Demon Prints (Infernal Inheritance Book 1)

by Nazri Noor

  “Just getting you back for being such an ass.” I looked around, my hands nice and toasty in my pockets, the rest of me comfortable in a light jacket, incubus fashion trends be damned. “So this is the place, huh?”

  Pierce rubbed at his upper arms. “It’s a dump. Might as well set it on fire.” He glanced at me, then quickly looked away.

  “Oh, wow. You really are cold. Just say it.”

  “Never,” he growled.

  “Whatever,” I said. “I was going to lend you my jacket, but you’re being such an ass about it. Suppose I’ll just light this shack up and warm us both up that way.”

  The Thirteenth Choir’s hideout was a dump. The Hexus had taken us outside the place, an old, presumably abandoned farm a few miles out of the city. Only a few spots looked like they’d been supplied with enough electricity, mainly the farmhouse itself and the nearest barn. I had to assume that we’d find the bulk of the cultists there.

  Pierce and I had conveniently arrived in a wooded area, letting us scout the place from a safe distance. Sure, it’s all well and good to go in guns blazing, a style that we were fond of and familiar with. But this assignment had come directly from Mother, someone who was invested in testing us – or at least me.

  Why did she want us stopping a cult in the first place? Maybe this Thirteenth Choir really was worshipping one of the other princes. This probably wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill operation. Speaking of mills – they had a grain silo. Excitement tingled up the base of my spine as I caught sight of it.

  There were a couple of things I knew about silos. The first is that they’re generally as big as shit. The second is that the particles in the air inside – flour, grains, even plain old dust – meant that they were highly flammable. So, so very flammable. My fingers twitched as I bit my tongue and held back the urge to create a fireworks display with the tiniest bolt of flame.

  And yet the littlest bit of me was unnerved by this entire expedition.

  It wasn’t the challenge, exactly, that got to me. Not even the danger. I relished in both. Dueling with magic had always been one of the best ways to get my blood pumping, the ironic closeness to death being the thing to make me feel most alive. The stark reality was that Asmodeus had raised me to be a ruthless killer, someone who could rain fire from the heavens and burn towns, cities, nations to cinders. And not to brag, but I knew that I could. The question was whether I wanted to.

  Confession time. I’d never truly killed before. Not on purpose, at least.

  Fine words from someone groomed and destined to be the Prince of Lust’s general, and magus warlord who was too afraid to kill. It was, at once, my greatest pride and my greatest shame. I had a near-scientific knack for knowing just how much pressure to apply in battle. I knew that the intruder at the sorcerer’s study was using a shielding spell, just as I knew that cracking the sorcerer himself on the back of the head wasn’t going to end his life. Even if you take things to a grander scale, in fights against beings as powerful as nephilim – my half angel counterparts – I always held back, never doling out more firepower than they could deal with.

  Because the thrill for me, after all, was of victory, of knowing that I was better than the other, would always be better. The fun for me was in inflicting humiliation and copious amounts of pain. Did that make me a worse person, to be the kind of villain who relishes in doling out pain, but never ending it? I wouldn’t know. I had enough of an existential crisis to deal with already.

  “Can we just fucking get on with it?” Pierce hissed. “I’m freezing my tits off.”

  “Oh, finally. Big strong man admits he’s made questionable fashion choices.”

  “I know where you sleep,” he said, teeth chattering, breath streaming out of him in little puffs. “Knife in the throat.”

  “Right, right.” I pressed a finger lightly into his shoulder, muttering the word of my favorite spell, adjusting its power. “Ignis.”

  The magic leapt from my skin and surged into his, flowing through my finger like liquid warmth. Pierce moaned as the heat spread through his body, his face melting with unspoken gratitude, then warping into annoyance.

  “You mean you could have done that from the start?”

  “Not even a ‘Thank you, Lord Quilliam.’ Tsk, tsk. You’re a huge brat and you know it.”

  He reached for the pommels of his daggers, finally ready to fight now that he was warm and toasty. “Thanks,” he grumbled through a pout, saying it to the ground.

