of sincerity radiated from the owl. It wasn’t simply how long he sank, but the tone in which he had spoken; rife with regret which sliced through the walls of Blitz’s expected outrage. He’d been restrained against his will, his emotions violated yet couldn’t muster a proper defense against such a solemn gesture. More importantly, that newfound burn seized his attention and dulled whatever passed for spite in his heart. Affection replaced it; twisted up with relatability to the point disgust ripped rampant across his face, and his hands raised to clutch at air as a mask.
“Just—Satan damn it—don’t go doing that shit out of nowhere, alright? That magic stuff weirds me out; it’s…it ain’t right. I don’t understand it.” A huff, a shift of hands, a grip upon both of his hips; the wiry snap of the tail as it lashed out at air. “But we should treat that…” he gestured towards Stolas’ burned hand. “I’ve got some medicine in the bathroom; same stuff I used on my burns when they were fresh. Doc said it was loaded with natural herbs and whatever: non-chemical shit to help ease the sting. If it worked for me, if can work for you…probably.”
“You would dress my wound, even after I just…?”
“Don’t have a fucking cow over it. I know that shit hurts, so just follow me to the bathroom and I’ll fix you up.” Cheeks ablaze, he turned with the expectation he’d be followed and bee-lined for the medicine cabinet. Humidity had long left the well-ventilated bathroom, but the damp, odorous residue of used towel fibers lingered. Despite it being his penthouse, the living space that his hard work paid for, the sink and cabinet weren’t exactly at an imp appropriate elevation. Nothing that a little bit of extra effort couldn’t cure, but the fact that he needed to exert it at all annoyed him; like he still didn’t belong…
…and so he hopped his little ass up onto the sink, just to reach the cabinet.
Small shelves lay mostly barren, save the odd stray cough drop or half-used tube of paste. It took Blitz one quick look to find the tin of ointment he was searching for; only for him to then notice there was no gauze. So, his tail’s tip looped through the handle of a drawer below the sink and pulled out. Unlike the cabinet, the drawer was packed to the brim with odds and ends to the point that the bottom couldn’t be seen, even when he shifted through it all.
“We really need to have a talk about boundaries…” Pungent vapors wafted from the tin as he unscrewed the lid; a mixture of pinecone glue, sassafras, and a touch of aloe vera. “…since now you’ve literally been burned by being a handsy motherfucker. Hold out your hand.” Stolas quietly did as he was bid, which gave Blitz his first actual look at the injury. “No blisters; good, means it’s probably not second degree.” Instinctually, his tail gripped the faucet handle and turned; knowing they’d need cool water for a bit. “Go ahead and soak it while we talk, then I’ll put on the ointment.”
He gave a little scooch to the side, and Stolas placed his hand beneath the gentle stream. Right below his eye, a muscle twitched, but aside from that he didn’t make a sound. It was almost as if he wasn’t actually hurt, his composure was so good.
“Okay; first, ground rules. I know I came off really strong back in the elevator at Cash’s place, but that wasn’t an open invitation to manhandle me like some small dog.”
“I apologize.”
“Good, so from now on…I will try to be less stubborn, if you promise not to immediately chain me up whenever I say no to something.”
“…”
“Hey, googly eyes.” Blitz snapped his finger, albeit lightly, to the side of the sink’s rim to hopefully catch the owl’s eye. “I need your word.”
“…I promise not to hoist you like an opossum by its tail, in the event of disagreement.”
“Alright, now we’re getting somewhere. I’m a slow learner sometimes, so don’t hate me if you have to repeat things more than twice before they sink in. All this stuff about…bowing and phrases and hats; it’s a lot, and my brain gets overloaded. This shit is a whole new world to me, not a regular fucking Tuesday like it is for you. The magic, the—the politics —it’s not my jam.”
“Beg pardon; your jam?”
“Yeah, my vibe, my rules, what I’m good in, where I’m good. I’m living the high life now, but before that…shit; I was a street rat. It’s a whole other world out there: one-hundred and fifty bajillion percent different than where you sauntered out of. We didn’t bow, we didn’t say hello, and we sure as hell didn’t wish people who fucked with us a good tomorrow.”
“I see…you need time to acclimate to the cultural paradigm.”
His face scrunched at the word ‘paradigm.’ It was the biggest word he’d ever heard in his life, but gifting Stolas another flaw to harp over didn’t seem like the brightest idea. “Yeah, that.”
Momentary silence fell between them, save the soft river of rushing water which separated their thinking. Blitz found himself idly drinking in the owl’s facial features; an ivory beak of gentle sharpness, semi-dark plumage with a soft sheen: serenity. Without those unsettling predatory eyes watching, he easily lost track of time, and it wasn’t until Stolas spoke did he snap out of it.
“I believe my hand is calmed enough. You may apply the balm and wrappings, now.”
Upon inspection, the redness had faded into the black of his hand; almost as if he’d never been burned to begin with. If it wasn’t for the light inhale as Blitz dabbed two finger’s worth of ointment into the cup of Stolas’ hand, he’d have completely believed the owl had been fucking with him. Each circle was slow, gentle, considerate not to agitate the skin more than needed to apply the medicine.
“Tell me, does this contain any Brimweave?”
“Yeah, it—” An intrusive, momentarily horrifying thought flashed through his mind, and he stopped rubbing. “…you allergic to it or something?”
“No, but I can feel its distinctive tingle; also, an odor of black olives. Thus, I concluded the ointment contained it.”
Impressed, Blitz went back to rubbing. “You caught all that just from having it on your hand?”
“Horticulture was a fond hobby of mine.”
“Was?”
“As one grows, time for one’s old fixations grows rather scarce. In my case: nonexistent.”
Imagining the imposing Goetia in a sun hat and gardening gloves was quite a sight, but one Blitz kept in his head. “Didn’t peg you as a plant guy.”
“Hm, may I ask what you did, then?”
“I dunno…” Blitz shrugged. “…watches, maybe: clocks? These sharp fingers look like they’d be good at that sorta thing.”
“You believe me to be precise, then; possessed of immense patience, care, and steadiness of hand?”
“Not much faith involved in it; saw you just catch a first degree burn without bitching afterwards. That takes a lot of grit…and you honestly don’t seem like you’re built for punishment.” Finished applying the ointment, Blitz started wrapping the gauze around Stolas’ hand; ensuring the bandage is tight, but not too tight. “We’ll need to change this out about once a day; twice if you start leaking while it heals.”
“We?”
“Yeah, we; because there’s no way you know more about treating burns than I do.”
Clean gauze completed its rotations, and at last, Blitz clipped it together with a small metal-toothed clasp. An experimental curl of fingers followed, to test the stability of the dressing, and found it more than satisfactory. What emotion sat behind the owl’s eyes he couldn’t tell, and in a bid to figure it out, found himself in a staring contest. A single moment lingered, passed beyond what was deemed as passing acceptance, and continued until he felt as if Stolas were doing the same. He didn’t know too much about the Goetia; no more than anyone outside of their circle did, anyway. Maybe if he seized the moment, dug a bit deeper…he’d find answers without having to go to some stupid gala.
