Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #7: The Master of My Master]

Log Date: 11/5/12763

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Jayta’s Room

7:32am SGT

I wake up to tears sliding down my cheeks.

It’s not surprising, after the dream I had. Maybe I could call it a nightmare instead — it’s hard to tell. When you’re young, it’s easy to tell the dreams from the nightmares. Happy or adventuring in one, scared or frightened in the other.

When you get older, it gets more complicated. The line between the two tends to blur, and you dream of things that don’t scare you, but instead things you dread — or things you regret. Is it a nightmare if you aren’t scared? Or is it just a sad dream?

Whatever it was, I wish I hadn’t had it.

I just lie in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. I can tell it’s morning here in Sjelefengsel by the grey light filtering in through the window — how early, I’m not sure. I can’t bring myself to look at the clock just yet, my mind still working through the dream I had.

It was a simple thing, a visit down to the post office for Lord Syntaritov. There’s a package he needs me to pick up and bring back to the House — something about souls owed, I wasn’t really paying attention. It’s just nice to get out of the House.

When I get there, I go straight to the delivery box for Lord Syntaritov, and insert the key, opening the door and pulling out the package. It’s as I’m closing it and pulling the key out that I hear someone call my name; turning around, I see my mother crossing the post office lobby, in her jeans and witch’s hat that she always she wears when she’s out about and about. I don’t know what to say; I have no idea how she’s here, but she’s happy to see me. Asking how I’ve been, when I plan on getting back to college, where I’m working now. I’m happy to see her too, but I don’t get a chance to answer, because she looks down at the package I’m holding.

“Oh, Jayta.” she says softly.

I see the excitement into her face morphing into gentle disappointment, and it sends a twist of anxiety through me. Wondering what I’ve done, what’s gone wrong. I follow her gaze down to the package I’m holding.

Blood is leaking from the seams, dripping over my hands and splattering on the floor at my feet. Looking at myself, I realize that I’m wearing the clothes that I wore on the night that I killed the new girl. I can feel the wet blood on my lips, on my cheeks where Raikaron had used it to draw a smile on my face.

“Oh, Jayta.” my mother repeats softly. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

I’d woken up at that point.

It was one of those dreams that left you shaken. That made you feel like your mind had turned against you, and dug up all those fears that you buried, and made you face them. It was the kind of dream that left you feeling exhausted and worn out, even if you’d just gotten eight hours of sleep. The kind of dream that made you want to go right back to sleep, but you wouldn’t, because you didn’t want to go back to the place in your mind that made you confront those things.

So I just lay there, wishing I could pass out, and not dream at all.

I wish I could say this was the first night that was like this, but it wasn’t. I hadn’t slept well since Hallow’s Eve, when I’d seen my brother and fought that sorcerer guy with the soul-stealing sword cane. I had so many questions, and seeing my family again reminded me of everything I’d left behind, everything I’d lost. It had been hard to stop thinking about it; it made me restless and hard to sleep, and when I did, my dreams were chaotic and troubled. I must’ve tried a dozen different pastimes to get my mind off it, but lying here in my bed, I'd finally come face to face with it.

I wasn’t sure I could ever go back home.

I could never tell my mother what I’d done, and what I did for a living now. Not after what I’d done, not after the murder I’d committed that got me where I was now. It went against everything me and Jazel had been taught growing up. I couldn’t justify it, couldn’t say I didn’t know any better. Because I did, but I had chosen to ignore it. And I could never go home after what I’d done; I would never be accepted back.

And since I didn’t have anywhere I could go back to, it meant that Sjelefengsel — this place that I hated so much — was my home now.

Because I had nowhere else to go.

I think perhaps, I knew that as early as two months ago. I knew it the moment I’d killed the new girl, and I knew it the moment I’d signed the contract. But I had refused to consciously acknowledge it. Some part of me wanted to believe I could still escape, that I could still find my way home. Some part of me wanted to have hope that this wouldn’t be permanent, because that was what kept me going when I felt like I was going to cave in on myself.

But now, after seeing my brother, and realizing all the questions that would be asked if I saw him or my mother again, I couldn’t avoid it any more. I was never going to be able to return home, not after what I’d done.

It was time to accept that, and accept that I was a demon now.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: The Library Labyrinth

9:00am SGT

When I arrive to the center of the library labyrinth, it’s to find that Mek is still fast asleep on his bed against one side of the labyrinth’s core. He’s letting out the serval equivalent of a snore — a soft, rolling purr that waxes and wanes with each breath in and out. Standing there in my House uniform, I don’t know whether I should wake him up, or leave and come back later. Either way, I feel pretty awkward.

After a few moments waffling over what to do, I decide to wake him up. This was the time that Danya had assigned for Mek to teach me how to access my demon form, and I have a feeling that if I tell anyone else that Mek slept through the appointment, he’ll get punished for it. He’s been kind to me so far, so I don’t want to risk that happening to him. Moving around the many book-laden tables in the labyrinth’s core, I cautiously sidle up to his bedside, and call his name quietly. “Mek? Hey Mek? It’s me, Jayta… are you awake?”

Though his blackstriped ears flick, there’s no response from him. The snoring lessens a bit, but he still doesn’t wake up. Reaching over, I take his shoulder and shake him gently, hoping that’ll do the trick.

His eyes flit open with that; I quickly withdraw my hand as his yellow eyes rove around, clearly groggy and out of sorts. He catches sight of me, squints, blinks a couple of times, then reaches up to rub his eyes with one pawhand. “Jayta?” he yawns, his maw stretching wide in the way that only feline Halfies can. “What are you doing here?”

I straighten up, tugging at the cuffs of my uniform. “Um, it’s nine A.M. You were supposed to show me how to access my demon form…?”

