Hell's King (Hell's Son Book 3)

by Eve Langlais

  “I’m not the one asking. She keeps meddling in my affairs. Sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Trying to show me up with her harem of lovers. I could have a harem, too, if Gaia weren’t such a jealous shrew.”

  A female voice exclaimed from midair, “Am not, you randy goat.”

  “Stop spying on me, wench. Can’t you see I’m busy chatting with my bastard son?” Lucifer shook his fist at the ceiling. “Anyhow, as I was saying, I’m looking for a replacement.”

  Even Chris had to admit the truth. “It should go to Muriel given she’s the one who’s done the most for Hell.” Not because he couldn’t have accomplished the same but because no one had asked him—and he had too much pride to offer.

  “Giving it to a woman would be much too enlightened of me. I am not that progressive. No, I’ve decided to stick with tradition and leave it to my oldest male heir. This kind of a job needs someone with balls, the kind that hangs between the legs. And given my choices are rather limited; apparently, that’s you.”

  Chris might have blinked a few times. He also jammed his finger in his ear and said, “Eh? What’s that you said?”

  “You. Are. My. Heir.”

  No mistaking the words this time. “Me. You’re leaving Hell to me?”

  “I’d leave it to my other son but, apparently, one can’t leave it to the unborn.” Way to remind Chris that he wasn’t the first choice.

  Still…ruler of Hell? “This is a trick.” Chris frowned at the Devil. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. I’m leaving, the job is open, and I am handing over the reins to my empire.”

  “Without dying.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  What of his scheme to kill his father? Then again, the only reason he’d contemplated killing Lucifer was so he could fulfill his destiny to become king. None of the prophecies specified how it would happen.

  “What if I don’t want it?”

  A hearty chuckle erupted from his dad. “Ha. That’s funny, boy. Not want it.” Snicker. “We both know you covet my crown.”

  “I also want to see you dead and pushing up daisies.”

  “You know what the Rolling Stones say.”

  In this case, though, could he get what he wanted? King of Hell. It had a nice ring to it. But would he really be ruling it? What of his dad? Would he be meddling every chance he got? “Let’s say I take the job, what will you be doing?”

  “Hopefully, drinking something fruity on a beach in that lovely Atlantis dimension while rubbing suntan lotion on my wife’s belly. It helps with her nausea, don’t you know.”

  “So would divorcing you,” Chris grumbled.

  “Such a funny boy. I’ll miss spying on your acerbic wit.”

  His dad thought him witty? “What about my mom?”

  “What of her?”

  Chris hadn’t heard a peep since the disastrous party. He didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. Watching the news meant he caught glimpses of the havoc her horsemen wreaked, but the silence from her proved disturbing.

  “What am I supposed to do about Mom?”

  “How the fuck would I know? I tried locking Morgana away, and we all saw how well that went. By taking over my throne, you’ll have all of Hell’s resources at your fingertips. Surely, you can handle one woman.”

  “She’s not just a woman.” Morgana, according to Rasputin, was the most powerful sorceress ever conceived on Earth. No one quite knew how she’d gotten her magic or strength. Her apparent immortality was also a mystery, but her madness…proven fact and not something he was keen on dealing with.

  “She’s your mother. With me gone, perhaps she’ll forget her vendetta and behave. Just be the son she always wanted.”

  “How? By drawing her a fucking picture to put on her fridge?”

  “Or give her something else to focus on.” Lucifer cast a glance on Isobel. “Or someone new.”

  “I am not using my wife to placate my mother.”

  “Not your wife, idiot. A child. A grandchild. Plant a seed in her belly if you haven’t already. Hard to tell,” Lucifer said with a frown.

  The very idea of Isobel carrying his child—my very own son!—slammed him in the gut. And Lucifer didn’t give him time to recover.

  “Nice chatting with you. Not.” The Devil chuckled. “Now that we’ve settled things, adios, amigo.”

  “When do you leave for the beach?”

