Destruction of Two: A Reverse Harem Series (Origins of the Six Book 3)

by A. K. Koonce

  I’m surrounded by darkness and a black and red sky with storm clouds above me. Please, god, tell me I’m not in the seventh circle again. I groan as I lift myself up on my palms.

  My wings hang uselessly behind me. Bleeding. Broken. Shredded. I can barely move them, but I can move my legs. I push myself up onto shaking knees and slowly turn around.

  The heat is smoldering in this fur jumpsuit I’m wearing, so I strip down carefully as I study my surroundings.

  There’s nothing here I notice as the suit pools at my feet and I’m in my tattered golden dress once again.

  I’m most definitely not at the fucking Academy.

  That asshole demon threw me into the wrong portal. Probably her twisted idea of revenge for barbecuing her ass.

  The bitch.

  A few feet away a small building rests. Well, I wouldn’t call it a building. More like a small shack in the middle of fucking nowhere and I'm getting major Courage the Cowardly Dog vibes just looking at it.

  Its ceiling is literally falling apart; its windows are shuttered, and even stranger still is the neon sign blinking across the side of it like a cheap bar.

  The Twin Demons.

  Sounds promising.

  I wait a breath. Light shines through the shutters but everything is silent. If I go in, will there be a demon waiting to rip me over a cauldron like Hansel and Gretel?

  Wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

  I know this is the second circle of hell, only because that bitch said so. But I don’t want to linger. I’ve had enough encounters with these things to last me a lifetime.

  I take a breath and center myself, feeling for the power of my Prod—my power—inside. All I get is a dull thud. My veins warm with the trickle of magic, but even attempting to use it makes pain spiral through my spine, over my wings.

  My shredded wings.

  They’re still hanging uselessly against my back, like ripped scraps of cloth. My clothes and skin are soaked with blood. I feel the pain like a sudden eruption. It throbs and spreads, and I wonder if the claws that got me were poisonous.

  I shudder and try to gauge any other effects coursing through me. I can’t tell… the pain…

  I can’t create a portal myself, not while I’m this weak, so I’ll have to pass whatever test the ruler of this ring of hell has for me.

  Steeling my shoulders, I step towards the shack.

  The door gives way beneath my palm and swings open. I brace myself, step through, and the door slams closed behind me.

  Music and soft light with dancing shadows dominate this place; it’s a vast space that must be magical, because the outside was so small and the inside has stairs and upper levels.

  It’s… holy demonic shit it is a bar…

  My gaze sweeps over the low swinging bulbs, to the record player in the corner that plays Devil Went Down to Georgia. Noise rattles around me: the clink of glasses and laughter, of pool balls clanking rapidly against one another.

  Metal poles are embedded into the floor straight up to the ceiling. On one of them, a demon dances. A female demon with red skin, a pointed tail, long shimmering hair, and tight leather that rides up into the intimate parts of her anatomy.

  Other demons loiter the place. Demons of all kinds and all shapes. Monstrous creatures as big as the fucking hulk in leather jackets and fur patches sticking out from the sleeves, and small pixie like creatures with buzzing wings and little jeans.

  Fucking pixies in jeans.

  I think that’s what amazes me the most.

  Not the shining black satyr behind the bar with curling horns and steam fuming from his nostrils, wiping down the counter. Not the other creatures riding magical motorcycles made of faerie dust. Certainly not the demon bad boy motorcycle club in open leather jackets that reveals every pane and angle of their naked green chests.

  Fucking. Pixies. In. Jeans.

  I feel so out of place as I take a tentative step inside, then another, and another. A few curious eyes glance my way as I wander into the bar, but I’m otherwise ignored.

  Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.

  I go over to the bar and seat myself onto a stool.

  The satyr—with skin that looks like shining obsidian—looks me over with bright orange eyes. “What’s your poison?” he asks in a voice like crackling fire.

  “Um…” I clear my throat. “I don’t…”

  “One shot of acid it is.” He turns, grabs a shot glass and pours a sizzling green liquid in it, sliding it over to me.