What did he have to lose?
“Hey, royals go to horse races, don’t they?” he asked, only to allow a smile split across his face at Stolas’ owlish head tilt.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Jackals roam the dunes
Unleash dusty thunder
Hear their yowls
Hide the children
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Dry air blasted by Blitz’s face, steering wheel leather strangled in his hand, as the roar of an exposed engine belted out above nature’s desolate splendor. To his right, feathers pushed back by the onslaught of hot wind and eyes narrowed by the sun’s oppressive gaze, sat Stolas. Genuine displeasure threatened to crack through his stoic mask, and to the owls’ credit, it failed despite the odds.
Pride’s badlands; a near-endless landscape of desert, scrap metal, and degraded billboards charging headlong into the horizon’s all-consuming maw. Cacti flanked a dilapidated road, and not a single building could be seen for miles at a time. Every breath smothered the lungs and webbed the inside of one’s mouth; an inescapable necessity of traveling through such harsh, desolate conditions.
For imps, however…
A grin stretched across Blitz’s face, and his shark-like teeth caught the sun at just the right angle. New environment meant new duds, and he certainly didn’t skimp on presentation. Upon his eyes sat his trusty black shades; the perfect tool to keep his eyes wide open under a cloudless sky and add a dash of mystery. Studded, fingerless leather gloves creaked against the steering wheel, spike-tipped, platinum toed steel boots pinned the gas pedal to the ground, and a sleeveless, open-chested denim jacket flapped in the wind; its many pins and patches a collaborative push towards maximizing his intimidation factor.
While the prim and proper Goetia baked in his fine leathers, Blitz felt free as, ironically, a bird. Out in the sun, out in nature, he bared his skin to soak up as much of it as he could; the rips in his jeans a practical choice as much as they were a stylistic one. A pang of smugness filtered into his grin at the concept of a sweaty owl, and above the roar of the car’s engine, he too roared out a question.
“Just like flying, isn’t it?”
As Stolas remained silent, Blitz patted his side of the car, then held his arm out to ride the waves of Hell’s breeze. His vehicle, one he lovingly dubbed as The Dust Devil, purred beneath him at a speed of one-hundred miles per hour. Painted in dark crimson chrome, its massive treaded tires churned up the already half-eaten concrete road; potholes didn’t stand a fucking chance. Atop the hood shined a black, polished ornament in the shape of a flaming hell stallion; reared back in the iconic stance of every equine to every grave film and television. An open roll cage kept both him and Stolas relatively boxed in; its shell long discarded.
“Could you perhaps slow down?”
Blitz entirely took his eyes off the road, one hand on the wheel as he turned his head towards Stolas.
“Why?”
“The terrain is rather hazardous. In addition, the constant strain upon the engine might cause a mechanical malfunction.”
With a pointed scoff, the imp turned back towards the road. If he could’ve put the pedal to the metal anymore, he would’ve just to mess with the owl.
“Not unless you want this drive to take way fucking longer!”
“Are we in a hurry?”
“No, but I’m not the one wearing long sleeves, leather, and covered in feathers! You wanna pass out from dehydration, or what?”
An average trek from Imp City to the horse track was roughly thirty minutes or more; both a guarantee of privacy and ample space for all manner of activities. No one who wasn’t going for a very specific reason would ever risk the journey, which guaranteed that the venue remained in the right hands. Those hands belonging to a more…eclectic clientele, one could say. Business tycoons, ranch hands, grease monkeys, and some of the heaviest hitters in all of Hell’s lower crust could all be found in the same arena.
Whether Stolas knew any this way, of course, a mystery to Blitz. It sounded like just the thing for an attendant to know, but it certainly wasn’t the imp’s first rodeo. He’d keep it a secret until they reached the track proper; no point in getting him all antsy.
“Don’t worry; I’ll buy you some water when we get there.”
Right as Blitz turned his head to address Stolas, a strand of magic whipped out into the far landscape and snatched something from one of the passing cacti! There, clutched delicately in the tips of the owl’s talons; a spikey, pink ball with nubs of some kind. It almost looked like a beet. He watched as Stolas tapped the fruit with the tip of his beak, then tilted his head back as water poured out. After a few gulps, he stopped, his thirst seemingly quenched.
“No need, Master Blitz, but thank you for thinking of me.”
He turned back towards the road, where metallic reflections peered above the horizon. Seeing Stolas drink from that fruit, or whatever it was kept his gaze averted for a time; one which he used to collect himself. There was no doubt in his mind that what he had just witnessed was one of the most metal acts he’d seen; stabbing into the flesh of a dangerous, spiked object and draining its life essence…In a way, it invited a stirring of respect, but one which he kept to his heart and his heart alone.
The racetrack wasn’t far now; what with the intense speeds they used to storm across the windy, desert plains. A proper stone monolith, wrapped about like a cannibalistic snake devouring its own tail, curled atop the sands; it’s scales of rock and cement left to bake in the unrelenting sunlight. Memories of weak chain link fences, sticky soda stains, and the reeking odor of rampant nicotine emerged in his mind. Not even all the money in all of Hell could keep him from the track and all its roguish charm.
Tires squealed, then crunched against rock and sediment, as Blitz slammed on the brake and whipped the wheel; spinning the Dust Devil into a perfect one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin. Ass to track, everything jolted to a halt, and the imp shifted the gear into park. Within the finality of their journey, he wasted zero time in kicking the door open and hopping out; arms stretched to the sky while his torso elongated with slightly stiff muscle.
“Ah, you smell that?” Blitz sighed, gravel scraped across the soles of his boots. Animal musk, dust, dirt, alcohol, cigarettes, hay…and the faintest whiff of excrement. “Beautiful, ain’t it?” he asked.
“It’s…rustic.”
“Only on the fences.”
“I take it there is something of great note to you here besides the equestrian activity?”
“Gambling.”
“You mean placing bets.”
“Yeah, gambling; it’s what I just said. Try and keep up.”
“…Are you certain this establishment is open? I see nary a sight of any vehicles or their potential occupants.”
“They’re all out front; we don’t do that here. In the Buckzo Family, we kick in the backdoor.” As he spoke, Blitz and Stolas walked side by side towards a slightly elevated wall of chain fencing. True to his word, flakes of brown rust infected the once-capable barrier, and several arm-sized gaps left gaping holes of black into the backrooms of the arena. “Watch my back while I cut open a bigger hole. The one already here isn’t big enough for you.”
“Or…perhaps we simply enter through the main entrance?”
No small measure of exasperation entered the tone of his sigh, as Blitz fished into his pants pocket. “You’re telling me no royal has ever climbed up a balcony in the middle of the night to fuck some Count’s wife?” he scoffed, then pulled out a pair of itty-bitty bolt cutters to chew through the links one by one. “Anyway, use those big red eyes of yours and tell me if anyone walks back here for some reason. This is gonna take a sec, and—”
A dark shadow encompassed him from behind, and a sudden descent of warmth wrapped its way around his entire body. Stunned by the combination of extreme heat, abrupt darkness, and an aroma of flowers, Blitz froze like a field mouse. It only took him a second to realize that it was Stolas, who had draped his suit coat over them both as some sort of protective blanket.