  “As soon as I grab my suitcase. Can’t tarry. I want to make sure I get a good spot before it comes.”

  “What comes?”

  “The end of the world, of course. It’s nigh. And I, for one, plan to have an awesome seat to watch.”

  Snap. With a click of his fingers, Lucifer disappeared, leaving Chris to wonder if he’d imagined the encounter.

  Yet the smell of brimstone and ash hung in the air, and the cloven hoof marks singed into the light blue carpet said it had happened.

  Still, his father had to be lying about leaving him Hell. He couldn’t just abdicate like that.

  Could he?

  He sat back alongside Isobel, his weight causing the mattress to dip, and sighed.

  “My lord needs something.”

  He stiffened. “Who said that?”

  “It is I, my lord. Your most humble servant, at your service.”

  Servant? But they’d all died in the dinner party incident, and Marya had yet to replace them.

  Chris glanced over his shoulder and saw a strange creature—short, bald, his skin showing a green pallor.

  Chris jumped to his feet. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Philokrates.”

  “What are you?” was his next question because he’d never seen the likes of this dude.

  “I am a majordomo.”

  “In English?”

  The green fellow sighed. “What is it with today’s youth, lacking in the niceties? Let me put this in a way you’ll understand, then. Think of me as the Alfred of the Underworld. The butler from Hell.”

  “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in Hell?” With the rest of the ugly demons.

  If Alfred had brows, they would have hit the top of his forehead. “We are in the Pit, my lord. We have been since the moment the previous Dark Lord transferred his glorious reign to his heir.”

  “You mean it’s true?”

  “You are Hell’s King,” announced the gnomish servant.

  Chris blinked. Looked for some words to speak. Failed.

  Isobel chose that moment to rouse, her lashes fluttering, her gaze falling on Alfred, her voice groggy as she said, “Did you feed the Mogwai after midnight?”

  “He’s not a gremlin. This is—um, how do you say it again?” he asked.

  “Philokrates.”

  A mouthful. “He’s our butler, and he says we’re in Hell.”

  Isobel rose to her elbows and smirked. “Given we’re under my mom’s roof, that’s probably an accurate assessment.”

  “Ahem. If I might interject, my lady, while the room might appear identical to that which you inhabited on the earthly plane, we are most definitely in the Hell dimension. You can glance out the windows if you’d like.”

  Chris did like. He strode over to the curtains and flung them open, only to gape.

  He’d seen Hell before. His longest visit being in a cell his father had kept him in before using him as a pawn. So he was vaguely familiar with the place. But he’d never been a guest of the castle.

  The view proved unlike any other. The window hung high in the air, lofty enough that he could see out over the city, the buildings—a jagged collection of dusty stone and rusted metal teeth—forming a line beyond the castle.

  From their spot in the turret, he glanced down to see a vast courtyard, the cobblestones a reddish gray with a path in the dust, leading to a massive wrought iron gate, red with rust and manned by hulking creatures wearing horned helmets and carrying long spears.

  “We really are in the castle,” he mused aloud. But how? He’d
never even felt the transition. Would have never even guessed. The magic involved… How did he do it? And more importantly, how could Chris hope to even come close to filling his father’s cloven shoes?

  “Why are we in the Pit?” Isobel asked, leaving the bed to come and stand beside him.

  He couldn’t reply. Couldn’t say it aloud because it sounded so preposterous.

  Alfred did it for him.

  “Because Christopher Lucius Baphomet the first has been declared Hell’s King.”

  Eep.

  18

  “Slap me,” Isobel said.

  “What?” Chris exclaimed.

  “Pinch me. Goose me. Something to wake me up, because I think the gremlin over there just said you were Hell’s King.”

  “Yeah. I kind of am.”

  “All hail the new Dark Lord!” exclaimed the green minion.

  “Did you kill your father while I was passed out?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Did your mother tear out his entrails and choke him with them?” Which, given the last thing she recalled involved Lucifer taunting Morgana, was highly likely.