He blinks at me, then rolls over in his bed to check his phone. “Well, damnation. I must’ve overslept again.” Stretching out, he starts to sit up, rubbing at his face. “Apologies for that. It’s so hard to keep track of time in here. I haven’t seen the sky in decades, so I can never tell whether it’s day or night… being stuck in a labyrinth will play havoc on your circadian rhythms.”

I stare at him. “You haven’t seen the sky in decades?”

“Indeed.” he says, pulling the covers off and turning to hang his digitigrade legs out over the side of his bed. He’s dressed in pale pink nightclothes, which is… unexpected, to say the least. “Day and night are all the same to me in here. I keep odd hours because of it; I often sleep while everyone’s awake, and wake while everyone’s sleeping.” Resting on his bed for a long moment, he rubs his eyes again. “Alright. I’m going to need some coffee before we get started. Would you like some?”

“I can make it for you, if you would like.” I say, glancing to the bookshelf where it looks like a kitchenette is built in.

“If you could? That would be delightful. I’ll get dressed while you’re doing that.” he says, sliding off his bed and moving to another bookshelf that has drawers built into it.

I nod and head over to the kitchenette, starting up the coffee pot. As I dig through the cabinets, I can hear Mek talking as he rustles around in his drawers. “I heard you had quite a night on Hallow’s Eve.” he remarks.

“Yeah.” I say quietly, pulling out a couple of mugs while the water’s heating up. “Let me guess, Harro told you?”

“Danya, actually.” he says, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see him pulling on his House uniform. “She’ll come down here from time to time for tea, biscuits, and a little chitchat. I heard that Lord Syntaritov had to get involved that night.”

I flinch, shivering at the memory of Raikaron speaking through me, controlling me like a puppet dangling on the end of his strings. Wearing me like a second skin. I know it’d kept me alive, but looking back on it, I still hated how it felt. The feeling of cold shadows flowing away from my thorny collar mark, seeping beneath my clothes and covering my body in a skintight suit of darkness. “…yeah. He got involved.”

Mek’s quiet for a moment, then remarks on it. “I assume, from the distaste in your voice, that he exerted dominion over you.”

“Yeah.” I say quietly, keeping my eyes on the coffee pot as it slowly fills.

He doesn’t respond right away, buttoning up his uniform shirt. “My condolences. I know that’s not a pleasant experience. There are dark forces that flow through the Lords that lesser demons are not accustomed to.”

“Harro said the same thing.” I say, keeping my eyes on the coffee pot.

Mek finishes buttoning his shirt, and begins tucking it in. “Well, I’ll not talk about it. It seems like you don’t like thinking about it.”

“Yeah, wasn’t my idea of a good time.” I say, pulling the pot out of the machine once it finishes draining. “How long is it going to take for me to learn this demon-morph thing?”

“Shouldn’t take too long.” Mek says, shuffling over to take one of the mugs once I fill them up and hand one out to him. “Most demons don’t even have to be taught it; it comes to them naturally. It’s really quite easy.”

“Guess I’m a developmentally challenged demon, then.” I mutter, sipping from my mug.

Mek takes a long draw of his coffee before responding. “Nonsense. You seem like a nice young demon. There’s nothing wrong with that; nice folk just have a harder time switching to their demon forms, is all.”

“How do you do it?” I ask as Mek starts shuffling back towards the center of the labyrinth’s core. “All the House staff were able to do it pretty much on the spot. If they can flick it on and off just like that, it can’t be that hard, right?”

“It’s not that hard, it’s just not… how should I put this? It requires putting yourself in a certain state of mind.” Mek explains, organizing some of the books on the tables. “Your demon form is triggered by an emotional state of mind — typically a furious or aggrieved state of mind, one in which you feel strong anger. Demons get angry, they hulk out into their demon forms.” He makes a puffing sound as he motions his free hand outwards. “It can’t be a passing irritation or annoyance, though; it has to be a deep, abiding sense of anger in order to trigger the change. Otherwise you’d be going into your demon form every time you stubbed your toe on the coffee table.”

“Oh.” I cup my mug in my hands, thinking about that. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yes, it does.” he agrees, setting his mug down on one of the tables. “To that end, the easiest way to manifest your demon form on command is to think back to your most unpleasant memory — a time you were betrayed, or rejected, or wronged. When that anger wells up within you, you must hold onto it and stoke it. The rest will come naturally after that — the anger, once it reaches it certain threshold, kicks off the physical transformation.”

“So I just have to get angry and stay angry?” I ask. “That’s so simple. Why didn’t anyone just tell me that? From the way you all went on about it, it sounded like it was some kind of big secret. I thought I was going to have to do some sort of complicated ritual stuff.”

“Well, you have to understand that a demon manifest comes intuitively to most demons.” Mek says, crouching down to grab one of the panels of the floor and pull it up. “It’s not something that often has to be taught. For most demons, it happens to them at one point or another without them even trying. I’m actually somewhat surprised it hasn’t happened to you yet — though you seem to have a fairly good handle on your anger, which may be why. You don’t seem like the type to give into your emotions easily.”

I almost tell him he’s wrong, but I stop and think about it. I feel my emotions strongly; they’re wild and powerful, especially recently. But I do control them, for the most part. Functioning adults didn’t give in to their emotions, and didn’t let them show very much in public, so I’d always strived to be demure and reserved around other people.

“So I just need to think of something that makes me angry?” I ask as Mek finishes pulling the panel up out of the floor. Hidden beneath it is a framed mirror that locks into place once it’s been pulled up all the way; it’s an unusual spot to hide a full-length mirror, but the same could be said about much of the stuff in here.

“A deep and abiding anger, yes.” he says, picking up his mug once more. “Let’s go ahead and have you try it. Search your memory for a grievance — something that gnawed at you, bothered you, something that stayed with you long after the incident, made you fume and seethe.” Padding around the table, he grabs a chair and pulls it over so he can sit down. “It can be a recent memory, or an old one. Find the ember, and stoke it into a fire.”