  I look at it distrustfully.

  “Anything else?” He looks bored with me already.

  I gently push the glass away with the backs of my knuckles. “Actually… I’m looking for someone.”

  He shines a glass with a rag. “Yeah? Who?”

  “The ruler of this circle of hell.”

  As soon as the words escape my lips, I swear it’s like a scene from a fucking movie. The record player scratches and Charlie Daniels’s song stops instantaneously. All voices cease speaking. A small faerie creature steers his glittering motorcycle to a screeching halt and slams against a wall, making a high pitched agonized sound as he slides down, surrounded by fading sparks.

  The hairs all over my body rise with trepidation. A lump chokes my throat but I force it down. All eyes are on me… I can feel it.

  And then I feel the heated presence of bodies surrounding my back. Figures shadow behind me, and I steel myself, my blood covered wings twitching in pain and a little bit of fear.

  Two figures sidle up on either side of me. One, the green-skinned demon with his open leather jacket and straight features, the other a polka dot skinned creature with no shirt at all.

  My friend Dottie here seems a bit less intimidating than Greenie but looks are probably a bit deceiving in hell.

  The bartender sighs and slides the drink back towards me, giving me a look that says, ‘You’re gonna need this.’

  I try to look brave. Like I’m not currently surrounded by demons or pissing myself from fear. My magic is depleted, I’m in pain, and if they choose to attack I’m so, so dead.

  “You lookin’ for the Boss?” Greenie leans close to me, invading my personal space. He surprisingly smells like burnt cinnamon and smoke. Like magic. His teeth gleam in sharp points that look all too threatening within his mouth. He snaps them a hair’s breadth away from my cheek, and a tremble runs down my back.

  I steel my spine against the nerves assaulting me and I turn my head slowly to face him. My hands reach out blindly in front of me to grasp around the shot glass as I bring it close. “I am,” I drawl. “So if you aren’t him, then you can kindly fuck off.”

  Shocked gasps echo around me, and a smirk touches my mouth as I bring the glass close to my lips. The concoction inside smells like green apples. I shouldn’t drink it. Then again, I shouldn’t have just insulted the asshole at my side, but this is hell. If I act weak, they will treat me as such.

  Hell and the Academy have that in common, actually.

  Bracing myself, I down the drink in one swallow.

  It burns down my throat like a river of fire scorching through my body. My eyes water, and I almost cough it back up, but force myself to betray nothing.

  Jesus and Satan, that is fucking hot, and I live for spicy foods.

  Don’t throw it up. Don’t you fucking dare. You are not a lightweight!

  My stomach gives a violent heave, but I slam the shot glass back down on the counter and rasp out, “Another.”

  The satyr-demon hybrid of a bartender raises impressed eyebrows and tops the drink off again. Shit, I don’t think I can handle another one. But I do. I drink that one as well and slam the glass back down then hiss through my teeth.

  “Now, is anyone going to tell me where I can find ‘the Boss’?” Are my words slurring? No, but my tongue feels heavy.

  What the fuck did I just drink?

  Note to self, do not drink any more of that spicy
green apple shit.

  Even if it is kind of delicious once the hellacious aftertaste wears off.

  Do I have time for one more?

  My heart says yes. My blood alcohol level says no.

  “What business do you have with him?” Greenie asks.

  “Yeah, and who are you?” I can feel the strangely colored eyes of Dottie graze across my torn and bleeding wings.

  I probably look like I got a thorough ass kicking. I did, but that’s besides the point. I wish I had enough magic in me to shove my wings into my back so they would all stop staring.

  Before I can answer, a loud shot rings across the bar. All of our gazes swivel to the balcony above to see an office door rattling against a wall. From the door, emerges a man. “That,” his voice rains down in a deep, silken drawl, “is Izara Castillo. Princess of Hell.”

  Whispers and conspiracies crash around me. But my eyes are glued on the man, roaming over every single inch of him. The heavy thwomp of his black boots slam over the wooden floors. The stairway creaks as he walks down them and makes his way over to me. Long legs are clad in tight leather, and his chest is gloriously bare, carved in line after perfect line of taut abs.