  “Nope, but that would have been enjoyable.”

  “Did he die in battle?”

  “I wish. But no, he’s not dead. On the contrary, he is very much alive, just not here anymore. And before you ask, he came to see me, said he was retiring, and handed me the job, then left on vacation with Gaia.”

  “He left Hell to you?” Then, despite knowing he’d be pissed, she had to ask. “Are you sure he wanted you to have it and not Muriel?” She almost winced saying it aloud, yet Chris didn’t take offense.

  “I asked him the same thing but, apparently, because he’s sexist and I’m the only family member with a dong, I am the one stuck with it.”

  “My husband is Hell’s King. Hunh.” Isobel frowned. “I kind of expected more.” A mighty battle. Definitely some death. Angst, by Chris, who wouldn’t want to kill his father but would because of fate pulling strings. This quiet reassignment seemed… “How boring.”

  “No shit. He didn’t even stick around to show me the ropes. Just…the job is yours. And then, bam, he was gone.”

  Which meant, there was a catch. There had to be.

  She whirled on the gremlin. “You. Short, green guy.”

  “Philokrates.”

  “How about we stick with Alfred, which we can actually pronounce. What’s the deal? Why did Lucifer leave?”

  Chris cleared his throat. “Because he trusted his only son to handle things.”

  Both Isobel and the green dude stared at him.

  “Are you saying I’m not capable?”

  Holding in a sigh, Isobel poked at his pride. “You have no training. No experience.”

  “And?”

  “Listen to that voice inside. What’s it saying?”

  Given that his lips flattened, he apparently didn’t like what his subconscious told him. “Experience isn’t what matters. This is my destiny.”

  “How about we make sure that destiny lasts more than five minutes?” Her gaze narrowed onto the servant. “Why did his father resign?”

  “A servant shouldn’t speak of his master to others.”

  “Except he is your master now.” She jabbed a finger at Chris. “And I am his wife, which means, if I ask you something, you’d damned well better answer. Right?” She swung her annoyed gaze to Chris, who managed to mutter, “Better listen to her.”

  “Damned straight, you’d better.” She glared at Alfred.

  “My apologies, my lady. My lack of respect is intolerable.”

  “Apologize later. Now, tell me why Lucifer abdicated.”

  Alfred tucked his hands behind his back. “Rumor has it his new wife is demanding.”

  “A demanding wife is the best reason to have a high-powered job. To escape her. There’s got to be something else,” Isobel mulled.

  “I know he was dreading the upcoming renovation of the main level of the castle,” the butler offered.

  “That’s grounds for a vacation, not outright quitting.”

  “There are rumbles of discontent and a possible strike by the Styx boatmen,” Alfred stated. “Something about bringing their wages in line with those of the Styx monsters. Which is ludicrous. The monsters work much harder than those lazy oarsmen. All that trying to tip the boats, eating the damned, unable to digest them since their souls won’t dissolve. Those monsters earn every penny.”

  Isobel shook her head. “No, there’s got to be something bigger at stake here. Something scary enough he didn’t want to stick around.”

  Her husband finally decided to join the conversation. “He might have said something about the end of the world when he gave me the crown.”

  “What? And you’re just telling me that now?” she screeched.

  Chris shrugged. “Because I didn’t take it seriously. Keep in mind, I once heard him declare the end of times were coming because Hellflix didn’t renew one of his favorite shows.”

  Except, now, it all made sense. “That dick!” Isobel exclaimed. “Leaving when the going is about to get tough.” Or did Lucifer assume that once he left Chris in charge, everything would fall apart?

  “Or maybe he was just tired. Dad is old, after all.”

  “And things are busier than usual,” observed Alfred.

  “Busier how?” Chris asked.

  “It’d be easier to show you, my lord. If you’ll follow me, I can take you to your office.”