“The fuck are you--?”
“Shh, do not speak. Someone is approaching.”
Sure enough, the crunch of boots on gravel encroached on their position. Shrouded, the warm and steady beat of another’s heart rhythmically tapped upon his ear, floral flavors filled his nose; just as a mother’s love would embrace a son or daughter. Protective, encompassing, laced with wired, concealed intent to kill should the world approach their child. Swaddled in killer instinct, Blitz’s heart nearly stilled; breath absent save the tiniest of sparse inhales.
He felt…safe.
“This is Golden Boy, go ahead.” A gruff voice; one he’d never heard, spoke into the air. There had only been the sound of a single pair of feet, so why the one voice? He had to be talking to someone far away, which likely meant he was using a phone. “Affirmative, boys are in position, got multiple pairs of eyes on the box; everything’s tequila sunrise and fresh cut Cubans.”
More gravel crunched and scattered; the harsh brush of shoes likely coated in dust. The voice grew silent for a time, and only the faintest mutter of indecipherable nonsense poured from a tiny speaker.
“Negative, he came strapped. We’ve been clocking fins for a good while now; guarantee they’ve been doing the same right back.” Steps grew louder then halted entirely, and the aura of dry desert heat tightened; a looming presence cast above the concealed duo. Blitz’s heart thundered with such ferocity that he worried it might reveal their hiding place. “Thirty, plus his escort; some in the open, some blending in. She never leaves the box, let alone his side. Getting in without her noticing is going to be tricky.”
A metallic clink triggered a flinch in Blitz’s tail and his body jolted in place. Cigarette smoke drifted through the air; its presence a tangible threat to the sanctity of his ward’s protective aura. Magnified by the darkness and trapped beneath his warm, sweet-scented, living royal attendant, every sound electrified the imp’s nerves. Despite the safety of his position, worry festered in his soul. One wrong move, one hiccup, one exhale slightly too loud, and they’d be found. Normally, any chump who crossed his way wouldn’t bring him pause, but Stolas’ insistence on staying hidden spurred unnatural caution.
The muffled speech blathered on for an infuriatingly long period of time before the voice spoke up again; far more humble, proper, and reserved than before. “Roger wilco, ma’m: Golden Boy out.” A brisk click followed; that of a handheld radio, and a long sigh came after. It was then, amongst the inbetween, Blitz felt as if he was being watched. There was no way to know, no way to tell, yet he had never been more certain of anything. Whoever was nearby was looking right at them.
Another click.
Not of a radio, but of a gun’s lever.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
Sweat poured from Blitz’s brow, his heart unable to steady itself as he not only tasted the bitter salt of perspiration, but of home-brewed fear. Tart, curdling, sickly sweet in all the wrong ways; a torment to the tastebuds. All of his previous comforts vanished at a singular sound, and his back burrowed back into Stolas’ embrace as if to somehow better shield himself. It took everything he had not to make a sound.
Gravel crunched, slow and methodical. Practiced steps, those of a trained predator, made hardly a sound atop the sea of crushed rock and sand. Up from the ground below, their reverberations tickled Blitz’s boots from tip to heel as if hunting by sonar. Then, right as he sensed the daunting aura of a foot right beside their hunched hiding place…another was taken right past him.
Suddenly; a flurry of movement, a crashing waterfall of powerful, predatory momentum and the click of a gun. Door hinges creaked, then the same door slammed shut and a radio clicked on once again. “Gold Boy to Swarm One, we have an unidentified vehicle behind the arena. Fresh tracks, warm engine…” A loud, long, and primal sniff filled the air. “…but no scent. Perform a fresh sweep of the grounds, update the headcount: now.”
At long last, the stranger’s footsteps and his radio finally faded into the distance.
Almost immediately, Stolas’ body rose away from Blitz’s, and the veil which had covered them both lifted to reveal the scorching Pride sun. Joints and muscle taut from being locked in place for so long, they groaned and popped as the imp stood up; attention set immediately on his attendant.
“I thought for sure he was gonna fucking find us. What’s that coat of yours, and where can I fucking buy one; thing’s a goddamn lifesaver…”
“I regret to inform you that it isn’t a purchasable garment, Master Blitz.” Stolas’ sights were set east; likely the same direction that the one known as Gold Boy had headed. “Seeing that our fellow equine enthusiasts appear to be conducting some sort of unsavory business, I highly suggest that we return another time.”
Heart still galloping, just like that of the hellsteeds of conversation, a single hand planted atop it to try and steady its nerves. “Fuck that; I ain’t afraid of a few guns.” Still, it did make sneaking in through the back…problematic. Heightened security meant that the backdoor might not be as exclusive as it normally was, and Blitz didn’t feel like catching a hot piece of lead in his ass. “That being said, you win; we should go through the front. If checking in normally means less of a chance we’ll get popped, I’ll pay the damn entry fee…”
Stolas arched a brow. “I’ve never been to this particular establishment. Is the entry fee so hefty that even the wealthy are wary of it?”
“No, just…” Hesitation filled his tone, each new word at the threat of being stillborn on the top of his tongue. Eventually, Blitz shrugged awkwardly, “…I might’ve potentially…fucked the doorman’s mother, once upon a time.”
“…I see; and he--?”
“Yeah, he fucking knows. Look, how about instead of focusing on that, can we focus on how fucking weird all that just was?”
“I shall not deny it was a strange occurrence, but those are often found at the “backdoor”, as you so eloquently called it. Do not worry about the doorman; you have nothing to fear with me at your side.”
As if it came naturally to him, Blitz took his place at Stolas’ side again, and the two made their way around the grounds of the horse track. All the while, beneath a clear and radiant sky, he found himself stealing glances up at the owl. A question teetered on the tip of his tongue; one which he almost felt uncomfortable to ask yet did regardless.
“Guessing you hid us because Gold Boy back there was bad news? Worse than the doorman maybe; if you're so confident about staring him down. How would you even know for sure? Why hide when you could stand?”
While no eyes turned his way, he could tell that his words had been heard. It didn’t take long for Stolas to answer. “Do you know what one of mankind’s oldest, most primal fears is?”
“…is that some kind of trick question?”
“Not at all.”
“Fuck, I dunno…death?”
“A suitable answer, but not the correct one. Try again.”
“Being alone?”
“Hmm, not quite. Give up?”
“Sure, I give; what is it?”
“Possibility.”
That singular word was loaded with such reverence; cracked open from his beak like the hiss of a cold beer on a blazing summer’s day. It was an uncoiled snake from within a wicker baster, the emergence of something beautiful and deadly brought about by a few simple notes of sound. Blitz’s question had summoned a philosophical viper.
“What awaits in the dark; they wonder. What lies behind the locked door? Are my thoughts just thoughts, or am I a horrid soul and don’t even know it? These are merely a few situations born of their fear, but they all stem from a singular source; their inability to see. That which is hidden is often more terrifying than what is visible, but there is a time and place for both.”
“O-kay…but doesn’t that only work if they’re thinking about it?”