  He prowls towards me like a predator, and I press my wings, my back, to the edge of the bar. The pain is there, but I don’t feel it when all I am focused on is the man in front of me. I’m sure he’s a man, a demon, and an angel combined. He looks human enough, but he’s too tall, too beautiful, and he has twin black horns rising up from his forehead with sharp ends. And from his back there are white, feathered wings that are graying at the tips.

  Dark hair spills down his shoulders, and when he’s in front of me, the strands fall against my skin as he cages me within the space of his arms.

  Pure white eyes take me in, and a smile curves at his mouth. “Hello, Princess Izara.” He leans closer, and I try not to flinch as his lips graze across the lobe of my ear. “Welcome to my domain.”

  He pulls away from me, giving me room to breathe once more. His arms widen at his sides as he gestures at the bar.

  I press my bare feet down on the wooden floors and stand to my full height. All sensation of dizziness has vanished from my body. It’s like the haze was swept away with his arrival.

  “My name is Azazel, fallen angel, corrupter of humans, a.k.a. the Boss of the second circle of hell.”

  My swallow sticks heavily in my throat. For a moment, I can’t speak, I’m so captivated by the myriad of contradictions that is his beautiful body. This is what happens to fallen angels? They get stuck in hell and become a hybrid… thing? Not quite one, but not quite the other either? His wings look like they’ve been burning off. Like a slip of paper crumbling in the remnants of a fire. They look to be made of ash and feathers, slow curling tendrils of smoke emanating from the bottom.

  “Azazel,” I echo. “I’m… well, you already know who I am.”

  His smile goes even wider. “Of course. And I know why you’re here, too.” His white eyes flick to my shredded wings before straying back to my face. “Come to my office. We can speak in private.”

  I probably shouldn’t go anywhere with a fallen angel, but he’s very alluring. Besides, he’s the ruler of this domain, and with my magic currently out of order, I’ll need him to help get me out of here. As long as I don’t strike any bargains, or piss him off like I did with the other demons, I’m sure I’ll be fine.

  I hope.

  I stalk after him, up those steps and into the office he barged out of. The inside is cozy, almost rustic compared to his bad-boy leather exterior. He goes and sits behind a desk, gesturing that I take the comfortable couch in front of him.

  “So,” he cuts straight to the point, “you want to get back home.”

  “News sure travels fast.”

  He rests his elbows on the table, and his chin on his fists. The gesture makes him look boyish, somehow. “When the long lost only daughter of hell shows up, we all hear about it.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to be the daughter of hell. I don’t want anything to do with this.” I immediately bite my tongue as soon as the words leave my lips.

  He doesn’t look angry, though. His expression doesn’t change at all. He just keeps on smiling, the gesture almost odd for a demon, because it’s not even a malicious smile. It’s… genuine.

  “Well, you’re family, and I’ll respect your wishes.” He gets up and opens a bottom drawer on his desk. When he straightens, he pulls out folded leather and a pair of leather boots that he sets on the surface in front of me. “Here. Change and come back down. I’ll help you get home.”

  My walls instantly go up and I’m suspicious. My eyes narrow on the leather and I don’t reach for them. “What do you want in exchange for the clothes?”

  His eyes blink rapidly. “They’re just clothes and a way home…”

  I snort. “The last time a demon gave me a change of clothes and a way home, my wings ended up shredded, and I ended up sprawled outside your bar. Demons never give something for nothing.”

  “Well, this one does. But if you really want to even out the score, get dressed and come get to know the minions of my domain.” He winks as he stalks towards the door. “You might even like them.” He pushes the door open, but before he steps out, he turns and waves a hand through the air. The tingling spicy scent of magic wafts over me and a slice of pain races down my back muscles. I cry out, gripping the edge of the desk. “Can’t have those wings looking like that, can we?”

  And then he leaves.

