Yeah. I’m an idiot. I always thought how funny it would be to sit down and write what would happen if my awful male leads ever had the misfortune of sitting down at a table together. So, here we have it.
Chapter One
The coffeeshop was quiet. It was probably for the best.
It was one of those quaint little coffeeshops that tried very hard to be “vintage” and “authentic” and yet also be “hip” and “new.” It meant the actually vintage ceiling had been tiled over with those fake-copper-embossed panels you could find for cheap at the local chain hardware store. C’est la vie.
The coffee was decent.
For Boston.
Yes, Boston. Again. Why? Don’t ask silly questions.
This particular shop was down in the area formerly known as “The Warzone.” That particularly awful stretch in Downtown Crossing that was still a fascinating mix of those with very much and those with very little.
The footwear of those passing by the window were either Gucci or the particular kind of leather one develops when wearing nothing at all for thirty years.
The staff was friendly. Young. Attentive. They were passionate—for some reason or another—about coffee. And having a job. The later probably more than the former, although the two were definitely not mutually exclusive.
A table by one wall had been cleared. It was a large, circular thing—lest there be some kind of brawl about who got to sit at the head of it—and surrounded with thin-frame, wood and black steel chairs.
Y’know. Hip.
Only one man sat there, despite there being half a dozen spots for people to join him. He looked as though a black cloud had descended upon one end of the room. The brick walls covered in rather terrible local “art” seemed darker by his presence alone, heeding his presence rather than the sun outside.
And it was, quite terribly, daylight.
And early.
That added insult to injury to the man sitting at the table. Although, to be fair, it was not difficult for him to deem himself either insulted or injured by the slights of others. It was his default rather than an exception.
More often than not, he was found onerous, cantankerous, venomous, and most other -ous’s that one might find in the list of “things a person should rather not be and still remain pleasant.”
He cared nothing for such things.
He cared mostly about when he would be allowed to leave this irritating affair.
Sharp black metal talons tapped upon the laminate top of the table—it wasn’t even real wood—again and again in slow repetition. Pinky to pointer. Pinky to pointer.
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
It was amazing how easy it was to see when a person was angry, miserable, and within a hair’s breadth of ripping someone’s throat out with said long, dangerous, black, metal claws.
Even if one could not see his face.
Because despite the fact that the man had a cup of coffee in front of him, standing out in sharp contrast against his black-on-black-on-black formal apparel with its white porcelain surfaces, he was unable to drink it. Covering his face was a full metal mask, split down one cheek with a groove and a single hole for one eye.
And no mouth.
And yet, there was a cup of coffee in front of him all the same.
Expression or not, any onlookers would have no trouble discerning that he was a man that was not to be approached, spoken to, or dealt with.
For he was a terrible man, not to be trifled with, and he carried himself accordingly.
He was Aon. The King of Shadows. The Dread Warlock. Eldest of the Old Royals, First Son of the Ancients, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
You get the drift.
The worst thing to do to a man of such a particularly pernicious—another -ous, see?—nature was to offend him. To make him believe that he had been, in any way at all, slighted. Worse even than that, tangential and yet utterly related, was to make a man like that wait.
And he had been sitting here for some time.
It was his second cup of coffee. Not because he had drunk the first, mind you. But because it had gone cold.
If he had the person responsible for arranging this whole nonsense sitting in front of him, let alone being so remiss in arranging it to commence at all, he would tear out their entrails and make her carry them home in a plastic bag.
But finally, finally, his wait ended.
For better or worse.
Ding.
The door chimed as it swung open and entered a man who at first blush might seem similar to the other, but upon closer inspection, was nothing alike at all. He was tall. Chin-length black hair swept back from his face, and an emerald green shirt set off his matching-colored eyes. Eyes that seemed too bright and immense in their depths to be perfectly human.
He wore modern clothes, both expensive and carefully coifed to seem casual in the same moment. Instead of sulking in the corner of the room like a dark cloud, he surveyed all within the coffeeshop and smiled at each and every person who looked at him.
And they all smiled back.
Where one was dour, this one was charismatic. Friendly. Welcoming. Beautiful. Charming.
Aon scoffed.
“You must be kidding me.”
The second man, taller than the first by a few inches, had he been standing, and broader in frame, looked to the Dread Warlock and raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I have been left sitting here for hours, and for what—for you? Pathetic.”
“I am here precisely when I’m meant to be here. Hardly my fault you were early.” The second man—if he was a man at all, and that fact was suspect even to the other patrons in the room—shrugged.