  “Little baby. Now, come on. Let’s get on with this.” I turned my attention back to the farmhouse, curling my fingers as I prepared slightly more dangerous magics. “Time to raise hell.”

  10

  Pierce went first, pressing up against the farmhouse’s outer wall, a shadow darting in and out of patches of darkness. What he’d told me back at my apartments was true. His stealth was unmatched, and he had an almost supernatural ability to blend into his surroundings, keeping so still that you’d be forgiven for believing that he was a statue, a corpse that had died standing up.

  So convincing, in fact, that the first cultist within grappling reach was quickly restrained, Pierce squeezing one forearm across his throat, placing a strong hand over his mouth. I liked to joke that Pierce preferred to do it from behind. That never went over very well with him.

  The cultist slumped to the ground, a man who must have been in his late thirties, possibly a father in his former life. Pierce had choked the very breath out of him, enough to send him unconscious. He tended to prefer knives in combat, naturally, but that was the great thing about Pierce. He didn’t need to be told that we had to do this quietly. People tend to scream when you stick a knife in them. But sometimes the bloodlust did consume him, and in no time at all I knew that Pierce would resort to slitting throats instead of just strangling them.

  A second man fell into the grass, joining his fellow cultist. Pierce didn’t even grunt as he dragged their unconscious bodies into the shadows. I closed in, joining him near the farmhouse, now that he’d eliminated the two guys we’d spotted guarding the place.

  Pierce made a low bow as I backed myself up against the wall. “Your Highness,” he said. “I’ve done the dirty work and disposed of the minions.”

  “You’re such an ass,” I muttered. “Those were the only two scouting the area, right?”

  “They’ve got guns, too,” he said, nodding at the two men. “Why do you suppose they’re so defensive?”

  I shrugged. “That’s for Asmodeus to know. They’re probably used to having people come around and try to tell them what’s what.” I passed a hand down across my body, relishing the glimmer of red light that appeared as I completed the spell. “Arma.”

  Pierce shut his eyes tight and shook his head when I reached out to him, silently offering to shield him as well. “Won’t need it,” he said. “I’m fast. And strong.” He flexed his biceps for emphasis.

  “Neither the time nor the place,” I growled. “And suit yourself. I’m not hauling your dead body out of here.”

  He huffed. “It’ll take much more than a bullet to end this beautiful body.”

  “Pierce, I swear. Now, come on.”

  My heart thumped as we circled out back to check on the rest of the grounds. We’d spent enough time observing to know that there weren’t any other cultists on patrol, but you could never be too sure. And besides, sometimes you’d find someone silly who – ah, there it was.

  A curl of smoke went up from a square of light behind the farmhouse: some guy enjoying a cigarette on the back porch. I didn’t even get a second to confer with Pierce. The moment I turned my head to talk to him, he was already gone. I turned to look at the smoking man, and he was gone, too. Pierce was already dragging him under the patio. I shook my head, trying not to look so impressed as I carefully made my way to the open door.

  “This is it,” Pierce whispered. He was crouched low to the ground, nudging the unconscious smoker’s body under the floorboards with his foot. Pierce�
��s breathing was shallow, almost ragged. I could nearly hear the blood pumping faster in his veins, his heart beating faster. “You head in first.”

  I blinked at him. “Why me?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be the tactician? Better if they don’t know that there’s two of us. Duh.”

  “Good point,” I said, acquiescing for once. “At least someone’s been paying attention to Dantaleon.”

  Pierce was right. Dantaleon loved to talk about subtlety, and disinformation was another of his favorite subjects. “Confuse the enemy, obfuscate the obvious, and you will have the upper hand.” In my head, his voice sounded like pages turning in a book.

  “Besides,” Pierce added. “You’re the one with the shielding spell. Come on, man.”

  “I could have given you one, too,” I hissed. “Then I wouldn’t have to burst in like a moron all on my own.”

  Pierce stood up, scowling. “Quit your bitching and get in there before I tell your mom how much of a dipshit you’re being.”