  As soon as he’s gone, I hop to my feet and whirl. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and I turn in front of it, looking over my shoulder at my wings. At my healed wings.

  I stretch them out behind me, and the pain is… it’s completely gone. Azazel healed me. He healed my wings.

  Fuck.

  I take a breath and feel for my magic. It’s… it’s there. Good as new. Azazel healed every broken bit of me and wants nothing in return except for a moment of my time with him and his minions. I’m suspicious, but I’m even more grateful to him than I am wary.

  So I turn and pick up the folded fabric. It’s a full leather bodysuit with the perfect slits in the back for my wings.

  After slipping out of my tattered, expensive, dress and into the tight leather, I turn to look at myself in the mirror.

  Hot. Fucking. Damn.

  I should wear leather more often.

  The outfit clings to my frame perfectly. Sleek black molds to every curve and dip of me, down my long legs and arms. I do a vain turn, the firing sparks of my wings flicking in golden streaks just make me look…

  Like the Princess of Hell.

  I look and feel powerful. Beautiful. Since I’ve been here, I haven't seen myself in a mirror before now, but hell does something to me. It makes my skin glow with life, funny how I look like this in a hell dimension of all places, but I do. My Prod has awakened inside me.

  She thrives.

  I look fucking amazing. Even more so when I pull on the thigh-high boots. Dominatrix chic.

  Saint would love this.

  Saint…

  My heart aches. I need to stop dicking around and get back to the Academy.

  With one final look at myself in the mirror, I go down to meet Azazel. I find him at the pool table, locked in a game with Greenie who invaded my personal space earlier.

  The fallen angel waves me over. “Lookin’ good,” he compliments.

  The green-skinned demon gives me a leer.

  Bastard. I flip him the finger.

  Azazel laughs and hands me his pool stick thingy… “Play a game with me, have a few shots, and I’ll open a portal for you into the first circle.” There’s a pleading note in his voice that is completely innocent, almost kind.

  “I’ve never played before.” I take the stick. I’ve seen this game played enough in movies that I know the rules. But knowing and playing are two entirely different things.

  “You’ll do fine.” Azazel holds up two
fingers in the satyr’s direction. Nearly a moment later, two jean clad pixies zoom towards us on their glimmering, star-dust bikes. Two glasses filled with shimmering liquid float into Azazel’s hands. He hands one over to me. “Bottom’s up.”

  I take it in firm fingers, staring at the liquid. It’s the color of honey, but sparkly.

  A drink or two, and then I’m just another step closer to going home. I can try to make my own portal but… I meet Azazel’s kind eyes. There’s a loneliness in his gaze. He’s done a lot for me, and this was our deal. Get to know him and his friends, then go home.

  I smile down into my cup. “Bottom’s up.”

  And I take a drink.

  I suck at pool.

  But I’m very good at darts… and shots… I’m apparently very good at those, too. Not to mention teaching overexcited demons how to dance the macarena and Chayanne’s ‘Torero’ with enthusiastic hip thrusts.

  It’s an experience I’m not sure I wish to remember.

  Anyway, darts. I’m good at them.

  Better at them when I’ve had five shots back to back.

  In the center of the target, a pixie is tied down by all fours, screeching as it's twirled round and round. I stand on its opposite side, holding a very sharp dart in my hand.

  “Hit him! Hit him! Hit him!” The chant rises around me like a tantalizing command.

  I squint, aim, and throw.

  It hits right between the pixie's opened legs, a little under, missing his intimate parts by a mere fraction.

  “Boo!” I’m jostled by demons, green arms, tentacle hands, and claw tipped fingers clasping me on the back.

  Like we are friends. Like I belong in this intimate circle of fun and friendship. Of music and table dancing, of pool, and drink after fizzy drink. It feels like… like family.

  That’s before a fight breaks out around me.

  I’m shoved, and I feel a fist connect to my shoulder. The pain is jarring, almost sobering. Demons start shouting, fighting, throwing fists and claws that rake down skin. I dodge a meaty hand as it comes flying towards me, jumping into the air and flapping my wings to keep me upright.