As a point of fact, Aon had been sitting in the room by himself for exactly sixteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds on his own. He was a creature prone to exaggeration, especially when his pride was dented.
He did so very much hate being first to anything.
The second man walked over to the table and pulling out a chair, sat down in it with an easy grace. Despite his size, he moved with a fluidity that belied he was far more than what met the eye.
Not that what met the eye was lacking in any way shape or form. But why would one ever choose to be ugly if they had the choice?
“And who the devil are you supposed to be?” Aon leaned back in his chair, watching the other man with an idle disinterest. “The sooner we conclude his farce the sooner I can return home.”
“I think we’re going to be here for some time. We’re expecting a few more.” The other man gestured at the table around him. “And to answer your question, I am not the devil. Just a devil.” He grinned. “Asmodeus. At your service.” He held out his hand to the warlock.
The warlock did not move.
“So, you’re one of those types, then? Fantastic.” Asmodeus sighed and leaned back in his chair, matching the other’s forced casual pose, and rolled his eyes. “As if I didn’t get enough of this bullshit back home.”
“I am Aon. King of Shadows. Eldest of the Old Kings, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Asmodeus waved his hand dismissively. I am a King in Hell and the Archdemon of Lust. Trust me, my friend, if we are going to unzip our trousers and measure our dicks…I’m going to win.” He grinned viciously at the other man, enjoying the way the shoulders of the so-called “King of Shadows” rose in obvious irritation at his words.
The serious ones were always so easy to annoy.
Poor Lucifer. Really, pity that creature. Not for having fallen from Heaven. Not for being The Adversary and the Fallen One, but for the simple fact he had to put up with shits for family like Asmodeus.
Usually a place like this did not offer table service. It was a coffee shop. But arrangements had been made, plot holes had to be filled, and stop asking stupid questions.
A young man walked up to the table with a piece of paper. “What can I get you?”
Winking at the waiter, Asmodeus smiled. “It depends.”
The young man, never having questioned his sexuality up until that point, suddenly did. He coughed and stared down at the paper in his hand.
Aon groaned quietly. “I am forever to be surrounded by idiots.”
“I’ll take a cappuccino, thank you,” the archdemon purred at the young man. When the waiter moved to walk away, Asmodeus pointedly watched his ass as he did. “Humans. Tasty things, don’t you think?”
“No.”
“I see. You’re humorless and boring.” Asmodeus looked back to the warlock. “And I think you’re lying.”
“I am not the only one enjoying a falsehood. You are hiding your true nature.” Aon gestured a black leather gloved hand at his dubious new forced choice for company. “I dislike speaking to an illusion.”
“Funny statement coming from a man in a mask.” Asmodeus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What’s up with that thing, anyway? Do you even have a face under that?”
“I assure you, yes.”
“Then show me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I would no more take off my mask in front of you than I would strip naked and run through the streets.”
“Damn. Sounds like a great time.” Asmodeus snickered. “Well. You want to see what I really am? I’m afraid that’s more difficult than you’d think. There are quite a few people here enjoying their afternoon. Sprouting wings might ruin their relative level of productivity. Although I do think that man in the corner is surfing PornHub. I suppose that is still being productive to a certain extent.” Asmodeus snickered.
Aon sat silently at the table, staring at Asmodeus.
Asmodeus was left only assuming the warlock was staring at him. He could have fallen asleep. He could have no eyeballs. Really, the archdemon was only guessing. Regardless, his joke fell flat. “I am an archdemon. You know the myths. Use your imagination.”
“I am not from Earth. I have no cares for the legends or stories these people tell of creatures such as you.”
“Where’re you from?”
“Under.”
“Under what?”
“Excuse me?”
“Under what exactly? A table? The road? A building?”
Aon sighed heavily. “You may have set a record for the expediency in which I have decided I have hated someone.”
“Don’t be melodramatic, I know your type. You hate by default, and like people only under extreme conditions.” Asmodeus grinned. “And only if you’re forced to.”
“Touché. And I can see you plainly, ‘archdemon.’”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Conversation paused briefly as the young man came back with the cup of cappuccino and set it on the table in front of the archdemon-gone-fashion-model. Asmodeus smiled at him and thanked him genuinely, letting his hand rest idly at the man’s hip if just for a second.
A gesture that was too personal, too intimate, and too casual to be socially acceptable. Which meant that it was impossible, and the young man was left with nothing else to do but blush fiercely and run back to the safety of the counter. Better that than having to accept what had just happened.