“Aware or unaware, the existence of hidden ill intent matters not; it simply is. If your first goal is to escape danger, subterfuge is often your best chance to do so unscathed. However, if your aim is to kill, an unaware mark is far easier to dispatch. By concealing us, I held all the cards; when and if to reveal myself, whether to eliminate him from an advantageous position or let him pass by, but most importantly it allowed me to consider what was best for your own protection.”
“Huh…” Blitz absorbed the random tidbits of wisdom with careful gluttony; as if he were a food critic sampling a diner’s best dish. “Guess if you had killed him, all of his guys would’ve ended up swarming us at some point out of revenge.”
“Remember, Master Blitz, that conflict is a choice. You may hear claims which tout otherwise, but make no mistake, killing is a commitment. All that occurs as a consequence is sown by your hand, and while it may appear to immediately solve many problems, it often creates even more. Killing without thought is a sign that you lack control, and in order to have the best chance of survival, control is paramount.”
“Unless you’re an idiot, right?”
In a moment which sparked immense ego in his chest, Stolas’ head turned and displayed a truly perplexed expression…if only for about two seconds before it snapped back to normal. A hand rose, tilted down at the wrist, and obscured the front of his beak. Eye tightened at their corners, shoulders bounced, and a series of small, muffled hoots squeaked into the world.
Was he…laughing?
Bedazzled by his feat, Blitz drank in that singular moment. No one ever laughed at anything he said; well, at least not in any way that ever felt good. Fizz sometimes did, but he knew they were pity giggles. None of his material had ever landed back in his performing days either; always outshined by his spiritual brother and blood-kin sister. Yet, out of everyone, Stolas of all demons had, seemingly, found him funny.
“Yes, that is correct Master Blitz. Fools are often consumed by a false pretense of control; their machinations thwarted by the most simplistic of underappreciated links in their armor. I could regale you with the tale of Count Murmur, if you’d like an example to recall.”
“Alright, but can you hold it till we get inside? Stories need snacks, and this place happens to have some damn good arena food.”
“As you wish. I would not mind a rat stick, if there are any available.”
Despite how off-putting his question was, Stolas wasn’t all bad. There were some positive and, dare Blitz say it, cool aspects to him. Cut out the weirdness, the magic, and just maybe they could get along. Hell, maybe they could even become friends.
“I’ll have to check but let's start small. First question...can owls eat popcorn?”
Chapter 4: Greed and Gluttony: The Best of Bedfellows
Summary:
Blitz and Stolas spot some oddities at the horse track. While he's not exactly keen on digging any deeper into them, Stolas does his best to fulfill Blitz's wish, no matter how ill advised.
Chapter Text
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Devil hound
Devil hound
A meeting in secret, cast on high
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Owls could, indeed, eat popcorn.
The fact instilled Blitz with a buzzing aura of giddiness; one which he refused to claim as a sign of being happy. Instead, he walked away from the grimy food stand, side by side with the demon who’s height dwarfed his own, with guarded eyes. Low lives and eccentrics filled the halls and lined the concrete walls; everything from squatted reprobates engrossed in a game of dice to cigar-smoking wise guys straining the elastic on their suspenders. Some glanced in his direction, some didn’t, but Blitz knew better than to fall for that old trick.
On the streets, everyone was always watching.
Through the murk of incessant conversations and side eye glances, oddities appeared. A ballistic vest here, an earpiece there, the thud and tread of combat boots, and even the crackle of a radio channel. Militarized goons, stuck to every corner, every wall, and every stand in sight; guarding, canvasing, searching perhaps…
“Pay them no heed, Master Blitz. You are simply here to enjoy the races.”
Not expecting such a posh, serene tone to interrupt his survival mode mentality, Blitz jumped in his boots. Just as his head shot up to reprimand, an apologetic smile gleamed back down through that smooth, ivory beak. Instantly, his flash of anger vanished.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve been grinding your teeth for the past few seconds.” A handful of popcorn lowered itself down; an offering, a treat, a gift. “Here, for your nerves.”
Lightly dusted with cheese powder and drizzled in a sheen of butter, the popcorn did look delicious. Hell, its freshly popped aroma was enough to have him accept Stolas’ offer instantaneously; quick to shove the entire handful into his mouth. “It’s not like I can turn it off…” he replied, fresh dopamine packed into both cheeks.
“Then you may take solace in the fact that I have enough eyes for the both of us.”
To their right, the wall split open into a tunnel towards the arena seating. Inked up in all manner of graffiti, it too contained a variety of strangers; seems no matter where they walked, the masses were inescapable.
“Lot of fucking people here today…”
“I assume by your tone that it’s an oddity?”
“Yeah. Last time it was this packed, some hot shot cowboy was out here doing tricks; celebrity-level shit. Otherwise…it’s pretty quiet.”
At the end of the tunnel, the horse track sprawled out before them. Set deep in a vibrant, lush bowl; fine tracks of dust and dirt wrapped around meticulous cultivation in an ovular pattern. The starting gates stood polished, marked with several numbers, and completely unoccupied by any horses or their jockeys. It only took a single glance to realize that all of the revenue was poured towards the track itself, leaving the arena itself to crack and darken in Pride’s sun.
Despite the venue shift, the crowd remained the same, but as he and Stolas climbed the stone steps to their seats a pattern emerged in Blitz’s eye. Scattered by one to four benches: shark demons. Ringed eyes, pronounced back fins, thick tails, and short pointed horns gave them away easily. Hilariously, all of them were like fish out of water. Yet, as he ran his eyes over the seats near and far…there they were, as if purposefully placed in specific seats by design.
By the time hot concrete touched his ass, Blitz was smelling more than just horse shit and cigarette smoke. Stolas’ superior height provided a modicum of shade; shade which the imp found himself feeling grateful for, as he held out his palm like a dog for another offering of popcorn. “Alright, Mr. Advanced Eyesight, you catching all the same weird shit that I am?”
“You’re speaking of the speckled demographic filling the seats, or perhaps referencing the fact that the VIP box is barred from the outside?”
“Wait, what?”
Simultaneously, Stolas turned his gaze towards a particular direction, as if to encourage Blitz to trace his line of vision, and gracefully placed another handful of popcorn into the imp’s hand. “There, in the western portion.”
Eyes narrowed to a squint, he peered across the track. There, hung at the topmost row, perched a rectangular, air-conditioned box; and around it stood an entire wall’s worth of armed, armored hellhounds. If he wasn’t familiar with the usual staff, Blitz would’ve mistaken them for simple security guards. “Oh shit…” he said, right before the second ball of delicious popcorn entered his mouth. “…you’re right.”
“Whomever resides within clearly doesn’t wish to be disturbed.” Stolas’ head remained still, but his rightmost eyes turned downward. They granted Blitz only a few scant seconds to look, before an uncomfortable ringing started in his head. Clearly, the demon was trying not to make his observations too obvious. “However, it would also seem that another party fully intends to violate that desire…”
It was then that he realized who Stolas was referring to. “What, the sharks? Isn’t that a little racist?”