I stare into the mirror, mentally flipping back through my scrapbook of memories. There was so much to go through, so much to pick from. The way Raikaron had possessed me a few days ago — that made me mad, but had also been kinda scary. It wasn’t terrifying, because I knew it was Raikaron, and it felt like what he was doing was for my own good, even if it wasn’t pleasant. So I went further back, to when I signed Raikaron’s contract with a kiss — but that was fear, it was fear all the way down. Fear of dying. There was nothing attached to that memory but fear, desperation, and blind rage — and blind rage was something I only felt when I was fighting for my life.

“This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.” I say, still staring at myself in the mirror, watching the little, grey-eyed blonde stare back at me. She looked so… different from the person I knew. Standing there in her simple black uniform with golden trim, one of the many servants of a Lord of hell, but a classy servant. Distinguished and sharply dressed. “So much of society tells you that the key to a happy life is letting go of your anger, not letting it eat you up and consume you. And here you’re telling me to let it do exactly that.”

“I suppose it can be hard to find things to be angry about if you make a habit of letting go of your anger, yes.” Mek agrees. “This may be the one exercise in which holding grudges serves one well. If I may be so bold, immaturity helps as well — being young and rash lends itself to anger. I can remember being young, and being quick to hold onto a great many grievances.”

“It doesn’t help that you’re so calm.” I say, taking a hand off my mug and reaching to touch my fingers against my lips. I looked at myself in the mirror every morning, but I didn’t really look at myself. I didn’t stand there, stare at the person in the mirror, and process the fact that that was me — that I was the person that I saw in the glass. “I think I’m more comfortable around you than I am around anyone else in the House.”

Mek tilts his head at that. “Is that so?” he asks mildly. “I suppose I am complimented.”

“It’s because you don’t want anything from me.” I explain, lowering my fingers again. “You’re just there to be nice and helpful. Harro wants to get in my pants, Danya wants me to be a good little demon for Raik—” I stop, catching myself. “—for Lord Syntaritov. And Lord Syntaritov wants… something, I just don’t know what it is yet. But you’re just there to be helpful. You don’t want anything from me, and so I can relax around you.”

“Well, I don’t suppose I’m in a position to want anything from anyone.” Mek says, resting his mug on his knee. “Having been stuck in this labyrinth for more than a century has given me time to reflect. I’ve had much to read, much to learn. While it’s true that Sjelefengsel is a place of punishment, it’s also a chance to learn from your mistakes, and turn yourself around. I have Lord Syntaritov to thank for that — the talks I’ve had with him, and this unique punishment he devised for me, have given me the perspective I needed to truly reflect on myself, and change who I am.”

I don’t know what to say to that. “So… being imprisoned here, going to hell… it made you a better person?”

He smiles and sips from his mug. “Yes, as odd as it may seem. But that’s Lord Syntaritov for you — he has a propensity for upending expectations. It is well known that all demons look forward to the end of their sentences so they can escape Sjelefengsel, but many of them are just eager for freedom. Their tenure in Sjelefengsel often doesn’t change who they are at the core, despite their punishment. But I look forward to the end of my sentence because I want to go back to the mortal realm — I want to be born into a mortal life again, and give it another shot. I want to do better the second time around. And that’s due in part to Lord Syntaritov — he’s not just here torment the damned. He’s here to change people, to make a difference, instead of being just another cog in the machine of the cosmic justice system. You might say he’s a certain well-dressed rebel; an upstart and an innovator among the other Lords of Sjelefengsel.”

“I dunno, he still seems like an asshole to me.” I mutter, looking back towards the mirror.

Mek smiles. “Clearly you’ve not met the other Lords yet.” He motions to the mirror. “But we’ve gotten away from the lesson. We were supposed to be teaching you how to manifest your demon form. Are you sure you don’t have any bad memories you can draw from?”

“It’s hard.” I sigh. “I feel like I should have something to be angry about. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t like about… everything that’s happened to me in the last couple of months. A lot of things that make me upset. I feel like I should be angry about those things, and I am, but I’m also… I guess I’m resigned to them? I’ve accepted that this is my reality now. I’m a demon, I’m the servant of some smarmy redheaded classhole, and he’s got me collared.” I reach up to touch the collar of my uniform, thinking of thorny vine mark beneath it. “Literally collared. Literally chained to him, I guess that’s what pisses me off the most. He owns me and I just… I hate that. I hate that I’m someone else’s property.”

“And that, should he so desire, he could do whatever he wanted with you?” Mek asks softly, sipping from his mug.

“Yes! That! I hate that!” I say, gesturing angrily with my free hand. “It just burns me up, because I feel helpless next to him. He can completely control me if he wants to. I am completely at his mercy. And the feeling of helplessness that comes from that is just— hnnrgh!”

My teeth grit together as the rising indignation within me morphs into heat, and a convulsion tears through my body. I gasp at the sensation, dropping my mug as my hands curl to my chest; the heat flooding through me feels like it’s racing over my skin, spilling out of my fingers as their ends lengthen and curve into wicked, hooked black claws. As the mug hits the floor, sending coffee spilling across the floorboards, twin points of warmth manifest above my eyes, at my hairline; it feels like that hot blood is spilling through and hardening into something, because I can feel it pushing through the hair on the top of my head. When the scorching sensation makes its way to my back, I gasp and twist, arching in place as I hear something rip through the back of my uniform. From there, the fiery ripple races back down my body, along my legs, and I can feel my feet lengthen, growing broader towards the end, so it’s easier to balance on the front of my foot and my toes, which have lengthened out into stout, hooked claws as well — and ruined my shoes in the process.