  “Fine.” I turned to go. Pierce slapped me on the ass. I glared at him over my shoulder. He genuinely looked confused, then held up his hands.

  “Sorry. I caught a game of basketball on TV the other week. All these tall guys seemed to like doing it.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s for good luck?”

  I left him on the ground by the patio, grumbling to myself. What would I know about sports? The only balls I liked to play with were made entirely of fire. I prepared one in the palm of my hand, ready to hurl it in the face of the next person I saw.

  There were actually at least ten of them waiting in the kitchen, gathered around a scratched, rickety wooden table, eating what looked like stew out of mismatched bowls, using mismatched spoons.

  “Oh,” I breathed to myself.

  The man closest to me frowned, then shouted. “Who the fuck are you? Where the hell are Franklin and Josiah? They were supposed to be – ”

  A gurgling choke finished his sentence. I barely caught the trajectory of Pierce’s fist when it smashed into the cultist’s face, or the blur of his body moving into the kitchen, for that matter. The man fell face forward into a spatter of his own blood.

  Pierce rushed to my side. Chairs scraped over wood as the rest of the cultists sprang to their feet. The only thing they had in common was the fact that they were all men. One man in the back stood out especially because of his clothing, a white robe. I rolled my eyes. Typical. He pointed a finger at the two of us and shrieked.

  “Kill them!”

  The Thirteenth Choir – what Pierce and I were now realizing was just a ragtag crew of misfits – pulled their guns, at least those who were actually armed with guns. The others reached for the closest makeshift weapon: a chair, a knife from the dinner table. One man, the youngest, I noticed, stared at us with his mouth half open, his skin as white as a sheet.

  I hardened myself, resisting the pang of pity. This was what Asmodeus wanted, and no one in their right mind would deny the Prince of Lust. I mirrored the armed cultists as they pointed their guns at me, pointing my open hand in their midst.

  “Ignis.”

  A sphere of fire flew screaming from my fingertips and exploded onto the table, sending it flying into a crash of splintered wood, broken bowls, and ruined stew. Gunshots went off, but none of the bullets struck me – or Pierce, for that matter. Men screamed as they ran from the kitchen and into the rest of the house, one even stupidly attempting to douse the flames on his shirt in the kitchen sink. The youngest cultist, I noticed, had escaped unscathed and was sprinting straight towards the front door. Good. Good for him, I thought, and never come back. Go to school, get a job, don’t join a cult.

  More fire licked through the kitchen, catching on curtains and furniture, spreading into the rest of the house. The men with guns – four, at my last count – had either fled or were crawling low on the ground, whimpering with broken wrists courtesy of Pierce. The only one left who could be considered a threat was the man in the white robe. He stared at us, unafraid of the flames, or of the dagger held threateningly in Pierce’s hand.

  “You’re coming with us,” Pierce shouted over the roar of fire. The robed man didn’t resist, following when we beckoned, obediently walking at the point of Pierce’s dagger, yet his glares were certainly sharper than any demonforged steel.

  Outside, Pierce shoved the man to the ground. He stumbled and fell to his knees, catching his foot on the hem of his robe and ripping it as he tripped. He knelt there in defiance, mouth set in a tight line, eyes dark and angry.

  “There are others,” he murmured, no longer as high-pitched and agitated as before. He was calm. Too calm. “This isn’t all of us. More of my brothers will come.” He covered his mouth with the lattice of his fingers, holding back a maddened cackle. “Oh, they will come.”

  Pierce got down on his haunches, putting his eyes at the same level as our captive. “Buddy. Shut the fuck up. It doesn’t matter, because we’re taking you with us. You’re the head of this operation, aren’t you?”

  The man looked away, his face stiff with pride despite his state. This was their leader, a thin man wearing a weird white shift that could have been a dressing gown, or a robe poorly constructed to represent one worn by a cleric. His auburn hair fell nearly to his waist, his locks like a shock of fire down his shoulders and his back. There was something uncanny about his face, his expression menacing, almost manic, yet undeniably beautiful behind the wild eyes and even wilder hair.