“I am not proclaiming or promoting a perceived negative trait, Master Blitz. I am simply presenting an observation as it lies before me.”
“So if you saw, say, a ton of imps sitting together you’d assume they were plotting something?”
“Notice their positioning. They’re spread out to cover a vast area and to avoid clumping together, as if to obscure their true numbers with distance. If you allow your attention to linger, you’ll also notice that they keep glancing towards the same location. These are the actions of premeditated planning.”
“Is being a bigot part of being a royal? I’m gonna just skip that part of your program: thanks.” Blitz leaned back, wiped the butter and dust off his hands, and unstuck several kernels from his teeth with the tips of his forked tongue. “…but, I can see it. They’re hunting the mutts, while their prey huddles in a pack.”
“Excellent; you’ve surmised the same as I. So long as we keep to ourselves, there should be no threat of danger. However, if this proves not to be the case, I mentally marked the various exits out of the arena.”
Slightly disappointed that his dig had been entirely shrugged off, Blitz fell silent with new thoughts to digest. So used to reacting to the rough edges of reality as they barreled down at him, planning wasn’t on his list of Shit Blitz is Good At. Still, a natural sense of profound and mischievous curiosity nibbled at the back of his mind. Danger be damned; this was a mystery begging to be cracked apart.
“Makes you wonder who’s in the box, doesn’t it?” he stated; Stolas’ reaction just as much a curiosity as the question itself.
“While the pursuit of understanding is a noble goal, sometimes intrigue leads to roads best left untraveled. I’ve taken note that it might become a cause for abrupt retreat, but that is the limit to which my priorities extend.”
“Alright, alright; nibble on some popcorn. I gotta take a leak.”
Blitz stood, and to his immediate confusion, Stolas did too.
“Umm…can I help you?” he asked, as he shuffled closer to the stairs.
“I am accompanying you.”
“The fuck you are.”
“Master Blitz…”
“It’s a fucking toilet, Stolas.”
“The location does not matter.”
“Look, I’ve been coming to this place for about five years and nothing has ever happened to me while I’ve been pissing. It’s a trough; we’re all equally exposed. The worst that’ll happen is some repressed conservative prick will steal a glance or two at my hog and I’ll spit in his mouth: tops.”
“…this would not be the first time you have attempted to slip away from me today.”
The logic bomb was so potent upon the landscape of his mind, that all Blitz could do was fold his arms, flick his tail, and raise his chin. “…do owls even pee?”
“No, we do not, but I am not there to use the bathroom.”
“So what, you’re just gonna hover behind me while I leech Nessie?”
“If necessary.”
“Sounds to me like you just want to see my dick.”
“What I desire is your safety; nothing more.”
Agitated by the continued back and forth, Pride’s heat scampered across Blitz’s arms in an unsavory fashion; like spiders skittering about. The spinal spikes which graced his back as a trio twitched and a sigh slipped from his lips; confrontation abandoned. Verbal sparring with Cash and Barbie was one thing, but Stolas was proving to be a different beast altogether. No yelling, no emotion; just…sense.
“Alright, come on. You’re lucky I do kegels…”
Without desire to wait any longer, he strode from the aisle and descended the stairs. With no need to check on Stolas’ reaction, silence lingered between them on the semi-lengthy journey back into the bowels of the arena. As they walked, a soft crackle of radio static echoed through the halls.
“Goooooood evening ladies and gents! We here at Wally Wackford’s Wondorous Racing Ring hope you’re having a fantastic day in the scorching heat of Pride. While you cool off in the shade, be sure to stop by the freshly stocked concession stands for a chance to taste our newest treat: Beelzebub’s Basted Banana Balls! Honey glazed, lemon soaked, beer battered dough coated in cinnamon sugar; guaranteed to knock your horns off! Try the newest culinary masterpiece from HoneyHound Industries today, all at the low-low price of five bucks a ball, but be sure to hurry back to your seats, because our fabulous racers barrel out of the gate in ten minutes time! This is Wally Wackford, signing off!”
By the time the announcement ended, the gaping entrance to the bathrooms towered before Blitz; a combination of urinal cakes and bleach caught in a state of permanent morning breath. “I’ll make it quick.” he noted over his shoulder, and before any further arguing could take place, he surged into the bathroom with belligerent pacing. Dim lights, scattered paper towels, soap stains, and the grimy aftertaste of permanently dirty tile flooring felt like stepping into an entirely different world.
One glance to the left showed that no one was at the trough, but a longer look at the flanking stalls also revealed a single pair of boots peeking out the bottom. With little to fear, Blitz took his place at the urinal trough and unzipped. Immediately, a rush of relief cascaded down the back of his shoulders; the deeply engrained pressure within his groin lifted. It sounded like someone was deep frying chicken; a fact which fed his ego to no end.
A flush sounded off to his right, weakened by the downpour of hot imp piss on smooth metal, but just loud enough to perk an ear. Blitz kept his gaze fixated on the dirty wall in front of him; tip of his tail kept low to the rim of his boot, in case he needed to pull out a knife. An aura of social anxiety floated through the air, infused with dread and suspicion, but it wasn’t enough to milk a response out of him.
The click of a stall door as it unlocked.
The squeak of old hinges left to rot in a place of rest.
The heavy tread of boots as they approached the connected sinks.
Water crashed into cheap ceramic with a steady hiss; angered by its awakening.
Blitz felt the contents of his bladder begin to peter out. So close to being done, he flexed his glutes to speed up the process, and as nothing but the final annoying drops of a piss well drained remained…the water turned off.
Quickly, he zipped up his pants and turned, only to find himself staring at the back of a tall, yellow-furred hellhound. Fluffy tail, fluffy ears; classic golden retriever look wrapped in an assortment of tactical gear. Bullet proof vest, a radio attached near the shoulder, a bullet bandolier clipped about the waist, and combat boots to hide those toe beans; a literal K-9 Unit. Paws nestled in a small clump of paper towels, its enhanced canine peripheral caught Blitz’s presence, which caused its head to turn and bring them face to face.
Blazing white eyes, their cores a duo of pearly pinpoint pricks, stared at Blitz as if he were an unsightly smear. A septum piercing adorned a grayed sniffer, flanged outwards at both ends like a greek symbol. From the front, sunny fur lost its bouncy sheen and appeared far more rugged, salted; frayed by hardship. It was as if the horrors of his profession had bleached the joyful color from the hound’s eyes and begun to consume its face; for a smile of any sort was nowhere to be imagined. Around the neck, a familiar-shaped emblem attached to a spiked collar jingled; the symbol of Queen Beelzebub.
Unsure of what to say when making eye contact with a stranger in a dingy bathroom, Blitz simply bucked his chin up in a gesture of acknowledgment. “What’s shaking, big dog; you shitting on company time?”
“No,” he grunted in response. “I’m in here looking for a career change. You always chat up complete strangers in the men’s room?”
“I dunno, do you always dress up like an edgy airsoft player, or did you just get sick of of dress slacks and button ups?”
“Neither.” came the curt reply; a frown having upturned his canine muzzle. Suddenly, his radio crackled with an unknown voice; one which bounced off the poorly-tended restroom walls.