“I know your ‘type,’ archdemon,” Aon repeated. “Salacious, perverted, and sexually promiscuous. You hide your grief and your sins beneath a carpet of bodies. You wear a mask the same as I do.” Aon sighed and turned his head to look out the window. “Your archetype is boring and predictable.”
“Says the man who likely lurks all day brooding in some chair by a fire, moping about how no one cares for him. Yet all he does is shove others away from him. My brother invented the look, believe me.” Asmodeus raised his coffee to the man. “To new friends.”
“Mmhm.”
“I’m going to ask you something.”
“Oh, fantastic.”
“Why in the fuck do you have a cup of coffee? I’m going to assume you can’t drink it through that stupid thing you’re wearing.”
“I like the smell.”
“This whole building smells like coffee.”
“The warmth, then.”
“You’re wearing a leather glove and a claw. Try again.”
Aon was silent.
Asmodeus snickered.
“What?” The warlock hated being insulted. He hated being injured. He hated being made to wait. But more than anything, he despised being left out of a joke.
“You didn’t want to feel left out, did you?”
“Tell me something, archdemon, do you burn?”
“I mean, sure.”
“Perhaps I am keeping it for ammunition.”
“Uh-huh.” Asmodeus sat back, his green eyes glinting in amusement. “Sure. Ammunition. For a warlock.” He shrugged, and looked off, rubbing a hand across his chin thoughtfully. “You never answered me. What’s Under under, exactly?”
“It’s the name of our world.”
“So, it’s not under anything?”
“No.”
“It’s an awful name, then.”
“I’ll take it under advisement and form a committee. Perhaps we will name it ‘Perfectly Not Under Nor Above Anything But Precisely Where It Was.’ Is that better for you?”
“Yes. A bit long. You might think of shortening it. Make an acronym or some such. Oh!” Asmodeus snapped his fingers and pointed at Aon in his sudden brilliant idea. “Is Under an acronym for something?”
“I really do think I despise you.”
“Join the club.” He laughed and stretched, popping his shoulders. He didn’t mind his human form but stretching was gloriously lacking when he could not spread his wings out behind him like he wished to do. Picking up a brown-paper packet of Sugar in the Raw, he shook it by one side to push all the little granules to one side. Ripping it open, he tapped the contents into his hot drink and began to stir it. “So. What’re you in for?”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re here for a reason. What’re you in for?” Asmodeus lifted up the coffee and sipped it, making an exaggerated show of how tasty it was, just to annoy the man who could not partake.
Aon’s metal gauntlet tightened into a fist.
The archdemon was unphased. He had been threatened by far worse in his day than one freak in a metal mask and claw. “You and I are here for a reason. I ask you, why?”
“I am not quite sure.”
“There must be some connection.”
Aon shrugged. “I felt compelled. And so, I am here, and deeply regretting it.”
Asmodeus, never one to leave a mystery or puzzle unsolved, looked off thoughtfully. “Are you single, Mr. Warlock?”
“Excuse me?”
“Simple question of what connects us. Trying to find the simple answer. Starting with the easy thing. Sex.”
“I am not available, if that is what you are insinuating. By the Ancients you’re worse than Edu.”
Asmodeus laughed incredulously. “You’re joking. You have a partner?”
“I am not joking.”
“Do you just have lovers? Or are you married?”
“It is complicated. Not in mortal terms, no. But to that effect, yes.” Aon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The topic unsettled him, which was only bait for the archdemon. “Why does this matter?”
Asmodeus lifted his left hand and showed off a simple gold ring on his left finger. “And now we have the first thing in common. Interesting. Two unlovable monsters, each bound to another. Tell me. Do you love them?”
“This is none of your business.”
“Tell me the story.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“You and I are going to be here for a while.” Asmodeus gestured at the empty chairs around them. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll start. I’ll tell you my story first. If I show you mine, will you show me yours?” Asmodeus winked.
Aon had long since learned not to be sick inside his mask. He grunted and looked off. He would not inform the demon for a third time how much he was instantly loathed. Shrugging, he waved his clawed hand dismissively at the other man. Or creature. Or whatever he was. “Very well. Go on. Talk. At least it will pass the time.”
Asmodeus grinned at his victory. He did love to tell a good story. And this one had a decent amount of smut in it. No story was worth telling without smut. “Great. So…it starts about three thousand years ago in Solomon’s court…”