With that, the heat fades, though my entire body still feels like it’s running hotter than normal. I wobble on my legs, struggling to balance, and I have to crouch down, slamming my palms to the floor to keep myself from falling over. “Hhh! Hhh… hh… oh Maugrimm have mercy, that was intense…”

“Oh goodness.” Mek says, setting his mug down as he slides off his chair and moves over to me. “Are you alright? That manifest looked unusually violent.”

“Ghh… god… Aurescura’s asshole, is it always supposed to feel like that?” I gasp, pulling my hand out of the puddle of coffee on the floor and wiping it off on my pants.

“If it felt like you were burning up from the inside out, then yes, that’s typically how a demon manifest feels.” Mek says, reaching out to gingerly rest a pawhand on my shoulder. “The intensity with which it occurs varies, though I can say that your transformation leans towards the more intense end of the spectrum. How are you feeling?”

“Hot.” I pant, rubbing the back of my hand against my forehead. “Not uncomfortably hot, but—” I pause when I feel my knuckles bump against something rough on the edge of my hairline. Turning my hand, I feel along my hairline, getting the outline of a rough, ridged protrusion well above my left eye. “…is that a horn?”

“It is.” Mek takes his pawhand off my shoulder, gathering up the mug I’d dropped and setting it on the adjacent table. “I pulled the mirror up for a reason. Seeing what you look like as a true demon is an important part of knowing the effect you will have on others when you manifest.”

I look up. There in the mirror before me is a demon crouched to the ground, touching one of her horns. Her skin is plaster-white, with little mauve triangle marks on the edges of her cheeks and her forehead, pointing inwards towards her nose. That same mauve color underlines her eyes, curling at the corners into a hooked shape that points down. Her hair is still that pale blonde, but now there are horns riding through it — starting at her hairline, one above each eye, sweeping backward over her head, then curving up to a slight point at the end. Most striking are her eyes — virulent, bright orange irises.

“Is that me?” she whispers.

“It’s always a shock to see your demon form for the first time.” Mek says, returning with a hand towel and crouching down to start mopping up the pool of spilled coffee at my feet. “You’ll get used to it the more you see it, and with enough time, it’ll be as comfortable to you as your mundane form. Adjusting to the physical changes and learning to move comfortably with them will take some time, though.”

“I…” I look down at my hands, which start out that same stone-white color, but darken to black along my fingers where they end in hooked claws. “How am I supposed to… oh!” I straighten up a little as the claws retract back into my fingers. “Oh, ew, that felt really weird. Ugh, it’s giving me shivers.” I tense my fingers again, and the claws slide back out. “That’s neat… I guess.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a pale demon.” Mek remarks as he finishes mopping up the coffee. “Much less one with wings. It seems that Lord Syntaritov, as always, is quite discerning with the choices he makes.”

“Oh right.” I say, looking over my shoulder at what appear to be the edges of leathery white wings furled close to my back. I can feel tendons and muscles connected to a wide area of my upper back near my shoulder blades, and tentatively try to flex and move them. Without warning, both wings snap open to a startling wide wingspan, one hitting the table on the other side and another slamming into Mek, knocking him down.

“Oh gods! I’m so sorry!” I gasp, tensing the tendons in my back and furling them close to my back once more. I twist in place, starting to stand up, only to find that because of the weight of my wings, and the way my feet are now hinged, everything about me is balanced differently than it used to be. And as a result, I go sprawling onto the floor on my hands and knees.

“My, that’s quite a wingspan.” Mek grunts, sitting up. “Certainly large enough to generate sufficient lift for flight. I suppose your wings are not merely decorative, then.”

“How am I suppose to walk with these things?” I demand, looking back over my shoulder. “It’s like having an extra pair of arms on my back!”

“Really?” Mek says curiously. “You have that degree of motile control over them? They feel like arms? Fascinating.”

“Yeah, I can…” I scrunch up my face as I focus on one of them, stretching out the right one and seeing how far I can move it. It’s actually quite limber - I’m able to move it forward around my shoulder and side, and furl most of it around myself. “Wow. That’s actually a pretty decent range of movement.”

“These remind me of bat wings.” Mek muses, leaning forward and studying mine. “Yours may have the same structure, though they don’t appear quite as membranous — they’re a little thicker, from what I can tell. But the bone structure…”

“I guess that makes sense.” I agree. “But how am I supposed to walk around with these? I can barely balance.”

“I believe the best way to go about it would be to keep them tightly folded against your back.” Mek says, padding around me on all fours to get a look at my feet. “The adjustments to your feet may hold part of the solution. It appears that they are semi-digitigrade, similar to a cat, kangaroo, or a rabbit. The bone structure gives your feet more spring, so to speak, and makes it so that less of the weight is resting on the heel, and more of it on the front of the foot, and spread across the toes. It turns your foot into a structure that can pivot more easily, and hold more potential energy — good for bunching your legs and launching yourself into the air, actually. Digitigrade legs are known for being useful for leaping, pouncing, lunging, and sprinting.”

“You know an awful lot about this.” I say, trying to push off my hands and slide my legs around so I can sit on my bum instead.

“Ah, well. I was a seeker of knowledge in my mortal life.” he says. “But now you know how to access your demon form. And quite a form it is. I have no doubt you will be the envy of the House.”

“I dunno.” I say uncertainly, looking at my legs. “I’m not sure this kind of hybridism is viable. I have doubt I’ll even be able to walk around, between these legs and the wings.”

“They’re made to work with each other; you simply need time to acclimate to them.” Mek insists, getting back to his feet. “Now, you need to go show yourself to Danya, so she knows what your demon form looks like, and get your clothes enchanted to match. We can’t have you ripping holes in your shirt every time you’re required to enter your demon form.”

“Oh, like Harro’s clothes were enchanted?” I ask, remembering how his clothes shifted and adjusted to fit his big demon wolf form.

“That precisely. Such enchantments prevent a demon from destroying their wardrobe whenever they manifest, especially more powerful demons.” Mek says, holding out a pawhand for me to take so he can pull me back to my feet.