  By office, Alfred meant a cavernous room with dragon-melted stone slabs on the floor, soaring ceilings, and a desk made of the skull of some massive, long-dead creature—hopefully extinct. Anything with teeth that large would eat a lot of meat.

  Chris entered and took a moment to stare. She couldn’t blame him. He’d just reached the next phase of his destiny.

  Things were happening now, their lives caught in a snowball rolling down the hill of fate that would end…where?

  He circled around the desk to the massive leather chair, the skin of it supple. Chris placed his palms on the surface. “I can’t believe this is really happening. I’m going to rule Hell. This is where I’m going to finally make all the decisions.”

  Alfred cleared his throat. “This is my lord’s private office. Nearby is the operations chamber for organizing battles. There is also a throne room where you’ll receive supplicants, a high court for those requiring a trial, and then there are the public appearances.”

  “In other words, I’ll be busy.”

  “Very, my lord.”

  “This is cause for celebration. We should go out for dinner,” Chris announced, his expression bright and eager. “What do you say, duckie? Should we hit that French place you like?”

  Mmm. She did so love fine dining. “It’s a date, my king,” she said with a wink.

  Alfred cleared his throat again, clearly in need of some lozenges. “Leave, my lord? You can’t leave.”

  “I need to eat, Alfred.”

  “Then food will be brought to you.”

  “I am not working and eating at the same time. Besides, who says I want Hell food? I’m in the mood for something cooked by a guy with a snooty accent, made in a place that doesn’t have ash coating everything.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, returning to the mortal plane at this time is not possible. Given the extreme influx of souls, we are working at full capacity. Your services are required.”

  “To do what?”

  “Pass judgment, of course. Every soul must receive their due process, and while staff can handle some of the smaller cases, only Hell’s King can sign off on each of the case files.”

  Isobel almost flinched as the other shoe began to drop.

  “Paperwork?” Chris lost his happy face. “I’m the king, though.”

  “Indeed, you are, and as I said, you arrived at a most busy time. The horsemen have been active on the mortal plane. Thousands upon thousands of souls have been arriving of late.”

  “Then I
should be out there, telling the horsemen to stop.” Chris went to rise; yet somehow, Alfred—short little fellow that he was—managed to put a hand on his shoulder and shove him back down.

  “You will have to let others deal with the horsemen. Your task is here.”

  Alfred opened a desk drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which he planted on the desk.

  “These are the pending files for the souls received this morning.” Alfred bent over, and a moment later…

  Thud. Another stack hit the desk. “And these are since lunch. Also, there will be a need for a few proclamations.”

  “What will those be for?” Isobel asked as Chris stared at the growing stack of files.

  “Given Hell is under new management, we will, of course, have those who will test the new regime. A speech threatening torture and other things if the populace doesn’t cooperate will hopefully suffice to quell any unrest. If not, we can always call out the legions to subdue them.”

  “Kill people?”

  “Kill?” Alfred exclaimed with surprise. “My lord is obviously new. We are in Hell. The damned ones are already dead and cannot be truly killed again. Although, if you feel a need to murder something, you could decimate some of the demons. They do reproduce quickly.”

  Isobel could see Chris shrinking and jumped in. “Surely some of these tasks can be handed off?”

  “Some, yes. However, we are entering a period of great crowding. The more souls that enter, the less room we shall have for everyone. Tempers will flare more than usual. You should prepare a riveting speech to tell the damned they should recycle their souls in the Pit for the good of all. We’ll need to increase those numbers drastically if we’re going to make room for the new arrivals.”

  “I hate giving speeches.” Chris slumped farther in his chair.

  Her poor husband. He’d finally achieved one of his goals. He’d become the King of Fierce Countenance. But, apparently, no one had warned that the expression would be because he was miserable.

  And the problem with being married to an unhappy king? It was contagious.

  Their new reality set in. Nothing like they’d imagined.

  Three days now since they’d been taken prisoner in Hell. At least that was how it felt.