Fallen Reign (Sins of the Father 1)

All of that gunk would then coalesce into a repulsive pink sludge that would inevitably find its way to the nearest recess in the earth. Didn’t matter if it was a manhole, sewer grate, or just some cracks in the street. That clay was going to wriggle all the way back to the hell it came from, ready to be remolded into another demon husk. Say what you want about the infernals, but they had their shit together when it came to the environment. Reduce, reuse, recycle, then resurrect that dead ass right back into service.

But it always stank, too. Holy shit did it stink. The smell was bad enough each time demons appeared, that reek of sulfur and brimstone, something like rotten eggs and farts. But the smell when they went was somehow even worse, like something had died, then something else came along, ate the first something, then threw it all up in a public toilet.

Multiply that repulsive experience by three, considering the fact that there were that many dead demon husks presently melting in the alleyway. I held my free hand over my nose and mouth, my eyes tearing, tapping my foot against the ground impatiently as I waited for all three husks to return to their makers. You had to do that, too, just to make sure that no evidence was left. It was bad enough if the cops came sniffing around. But if the Lorica showed up, too? I didn’t want to consider the consequences.

The sludge disappeared all the way, and I fanned at the front of my face, getting the fumes away, finally allowing myself to breathe. I looked down at my sword, prepared to disengage and return it to the Vestments, when I sensed another smell in the alley. Something burning, fragrant and herbal, like – I don’t know, oregano. Or sage.

Wait, no. That was pot.

My heart pounded as I whirled on my feet. This wasn’t just about someone ducking into an alley for a quick smoke. And sure enough, there he was where he wasn’t before, leaning against the side of the dumpster, smelling of joints and bong water, looking every inch like a slacker, a college dropout – or, if you squinted really hard, someone who works in tech. California, am I right?

“I just killed three of you guys.” I gripped my sword tight once more, ready for a fight. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s kind of fun – but do we really have to do this right now?”

The man chuckled, adjusting his hoodie and rubbing the faint bit of scruff on his chin. “I’m not here to fight. Just to talk.”

I groaned. That was probably worse, if I’m honest. There’s very little good that comes out of talking to a demon – especially a demon prince.

3

For some moments I hemmed and hawed about returning my sword to the Vestments, but the more rational bits of my brain reminded me that I was standing in an alley with a demon. Not just any old grunt, either, but one of the Seven. I clenched my fist tight enough to press my nails into my skin, the sword’s hilt printing its ornate engravings into the palm of my hand.

“So how can I help you?” I droned, in a not-at-all helpful tone of voice.

Belphegor blinked at me with feigned innocence from under his messy fringe of hair, his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his hoodie. “What? I’m just here to chat, catch up with one of my favorite nephilim in the world.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Your favorite indeed. If there?

?s so many of us, then why aren’t the princes bothering all of the others?”

Belphegor picked at his fingernails, leaning his back and one foot against the wall. “Who says we aren’t?”

“Enough chitchat. Who sent those four grunts after me?”

The prince shrugged, the look on his face clearly absent this time. “Dunno. It wasn’t me. We’re buddies, Mason, you and I. Aren’t we?”

I bit the bottom of my lip to stop myself from hurling a curse in his general direction. The only reason I was stuck with Belphegor was how I owed him a favor, in exchange for one he did for me and my friends what seemed like so long ago. It was the nature of the favor he requested that had me so stumped.

“So,” Belphegor said, flashing that shit-eating smile of his. “How’s Florian doing?”

My eyes slitted even more, if that was somehow possible. “Same as always,” I said, gritting my teeth. “A total bum. You saddled me with him and you know it.”

Belphegor pouted. “Aww, now that’s just cruel. All I did was ask you a favor, Mace. You’re the brightest, most responsible man I know. I thought that some of your diligence and levelheadedness would rub off on him, is all.”

That was the favor that Belphegor wanted. Weirdest thing ever, handing over an entire person to me and telling me that all I had to do was help get them back on their feet. But Florian was a burnout. We were barely making rent. You’d think that a dryad could be more resourceful about earning a little extra cash, but no. The request did come from the Prince of Sloth, after all, and now my grand task was to turn the laziest supernatural in all of Valero into someone who was worth something.

I glowered at Belphegor. “I still don’t understand what you’re getting out of this. Why are you making me babysit an actual couch potato?”

Belphegor shrugged, holding his hands up. “The satisfaction of seeing some growth in him, perhaps. Hah, growth, get it? He has so much potential, what with his grasp of nature magic. It pains even me to see all of that power go completely to waste.”

Of course. This was all about power, leverage, conquest, as it always was when it came to the princes.

His grin grew wider. “And besides, Mason – we have a bargain. You can’t just bow out of our contract.” He rested his fingers on his chest, pressing lightly, creasing his eyebrows. “I honored my end of the bargain, and so must you, young princeling.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that,” I said icily, lifting my chin at him. Ugh. Princeling. The word made my skin crawl.

I should explain. I’m what’s known as a nephilim – the spawn of a human and a fallen angel. As you might imagine, that sort of thing doesn’t fly with the people upstairs. I’ve been called many things: miscreant, mistake, abomination. But I’d never been called a princeling.

Yet it made sense. My father is, or was, rather, Samyaza, the king of the fallen. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, Lucifer was the first to truly fall, but when he fell, he fell all the way down. Samyaza was still an angel. The fallen – the Grigori, as they were called – stuck to their guns and their beliefs. Being one of Samyaza’s kids made me royalty, in a way. Not exactly something I asked for.