“So… I go find Danya now, and just show her what I look like?” I ask, carefully getting back to my feet with Mek’s help. “Wait, how do I change back? That part’s really important! I don’t want to be stuck like this forever!”

“Oh, of course.” Mek says, waving a pawhand. “That’s quite easy. If you want to return to your mundane form, you simply think of a memory that brings you joy. Something that makes you feel warm and fuzzy. That’ll revert you back to your normal self quickly enough.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, keeping one hand on one of the tables to steady myself. “It’s simple as that?”

“Quite. Think of something that makes your blood boil to manifest your demon side; think of something soft and comforting to manifest your normal side.” Mek says, taking the mugs back to the kitchen counter. “In spite of everything we’ve covered here, it is, at the bottom line, really a very simple concept. It only becomes complicated if you make it complicated.”

“Alright. Well, thanks, Mek.” I say as I take a few experimental steps, and try walking without the aid of a table. It’s going to take me a while to get used to this. “I’ll go see if I can find Danya. I wonder what she’s going to say when she sees me.”

“Knowing Danya, I fully expect an exasperated vocalization.” Mek says as he turns on the water in the sink. “Take care, Jayta. And as always, feel free to stop by any time — I always enjoy getting company down here.”

“Thanks, Mek.” I repeat, smiling at him. “I’ll see if I can stop by sometime.” With that, I turn back towards the labyrinthine shelves of the library, and start towards them, my stride getting a little steadier with each step.

Perhaps Mek is right — maybe this won’t be so bad.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Danya’s Office

11:51am SGT

“Alford? Yes, it’s Danya, from the House of Regret. Look, I’m going to need one of your tailors to make a House visit. Yes yes, I know, you’re going to charge extra, but I refuse to pack up this entire wardrobe and run it out to your shop in Hautaholvi. Yes, I’m aware that enchanting an entire wardrobe is going to cost a small fortune. Do you think I’m calling you for my own amusement?”

I stand quiet as Danya paces her side of her office, speaking into her phone. It’d taken me a little bit to find her, but once I had, she’d taken one look at me and sighed. After getting my measurements, she’d told me to change back into my mundane form, and follow her to her office, which was on the floor beneath Raikaron’s. Once there, she’d written everything down, and had dialed out the call she was currently on, leaving me to stand there awkwardly just inside the door.

“I need one of your tailors out here as soon as you can clear a day for them. Yes, a whole day. I wasn’t joking when I said it was an entire wardrobe. And send us someone that knows what they’re doing; I don’t want to open the door and see an intern on our doorstep. Yes, I’m aware that’s going to cost extra. You’re going to be doing manifest adjustments for the Lord of Regret’s new avenger; this isn’t going to be some Third Circle groundskeeper from the projects. This is a Sixth Circle demon, so get someone out here that can do their damn job.”

My eyes rove across Danya’s office as she talks. There are decorative scrolls hung on the walls, each one with the name of one of the Lords of Sjelefengsel at the top, and images of their domains and the souls they torment below. There’s a lot more than I expected there would be; everyone knows the popular ones: Wrath, Pride, Lust, Greed, and so on. But there are over a dozen scrolls with Lords I’d never heard of before: Anguish, Grief, Fury, Spite, Sorrow, and many others. Regret is one of those, of course.

“You’ll have someone out here in the next couple of days, then? Good. She’s already ruined one uniform, so we need the rest of her wardrobe enchanted as soon as possible. If she destroys one of her field outfits, it’s going to be a lot more expensive to replace than one of the House uniforms. I’m just glad she wasn’t wearing anything nice when she finally figured out how to morph.”

Something brushing against my leg pulls my attention away from the scrolls on the wall; looking down, I see a dark grey cat winding up against my leg. It’s Cinder, the cat I’d promised to look after for the little girl whose mother I’d drowned in the bathtub. Reaching down, I pick her up, holding her in my arms and petting her while I wait for Danya to get off the phone. So far, she’d turned out to be a good cat: affectionate, comfortable with petting and being picked up, sometimes a little too vocal, but otherwise low-maintenance and enjoyable. She’d made a habit of sleeping in my room at night, and wandering the House during the day.

“I’m not going to pay you in favors or souls, Alford. We’ve been over this before.” Danya says, glaring at me when she sees Cinder in my arms. “The House of Regret’s payment policy has not changed. You’ll receive your due in units of raw power. Take it to the exchange if you want to cash it for something else. No, I’m not budging on this, and if you continue making insinuations about my Lord, I will start looking for alternatives. You are not the only tailor in this town.” She stops pacing as she waits for the response. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. We’ll expect your tailor within a couple days, and once he provides us a quote on price, I’ll transfer the power to your account. Yes, same to you. Have a good day.”

With that, she ends the call, looking to me. “You just had to be a winged demon, didn’t you.” she says, sounding exasperated.

“It’s not my fault!” I protest. “It’s not like I knew what I would turn into. Blame your Lord; he’s the one that wrote up the contract.”

“That’s a misguided sentiment. Lord Syntaritov is no more in control of your demon form than anyone else is.” Danya says, walking around behind me to tug at the tears in the back of my uniform once more. “Your demon manifest is a reflection of what lies within; an outer expression of the inner self.”

“So… what, my inner self has wings?” I say, looking over my shoulder at her.

“Yes.” she says, straightening up. “In the parlance of some fortunetellers, wings were a symbol of ambition, or if reversed in the tarot, a symbol of stifled potential. That being said, only idiots and fools place any weight on horoscopes and the tarot.” Looking at her phone again, she starts thumbing out a text message. “Contemporary demon science has found no connection between supposed personality traits manifesting as specific physical features in a demon’s manifest.”