“Swarm One to Golden Body, do you copy?”
His muzzle curled deeper, as he pressed the button and tilted towards the speaker. “Standby.” The response was nearly a growl, packed with a hastily patched bundle of irritation, and the hound even diverted a portion of that same energy right at Blitz with a nasty glance. Balled up towels slapped off the back bin of a garbage can and tumbled down inside, propelled by a sudden and sharp flick of the wrist. Shifting feet indicated the end of the conversation, and without another word, the hound exited the bathroom; steps rapid until he vanished from view.
Natural curiosity brewed in Blitz; pieces falling into place. So that was the guy patrolling the back lot… he thought, as cheap soap squirted directly into his hands from an equally cheap plastic dispenser above the sink. One detail which immediately bugged him more than anything was the apparent absence of a gun. There had been one earlier; even if he hadn’t seen it, Blitz knew what a gun’s lever sounded like. Was he crazy?
Instead of snatching up some nasty, public bathroom towels, he shook his hands dry on the way out…and like fucking clockwork, his brand new shadow was waiting for him; looming like goddamn Big Ben. Stolas didn’t say a word, but his head swiveled to attention with upmost ease. It was as if he sensed the question which perched at the edge of Blitz’s tongue from nothing but a simple look.
“I know earlier that I said something was up, but now I know something fucking weird is going on. You—uhh—happen to catch anything from him?”
“If you are referring to the canine gentleman with the implanted facial accessories: no. In fact, he displayed such remarkable agility in creating distance that I doubt that even another hound could have caught a single word.”
“He works for HoneyHound.”
“I surmised as much, given the brooch about his collar.”
“Thing is, never known them to put a security force out on the streets, especially not someplace so busy. Sure; their warehouses and shit are crawling with hired guns, but the horse track?”
“Then perhaps it would be wise to simply return home.”
“What, and miss getting a leg up on the competition? If someone I’m in bed with is about to shit it, I’d rather know ahead of time so I can kick them out before they ruin the sheets.” Overclocked, his brain sewed as many threads of thought together as it could; wild speculations about what the aim of HoneyHound could be. So muddied in his own musings; Stolas’ hovering became a mere smudge in the background, incapable of combating the ferocity of the imp’s disassociation.
“Competition is not the term you use for business associates; I hope you know this.”
“I don’t know what it’s like on the upper crust, but down here, no one’s your friend.” Mouth running, his feet moved as well; mind locked on an unspoken objective. “You think if I had any friends I’d need someone like you watching my ass?”
Few hangers on continued to roam about the hallways of the arena; hang abouts unconcerned with missing the opening lineup and more focused on pissing away time in the shade. Several looked his way, but reality quickly taught him that all the attention was because of Stolas. Some demons instantly looked away, terrified of potentially meeting the Goetian’s quad-eyes stare, while others kept their heads locked in and feet moving; too inquisitive to look away until their stride took them away. It was a mixed reaction, sure, but no one stopped to fuck with Blitz, and that was what mattered.
Seeming to have completely ignored the rhetorical question, Stolas spoke after a brief silence. “Our seats are located in the other direction.”
“I know.”
“You are going to miss the horses if you keep this up, sire.”
“Not like I’m betting on them or anything.”
“You’re going to the viewing box, aren’t you?”
“Sure am.”
“And you are aware that is where the concentration of armed security guards is most thick?”
“Sure am.”
“I would implore you to let sleeping dogs lie, but…” Stolas sighed, albeit a soft, short, and quiet sigh; almost just a puff of escaped air, really. “…my inner voice tells me you would not listen.”
“Relax, I’ve got my big, bad bodyguard with me.” Blitz replied, a huge, confidence-infused grin stretched across his face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Ruby eyes
Chomping teeth
Creep into the den of beasts
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Sneaking past all the hellhounds and shark demons had been a piece of cake. With Stolas’ coat of cloaking and a little bit of creative torso latching, both he and Blitz stood face to face with the VIP viewing box in no time at all. However, one teensy tiny issue remained at the edge of their metaphorical finish line: a singular guard. Everyone else’s backs were turned, but this guy’s back kissed the building like a clingy lover during a honeymoon retreat. If they took him out, someone would notice or hear, not to mention the fact they seemed to regularly count heads.
It was then that Blitz got a bright idea.
“Hey, Stolas.” he whispered, soft neck feathers right up against his cheek. Like some kind of demonic koala, the imp clung to the much taller demon’s chest; arms and legs wrapped around for stability and support. “Think you can like…eat this guy?”
“What?”
“Not literally—but like—you know just—” Blitz wiggled his head, as it was the only part of him that could really do so at the moment. “Open your arms, I jump off, you use your…rope thingies and suck him under the cloak: stealth kill!”
“I’d rather not take a life unless absolutely necessary.” Stolas’ eyes and head craned down to look at Blitz, filled with his usual neutral calm; yet, somehow, a degree of fatherly sternness floated within them as well. "And this venture is not absolutely necessary.”
“Okay fine, just…knock him out or something then! Point is, he needs to go without his buddies noticing, so I can slip into the box.” He clenched his muscles, doing his upmost best not to shiver at the owl’s pleasant whisper. It was uncannily tender; like the softest, coolest pillow in all of Hell’s hotels, and honestly, Blitz wouldn’t mind hearing more of it…
“It will not work.”
“What, why not?”
“Because for one, you are small enough to shelter inside of it by default, but the guard is at least three times your size; measurably so, in fact. They would not fit.”
“Okay smart ass, then why does it work for you? It only covers your top half!” Blitz quietly hissed under his breath.
“Because it is my coat, so I am the sole exception to the rule.”
“I thought magic was supposed to break the rules!”
“Even magic has laws by which it must abide.”
A low, rumbly growl vibrated in Blitz’s chest. “Fuck…” Twitchy yellow eyes darted about in search of a solution, a second route, anything that would get them past the guard in question without raising an alarm. “…we’ve got a better chance of whoever’s in there going on some random fucking walk right past us, at this rate.”
“One valuable factoid about hellhounds, Master Blitz—” Suddenly, a gentle gleam of golden light shined out in the open. Panic seized him; they were going to be seen! Yet, to his immense surprise, despite the guard looking straight at them…it was as if the coin itself was also invisible. “—their acute hearing is a dual-ended blade.” Stolas deftly flicked the coin, and just a few feet away, it clattered to the ground with a pronounced ping.
Immediately, the guard’s head turned; ears perked, eyes wide, tail stopped dead. Drawn to the noise, he pushed away from the wall and left to investigate.
“Now’s our chance.” Swift as the wind and quiet as a still breeze, they swept past the guard’s post and into the viewing box. Thankfully, no one had suggested for a guard to be stationed inside the door itself; leaving the air-conditioned hallway completely empty. A singular door, sat in the middle of the left flanking wall, was the only one of its kind. Surely, that was where they needed to go; and so Stolas approached, with Blitz still latched around his torso.
“Hear anything?”