  “My brothers will come,” the man said again, his ruined robe slipping from his shoulders.

  “How many of you are there?” I asked. “How many more?”

  He gave me a wicked smile. “On earth? Dozens. Perhaps scores. But up there?” He raised his head, his smile softening, becoming beatific, almost wistful. “Up there? We are innumerable. Infinite.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Pierce said. He looked up at me. “The fuck is he talking about?”

  I followed the man’s eyes as he gazed up at the night sky. He wasn’t just looking at the stars, though, at least not the ones that hung there like distant motes of light. He was following two of them that were streaking for earth – directly for the farmhouse.

  Pierce was staring, too, his mouth partly open as he frowned. “What the hell is that?”

  “My brothers,” the man said. “They come.”

  “Who are your brothers?” I demanded, dreading how I had already guessed at an answer. “Who?”

  He didn’t respond, only crawling on all fours towards the approaching lights. As the falling stars approached, their searing brightness illuminated the grass, the cult leader’s hair. Most importantly, they lit up the two scars his back, too equidistant and precise to be slashed there by chance in melee combat.

  My blood ran cold. This man was an angel. Someone had torn off his wings.

  The man reached fingers like gnarled talons to the sky, the tears streaming down the hard edges of his too-perfect face glimmering like diamonds.

  “My brothers,” he cried. “They’re here.”

  11

  They say that cats and dogs can’t be friends. Untrue. There’s evidence everywhere that they can get along – though Mr. Wrinkles would probably be hard-pressed to demonstrate that. Demons and angels, though? Everything you’ve heard is true. We can’t stand those sanctimonious fuckers, and they can’t stand us, either. In most cases, as in now, with Pierce sneering at the sky, the light of falling stars reflecting on his wet teeth and the blades of his daggers, the natural instinct would be to stand and fight until one side is well and truly dead.

  But we were outnumbered. The kneeling man with the auburn hair was being worshipped by the Thirteenth Choir for a reason, and even without wings an angel could still be a threat. Actually, that made matters worse. Who removed his wings? Why was he still on earth, and what could a grounded angel do? Plenty of damage, I imagined, watching with trepidation as he turned to me with wild eyes and an
emboldened expression. Few things are deadlier than a cornered, injured animal.

  “Pierce,” I said, tugging on his wrist. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He shrugged me off, glowering. “We stand and fight. If you think I’m scared of two measly featherheads and one wingless reject, then you’ve lost your damn mind.” He nodded at the auburn man. “You take him if you’re so worried. I’ll kill the other two.”

  “We need to head back to the node, get back on the Hexus. Now.”

  Fucking Pierce could be so stubborn. All the time we wasted arguing could have been used to run back to our entry point. It was too late. The falling stars touched the earth, striking with the impact of small comets, like two cannonballs shot from out of heaven.

  The lights dissipated, leaving two humanoid forms standing in the grass. Both shared the kneeling man’s indescribable beauty, their mortal vessels crafted by some celestial artisan who was far, far too good at their job.

  “Brothers,” the broken man said, his face stained with tears, his voice thick with relief and quiet laughter. “You’ve come for me.”

  “We’ve come for other reasons, too,” said the first angel, the ringlets of his hair dark, the circles under his eyes even darker. There was a somber ferocity to him, a quiet cruelty in the cupid’s bow of his lips.

  The second angel was gentler in face and in voice. “We’ve come to check on you, dear brother.” This one had blond hair, a sweet smile, one that I nonetheless wanted to punch off his serenely smug mouth. He knelt in the grass, laying a hand on the auburn-haired angel’s shoulder. “We sensed that something was wrong.” The angel turned to the burning farmhouse, then to me, his features instantly hardening into a stern, angry mask. “It seems that we were right to come here, Adriel.”

  Adriel. The auburn angel flinched at the sound of it, as if remembering had hurt. His name was familiar, like something I’d seen in a book. But the names of angels were far less important to know just then, certainly less important than surviving one of their visitations.