I turn to face her better. “But you just said…”

“That your manifest is an outward expression of your inner self, yes.” she says without taking her eyes off her phone. “But every demon’s inner self manifests differently. There are some manifest similarities across personality types, but they are not guarantees. However, because demons tend to place great stock on symbolism and represented meaning, you’ll get a lot of people that make judgements on you based off your manifest, if and when they see it.”

“What kind of judgements?” I ask as she finishes the text and sends it off.

Danya repeats her disapproving glare at Cinder. “Frivolous and often incorrect judgements. I’m not going to enumerate on them, because that would be giving them oxygen they don’t deserve. Is there a reason you have that thing in my office?”

“Cinder is a good kitty. Here, you want to pet her.” I say, holding her out to Danya.

“Kindly refrain from putting that thing anywhere near me.” Danya snaps, leaning away. “It’s going to get fur all over my clothes, and I’m sure it’s shedding fur all over my office. In fact, I can already see it on your uniform.” She points out the doorway. “Out. Now. And go put a fresh uniform on while you’re at it. Keep the ruined one; the tailor may need it for reference, even though I sent pictures of your demon manifest to Alford.”

“You’re no fun.” I say, folding Cinder back into my arms again and moving towards the door, then pausing outside in the hall. “…what was all that about paying the tailor with favors and souls? Don’t you guys have currency here?”

“The common currency of Sjelefengsel is not in legal tender, or credit lines, but in the raw energy that powers everything here.” Danya says, stalking back to her desk and sitting down behind it. “Raw power that keeps the lights on, that fuels vehicles, that can be weaponized and expended to blast someone halfway through next week. That is how things are bought and sold here in Sjelefengsel. Damned souls, which produce this energy, are a higher denomination of this currency. And when a demon does not have either of these to pay with, they can instead pay with favors of varying size. The nature of the favor can depend; some are instant and on the spot, while others can be banked and called in for later. Once a favor has been given, though, the demon is obligated — compelled, I should say — to repay it once it has been called in.”

“You guys couldn’t just use money like everyone else does in the mortal realm?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Traditional legal tender has no value except that which is assigned to it and commonly agreed upon by a community or society at large.” Danya says dismissively, sorting through the papers on her desk. “Raw power, on the other hand, has a very tangible, concrete value that cannot be argued with or disputed. It is a more accurate measure of one’s worth and the influence that they wield. One may even go so far as to say it promotes a more honest economy, and pricing of goods.”

“But how does…” I start, then shake my head. “Never mind. Thinking about your economy is giving me a headache. I’m going to go get changed into a fresh uniform.”

“Please do.” Danya says as I start down the hall. “And keep that thing out of the kitchen! I think I found a piece of fur in my tiramisu last night!”

Jayta’s Journal

“Uncertainty in meaning is poetry incipient.”

I don’t know who said that. It’s probably someone that’s old and dead. It was something I had learned sometime in college, and for some reason, it had always stuck with me. There was just something about it that was succinct, straightforward — and yet obtuse and oblique to those that didn’t know what it meant.

And what did it mean?

To me, I’d always read it as an observation on the fact that art was often ambiguous — open to interpretation by many viewers. Multiple people could look at the same piece of art, and come to different conclusions about its meaning, its intentions, the story that lay behind it. To create a piece of art like that — something which pitted the perspectives of viewers against each other, something which revealed more about the viewer than it did about the art itself— could be considered a great work of art. When art acts as a mirror for the mind, rather than just a canvas with colors on it, you know you’ve created something incredible.

But it had never crossed my mind that living individuals could function in the same way, as mirrors that reveal more about ourselves than about them. And that the Lords of Sjelefengsel were each, in their own way, great works of art.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Central Staircase

11/6/12763 4:50pm SGT

It’s on the following day that we get an unexpected guest at the House.

Coming down the stairs, I’m dressed up for heading out into the mortal realm: leather duster on, along with the laced knee-high boots; a prayer file in one hand, and my bracelet hanging off the other. I’m still taking tasks from the angel’s share; I don’t know how long I’ll get to have my pick of the jobs, but if Raikaron keeps reserving them for me, I’m not going to complain. I’m in no hurry to find out what other kinds of jobs demons carry out for their Lords.

Hitting the bottom floor, I swing around the banister to head down the hall to the lesser common room, but pause when I hear a chiming ringing in the House. It sounds like bell tones echoing through the halls; stopping in place, I look around to see that there are silhouettes outside the frosted glass of the panes in the front door.

“That’s odd.” I murmur to myself, turning and walking towards the front door. “We’ve never had anyone ringing the front door as long as I’ve been here.” Resting my hand on the door handle, I push it down and pull it open slightly, peeking through onto the porch.

Standing outside is a tall woman in a short skirt and long jacket, with long crimson hair and shades on. Flanking her on either are two big guys in suits, also wearing shades. Like, big big. Professional spaceball league big.

“Well, look what we have here.” the woman drawls, lowering her shades to peer at me. “Not the reception I was expecting.”

I stare at her for a moment, before narrowing my eyes. “I’m sorry, did you have an appointment or something…? Nobody’s told me anything.”

The lady raises a single commanding eyebrow. “No appointment as such. I thought I’d drop by and give a friend of mine a visit. Are you going to invite us in?”

“No offense, but you guys look sketchy as all get-out.” I say, eyeing the beefcakes on either side of her. “Who are you, again?”

One of the beefcakes growls and starts to lean forwards, but the lady raises a hand, and he slows his roll. “I am Lady Maryah. Run along and tell it to Danya. We’ll wait.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I say before shutting the door, then turning around and tucking the prayer file into its slot in my duster. Heading back into the House, I keep a quick pace as I head to Danya’s office. The door is open, so I poke my head in. “Hey Danya? There’s people at the front door. They look like they’re from the mafia or something.”

Danya raises an eyebrow without looking away from report she’s perusing behind her desk. “Which one? You’re going to need to be more specific than that.”