“Yes.” Narrowed eyes, a cheek against the door: fingers. “Four individuals; two female, two male, several meters from the door.” Silently, fingertips traced across the smooth surface; splaying wide and rejoining with ballerina-like grace.
“Well, when you’re done getting frisky with it, maybe we can spread some metaphorical legs and take a peek?”
“That is ill advised; the box is of single entry. They will likely hear, if we attempt to open it.”
“Shit dicks…” Blitz growled. For all they knew, one of those four sets of eyes could be watching the door constantly. “Can’t you just do that teleporty thing you did earlier; when you snapped us from Lust and all the way back home in a blink?”
“That trick requires me to have set foot in the place I wish to transfer to; amongst other preparations. I cannot simply phase into areas I have no knowledge of.”
“Fuck me; a Goetia who’s shitty at magic. That’s like the one thing you guys got going for you! What’s the point of you being a magical fucking bird, if you suck ass at doing magic? What good are you?!”
Right as the words jumped from his lips; virile and angry, only a spoon of sour regret and shame remained. Blitz’s back spines twitched, tail sagged limp, and an apologetic expression passed over his face as he looked up at Stolas.
“Sorry; that’s…just something I get from my dad. I didn’t mean that.”
To his surprise, no chastisement came. Instead, the same look at the owl had worn all day simply regarded his outburst and subsequent hasty apology with complete silence. There were no angry glares, no hurt quivers of the beak or softening of the eyes; merely rigid composure. Something told Blitz he’d regret his words later, despite the momentary lack of a rebuttal.
“I actually think you’re kinda awe—” A large black palm clamped over his mouth, and Stolas leapt away from the door, just as it began to open! Blitz stared, eyes wide, at the abrupt manhandling, but kept quiet as he saw the exact reason for it. None other than Tex, with his scarred face and thick dark muzzle, poked his broad upper body into the hallway to make an appearance; his one good eye scanning the seemingly empty hall.
He said nothing, and he didn’t need to in order to scare off any potential would be lurkers. It was a gaze which could slice through glass like a laser in a black ops laboratory; possessed of a menacing, ravenous shine that decreed anything caught in its path would be mulched in mere seconds. Combined with an intimidating physique, one that practically ate up the entire doorway, the cut suit he wore failed miserably at its intended masquerade. That demon was no refined soul; but a killer, a slayer, a meat-grinder designed to mince even the toughest of cuts.
When his attention turned in the direction of Blitz and Stolas, the imp’s heart skipped a beat and drummed in triple-time. Right against the owl’s well-dressed chest, he mentally willed it to slow; for if it thumped too loudly, the hound’s highly sensitive ears might just hear…and they’d be dead.
Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck…
“What is it?” a feminine voice called out, thick with boredom.
An ear flapped and his head turned back towards the room. “Thought I heard something.”
“Get in here.”
Tex turned around, and between the moment that his hulking frame passed back through the doorway, Stolas made his move. Like a ghost, he slipped behind the massive hound and into the room before the door could fully close; leaving it to shut with a satisfying double click. Pungent cigar smoke and bitter whiskey filled the room, which was littered with all manner of leather seating and a massive window to watch the races through. Air conditioned, well-kept, furnished with fine carpet and a fully stocked bar; a sanctuary from the oppressive heat and sticky concrete seats down below.
Stolas slid away from the door and dipped behind the bar to secure a, hopefully, safe vantage over the room. Tucked away in a corner, and beneath the magical cover of the invisibility coat, he finally released Blitz’s mouth. Silently, he held a finger in front of his beak to state the obvious: no talking. Together, their eyes drifted towards the far end of the room, where a cohort of demons gathered.
Tex was already known to them, standing tall in his sleeveless suit. However, the demon he stood directly behind, was not. Gray of fur and long of leg, she shared his species, but not his composition. A luscious mane, parted completely to only half of her head, exposed a gnawed and pierced canine ear. Below the nape of her neck draped what appeared to be a thick poncho; one which covered the right half of her body, while her left held aloft a glass of ice and whiskey. Sharpened claws, and a rolled sleeve which exposed a slender arm, leaned its rim to her lips and took a sip. Her attention was focused on the window, and the racetrack which lay beyond it.
To her right, in the opposite chair, sat an imp clad in a pinstripe suit of deep azure. Stark white, fluffy hair acted as the bed for two thick striped horns; far different than Blitz’s own. They were shorter, smaller, and shaped more like undulating waves than towering arches. Two mutton chop-like tufts of hair flanked his jawline, dangerously close to the lit cigar that swapped from molar to molar with ease. Big yellow eyes, underlined with dark lines, sat amidst heavy and sunken; a meal for the jagged white marks that rested on their outermost edges.
Compared to the two hounds, he was absolutely tiny.
“Trouble in paradise?” A scratchy, yet oddly melodic voice crawled out from the imp’s lips.
Tex exchanged a glance with his mysterious superior, then shook his head. She answered in kind, the clattering of ice in her glass an accent to her cold tone. “No.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He grunted, with a shift of hips in his comfortable leather chair. “So, back on topic; you’ve got the girls?”
“Came in today, matter of fact.”
“Good: species?”
“Imp.”
“All of them?”
“Of course all of ‘em; like you forget who we’re dealing with.”
“You can never be too careful. If I get even a single succubus, it’ll be on your ass. Not to mention; a blemish on this little alliance of ours.”
A chuckle, unamused and provocative, followed. “If you think you can pull the same shit in Gluttony that you did in Greed, be my guest. We’ll eat you alive.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, but you and I both know this little meeting isn’t completely above board on either end.”
“Which means you’re just as sunk as I am if we poke enough holes in it.” Finished with her current drink, the hound leaned forward and poured herself another; all while another glass at nearby, completely full and untouched. “What you wanted is there; you just need to head back to your fancy villa and open it.”
“If that’s true, what you wanted in return will be on your mistress’ front step by nightfall.” Gentle embers awoke at the tip of the imp’s cigar, as a blissful expression appeared with the presence of closed eyes. “Curious though; what did it?”
“Did what?”
The imp clicked his tongue, sharp as a drake’s, and smoke drifted from between his pointed teeth. “Playing coy; with me? I thought you knew better than that, Loona.”
With a face to a name, Blitz’s focus burned her appearance into memory. It fit, but more than that, it incited a memory. A rang a bell within his mind; he’d heard that same name somewhere before. Loona…Loona…but no matter how hard he tried, his suspicion remained just that: unproven.
“I did too, because here I thought you’d want to toast the death of your shitty father; this is—what---year four, and you haven’t even nudged your drink.”
Full eye contact was made, shared, and allowed to fester far beyond any friendly measure. Loona downed her entire glass in a single pass, then unceremoniously set it back upon the table and licked at her chops. Between the two, at least in Blitz’s view, she was either the most frightened and was putting on airs, or sincerely brazen.
The other guy, however, growled. It was a small growl, but a growl nonetheless, accompanied by him mashing the ashen tip of his cigar into a nearby ash tray.
“He really was a bastard, wasn’t he?” she mused. “Even when he finally did us all a favor and fucked off, he left his only son holding the bag; all his debts, his enemies…his secrets. No one got the pleasure of killing him themselves—no—instead, they have to settle for the off-brand to fill the gaping pit in their guts; the one that just won’t stop growling.”