“I dunno.” I say, standing in the doorway properly. “There’s a couple of beefcakes in suits, and then there’s a lady in a long jacket and a short skirt. The woman knew you by name.”

“Did she now.” Danya says, picking up her teacup. “Again, that doesn’t narrow it down very much. Did they give you any identifying information, such as names?”

“Well, the woman said that her name was Lady Maryah—”

Danya spits out the tea she’d just taken a sip of. “What.”

“So you know her?” I ask, folding my arms.

“Of course I know her, that’s the Lord of Lust!” Danya coughs, setting down her teacup and standing up. “Where is she?”

I blink. “Oh, I didn’t let them inside. They looked really sketchy, so…”

“You mean you left one of the Greater Lords of Sjelefengsel standing outside on the porch?!” Danya almost screeches, stumbling to get around her desk. “Graves of the gods, do you have a death wish? Move! Move! We need to let them into the House right this instant!”

I stagger out of the way as Danya storms out of her office, getting a sinking sensation in my stomach as she marches down the hall. Following after her, I can feel heat starting to rise along the back of my neck to my ears. “Well, why didn’t she say she was the Lord of Lust, how am I supposed to know this stuff? I’ve only been here two months…”

“You could’ve asked her.” Danya says, her heels clicking sharply down the stairs as she fusses with her hair to make sure it’s all tightly bunned back, and doing her best to straighten out all the creases in her usual pinstripe suit. “As it is, you will apologize to her for your rudeness once we let her into the House, and hope that she elicits not to hold a grudge. Lords typically do not countenance insolence, and the only thing that may have kept her from punishing you on the spot is the fact that you are a resident of the House, which means you are favored of Lord Syntaritov. It is impolite to chastise another Lord’s demon within their own House, but that does not give you leave to infuriate your betters.”

“I didn’t know!” I protest, following her down the stairs. “What did you want me to do, let a stranger and her brutes into the House just because they said so? I thought they were here to rough someone up!”

“It is manifestly suicidal on multiple levels to attempt such business at the heart of another Lord’s domain.” Danya says as we come down the final flight of stairs. “Such intrusions do not happen because Lords generally respect the sovereignty of other Lords within their own Houses. If Lords have an issue with each other, or with the servants of another Lord, then those disagreements play out on the streets of Sjelefengsel’s cities through proxies — or if it is truly important, they will visit each other directly and talk it out like civilized individuals.”

“So I wasn’t wrong!” I exclaim. “You literally just described the mafia.”

“Call it what you want.” Danya says as she crosses the front lobby. “The fact remains that you have insulted one of the members of the Eighth Circle. The moment I open this door and invite in Lady Maryah, I expect you to give her a full and penitent apology, and after that, I expect you to be on your absolutely best behavior.” Danya says, resting a hand on the front door knob and turning to me. “If she asks you to do something, you do it, is that understood? Her authority is only superseded by Lord Syntaritov’s, and only then because he is the master of this House. Outside of these walls, she is the master of your master, and you will give her the deference and respect she is owed.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it already.” I mutter, hurriedly tucking in my shirt. This was not how I was expecting my day to go. I just wanted to do one of the angel’s share jobs so I could get away from Sjelefengsel’s depressing red-gray color palette. Now I was stuck here having to kiss some bigshot’s ass just because I had the audacity to answer the door when someone rang the doorbell.

Pushing down the handle, Danya opens the door, swinging it wide open to reveal that Lady Maryah and her bodyguards are still waiting on the porch. “Lady Maryah! My greatest apologies for the delay in attending to you. We didn’t know you’d be dropping by today, and the servant that answered the door has only been a demon for two months. She is not yet fully versed in our customs, and was not aware you were a member of the Eighth Circle.” With that, Danya gives a polite little bow, then shoots a sharp look at me.

I fight down the rebellious impulse rising up in me, and give a quick, awkward bow to Lady Maryah as well. “I am sorry. I didn’t know who you were.” I say, not knowing what else to say, and not feeling generous enough to say more than that.

“A new demon, mm?” Maryah says, stepping into the House, reaching up and taking off her shades as she does so. Her suits file in after her, Danya closing the door after them while Maryah stalks right up to me. My instinct is to back away, but I remain where I am as Maryah folds her sunglasses and comes to a stop uncomfortably close to me. “Only two months, and she’s in the House already? Sounds to me like Rai found a favorite new toy.”

My teeth clench together behind my lips, fighting back the urge to snap at her that I’m not a toy. Instead, I try to give her a pleasant smile, even though it feels strained and I’m worried that I’m baring my teeth more than I’m smiling.

“Lord Syntaritov believes she has great potential.” Danya says, her heels clicking along the floor as she appears at Maryah’s side. “I must apologize; the kitchen has nothing ready, as we were not aware you were visiting today. Had we known, we would’ve put together something to your liking.”

“Oh posh, dear. Don’t trouble yourself.” Maryah says, taking her shades and tucking one end of them under my chin, tilting it upward. I have to fight to keep my fingers from curling into fists. “I’ve already found something to my liking.” Her crimson eyes flick downward, noticing my stiff fingers. “She’s feisty. I like it. Is Raikaron sure he wants to keep this one?”

“I cannot speak for him, but he has already invested considerable time and resource into her, so you may be hard-pressed to convince him to trade her away.” Danya answers, her eyes flicking from Maryah’s brutes, who continue hovering nearby, then to me. Like a warning not to do anything stupid. She can see my stiff posture as well, and she probably knows that it’s killing me to not be able to reach up and break Maryah’s hand off at the wrist.

“I suppose that’s to be expected with… such a pretty little flower.” Maryah muses, the end of her shades sliding along my jaw to tilt my head to the side a bit. “The springtime of youth. Such a tantalizing age. So much to be experienced, so much to be explored, so much to be discovered. So many delightful mistakes, just waiting to be made. I can see why he’d pick a flower like this.”