“If I wanted to be like my old man, I wouldn’t even be talking to you, mutt.” A cruel, pointed lash of the tongue; laced in pus and imbedded with shrapnel. Not a bark, not a whisper, but the perfect hybrid bastard of a one-night coupling.
To Blitz’s shock…the insult drew a laugh from the hellhound. Muzzle twisted into a devilish snicker, her head was left to lightly bob between both shoulders, and eventually even Tex joined in with a spirited fit of baritone giggles. Loona even reached up and playfully tapped his broad arm with a backhand; that snickering muzzle split into a wide, honest smirk.
“When’s the last time you heard that one, Tex?”
“Probably about a decade and a half now.”
“Such an old school slur, ain’t it?”
“Fucking ancient, at this point.”
“It’d be like if I called him a fire toad.”
“So funny, I can’t even be mad.”
“Me either.”
Their laughter carried for a bit longer, all against the stern and angry lines that sank deep into the imp’s face. At his expense, their smiles gleamed with predatory menace, until at long last they both slipped gracefully into neutral expressions once more. Loona crossed her legs and leaned back; her faithful guardian towering behind.
“The irony is deliciously on point, Mox.”
Mox…Mox…another name he didn’t recognize. Slowly, he’d been putting pieces together, but the puzzle was still incomplete. Clearly, Loona had some high up connections with HoneyHound Industries if Tex was following her around, so her role made sense. If all the hounds were with her, then did that mean all of the sharks were with Mox? Was he from Greed? Continuous questions weighed heavily on his mind, until their conversation continued.
“Choke on it. How did you get the Buckzos to finally cut a deal with you?”
Wait, what? They’re talking about the performers?
“Wasn’t hard; just needed to have something they wanted in return. That…and knowing which places to squeeze.” With a snap of fingers, a file appeared in front of Loona; lowered down by Tex with surprising grace and speed. Nudging it open with a knee, the folder stretched open atop her thigh. “Ever heard of the Goetian Gala?”
“Is that some kinda joke; ‘course I fucking have.”
“Just making sure you’re paying attention. Reliable information through the grapevine says that, this year, the Buckzos are providing entertainment.”
“So?”
“So, there’s more. Apparently, they haven’t just been hired; they’ve been invited.”
“What?!” Mox sprang to his feet, and the cigar snapped in half; bitten in two by the force of his ferocious bite. “How in the fu—they’re circus trash!”
“Oh, it gets better.” A single piece of paper was pulled from the pile and extended towards the pissed off imp. He snatched it up with all the fury of a father’s ill-tempered swipe, fingers curled into the parchment until it crinkled. “They’ve been gifted a Goetian attendant to oversee the family’s prodigal son: Blitzo Buckzo. It seems neither side could run the risk of him staining the family name anymore than he already has.”
Taut fingers curled tighter, the fumes of anger all but visible above his head, Mox’s tiny frame heaved with a sudden onset of unbridled rage. A thick vein sprouted in his temple, foam bubbled at the edges of his mouth, and his tail whipped at the leather behind him; cutting it open and unleashing the stuffing within. All that composure, sloppily maintained as it had been, vanished at the news.
“Picture it; his lanky ass in a pristine Goetian ballroom, hand in hand with some Duke or Duchess, dancing to the best music money can buy. It’s a shame, really, after all you’ve done for them…or, should I say, what you did for them.” Curiosity, unflinching and cold, swept over Loona’s eyes. “Really puts into perspective what they think of you.”
Lanky?!
Several seconds passed as Mox fumed; not a word upon his lips the entire time. Wherever that steam was coming from—and by Blitz’s guess it was his brain—it didn’t seem to be slowing down; that was until the imp spat out the stump of his cigar butt. “You’re one to talk; only thing keeping you on anyone’s radar is the fact that you’re Beelzebub’s domestic carpet cleaner.”
While Tex snarled; a border of healthy gumline and rough fur morphed towards the wrinkled edges of his eyes, Loona simply gave an overdramatic sigh. “Oh yes, such a horrible thing to be famous for; having an all access pass to a queen’s honeypot. Look at the freak everyone, she eats pussy! This is the modern age, you fucking mothball, homophobia went out of style back when they proved the Earth is round.”
“Lucky for you, I’ve got better ways to spend my time than in a box eating competition.” With a ruffled, defeated grunt, Mox dropped back into his now torn seat; tail still occasionally rending the air with swipes and erratic twitches. His elbow propped upon the arm rest and the bottom half of his face buried itself in an upraised hand; kneading, pondering, protecting. “…nonetheless, I appreciate the info. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Knowing you, it’s already being put to good use. Keep in mind that we’ve got a contractual agreement with the only competent member of that fucking family, so whatever you’re planning, leave her out of it.” Vampiric rubies flashed in watery gardens of mercury; their peaceful sheen reflected in the glass of her drink. “Now, about that toast…”
Argument settled, Mox raised his glass in kind and tapped it against Loona’s in silence, before they each turned their eyes back out the window. Whether they were actually paying attention to the races, or simply lost in their own thoughts, was unclear. What was clear, however, was that Blitz had heard enough—and apparently, Stolas was of the same mind.
As a stealthy unit, the owl’s wide gait crept back towards the door; and soon enough out of the viewing box entirely. Beyond the guards of HoneyHound Industries and those demons simply present to enjoy the races, they remained invisible the entire journey back to the car, having entirely forgotten about horses and stadium treats. Gone were their intentions to simply enjoy the day, for dark tidings had lapped upon their ears. Whatever arrangement Barbie had made with HoneyHound, it seemed that they weren’t being completely honest with what they wanted the girls for. She’d want to know, but while Blitz considered whipping out his cellphone to give his sister a ring…an uneasy feeling advised against it.
At long last they finally reached the Dust Devil and separated without ceremony; not even a stray feather to be coughed up. Truly, it was a humorless moment amongst peers, as their shared silence lingered even without the fear of being spotted or heard.
Blitz took the driver’s seat.
Stolas took the passenger seat.
As the ignition key turned and the engine rumbled to life, a question nagged at the back of the imp’s mind; one which demanded to be answered.
“…Stolas?”
“Yes, Master Blitz?”
“Back at the door…you said there were four people in that room?” Hands tightened upon the wheel; a nervous tick, a steadily cascading moment of dreadful realization, too late to skirt entirely.
“I did.”
“Any chance you were wrong?”
Immediately, an expression he’d never seen the owl make before unfolded across his feathery face. Cold reality, mixed with a dour spot of severity, turned the brow rigid as scouring eyes looked not through Blitz, but upon him. Shocked from an ethereal, alien like other; wrought unto stunned realization to the point of being rendered tangible, mortal, and thus vulnerable.
“Because I only counted three.”
It was then, as the dread set in most deep and foul, that a gleam of light reflected in the rearview mirror; a light which bid his head to turn, and as it did, Blitz bore witness to the honed steel of a greataxe…as it swung directly towards his neck.
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