That sets my blood boiling. “And I can see why they call you the Lord of Lust.” I retort as my restraint breaks. Being treated like this, as if I’m a piece of property to be assessed for its value, drives me up the wall.

“Jayta!” Danya hisses, then turns to Maryah. “I apologize, I’ll—”

“No, it’s fine.” Maryah smirks, pulling her shades away and hooking them in neck of her shirt. “I’ll take it as a compliment. You recognize a living work of art when you see one, don’t you, little demon?”

I feel heat rise to my face as I realize that I’m being flirted with.

By the Lord of Lust.

“If I may, Lady Maryah, can I ask the purpose of your visit today?” Danya asks while I try to keep from burning up on the spot. “Is there official business that I should fetch Lord Syntaritov for?”

“Goodness no, nothing so stale as that.” Maryah says, taking her attention off me and waving a hand to Danya. “I just thought I’d drop by and see how the innovator was doing. Maybe have a chat and some tea, if he has the time for it. You needn’t bring him out here, I’ll go to him.”

“Of course! I’ll take you to him.” Danya nods, then looks to me. “Jayta, would you go ahead and inform Lord Syntaritov he has guests? I believe he should be in the garden at the moment; let him know that Lady Maryah is paying him a visit.”

I don’t know why Danya’s asking me to tell Raikaron this if she’s just going to bring Maryah to him anyway, until I realize that this is Danya’s way of getting me out of Maryah’s vicinity, and therefore keeping me out of trouble. I turn and sprint down the hall, at least until Danya calls “Jayta! No running in the House!” Growling to myself and clenching my fists, I slow down to a fast walk, working my way through the hallways until I reach the back door, and step through it.

Outside is the backyard — a once-tall expanse of yellow grass, almost like hay. With the weather getting colder here in Sjelefengsel, it’s started to wilt and die, the wind blowing it over into springy yellow mats sprawled across the ground. Off in the distance are the harsh black mountains that rise behind the estate, and at the far end of the backyard is a fence made of sticks jammed into the ground, with other sticks tied to them. There’s a gap in the fence that leads within — Raikaron’s garden, which I’d seen from the House before, but had never stepped foot in.

Leaning forward, I take off running across the backyard — long, loping strides that feel good over the matted grass. I enjoy the feeling of the wind tugging my hair out behind me, even though the cold out here sends shivers over my skin, still flushed from Maryah’s flirts. As the fence gets nearer, I slow down, finding the dirt path that winds into it, and step through the gate and into the shade of the trees within.

The temperature changes the moment I step past the fence, jumping by at least twenty degrees; I pause, catching my breath and looking around. It’s not hot, nor warm, but definitely lacks the frosty chill of winter. The air is that lukewarm temperature that you get in fall and summer, neither hot nor cold; I almost want to take off my duster, but leave it on as I realize the trees and bushes in here are all still green. Hell, some of them still have flowers.

After catching my breath, I start along the dirt path, up to the point that it splits in the garden. I waffle for a moment, then decide on the left fork, following it around and bouncing up on my toes every now and then to see if I can spot Raikaron among the garden. Realizing that it might take me a long time to find him by wandering the garden, I consider shouting his name to see if he’ll respond — but that thought drifts away as I reach the center of the garden, slowing to a halt.

In the middle of the clearing I’m in is a massive, gnarled tree. It’s not like a lot of other trees; instead of growing straight, it’s hunched and warped, as if it twisted as it grew. Its roots are knobby, and form the wide base; the canopy swirls outward, almost forming an umbrella over the root structure. It reminds me of the little bonsai trees I’d seen in the arboretum back at the Coreolis College. But that’s not what catches my attention the most.

Hanging from every branch is a lantern, each one giving off luminescence of different colors through their glassy sides.

I come forward a few steps, transfixed by the sight. The colors of the lanterns light up the dark leaves of the tree, most of them spaced far away enough from each other that they don’t overlap. I don’t see any flame or bulbs in them - they just seem to emit light and color, with no apparent source.

Standing in the shade of the tree, watching the way they cast shadows over the leaves and the deep grain of the bark, I feel like a wanderer on a quiet, empty street, staring at lampposts. The air around me seems to have darkened in the shadow of the canopy, as if it was already night, and the lanterns were the only source of light around. Lifting an arm, I reach out to touch one of the lanterns hanging on the lower branches.

Before I can, warm, spidery fingers curl around my wrist and hold it in place.

That startles me, and my eyes follow the arm back down to the body. I already know, from the black sleeve and the crimson vest, who it is. But still, the feeling of dread doesn’t really hit until I see Raikaron’s neon green eyes fixed on me from behind his spectacles.

“You should be careful, roaming in strange gardens.” he says softly.

I swallow hard. He’s still holding my wrist, while his other arm remains folded behind his back; his grip isn’t firm, yet I’m still afraid to try to pull loose. “S-sorry.” I stammer. “Danya wanted me to come tell you that Lady Maryah is here to see you.”

His brows furrow. “Really.” he says, relinquishing my wrist as he turns, looking back towards the House. “This is unexpected. I don’t recall having any meetings scheduled with her.”

“Surprise visit.” I mutter, rubbing my wrist where Raikaron’s fingers had touched it. The hairs on that arm are still standing up from where his touch had sent a shiver down my arm, despite the warmth of his hand. “She said she would come to you, and wanted to chat and have tea.”

“Did she now.” he murmurs, stepping out of the shadow of the canopy. “Well, I suppose I’ll humor her, then. Come along.” He motions me to follow him in stepping out from beneath the tree’s shadow; the moment I do, the air roundabout brightens and loses its dimmed, past-sundown atmosphere. I can’t help but look back over my shoulder at the lantern tree, wondering what exactly it was. It was clearly important, but Raikaron hadn’t volunteered any information about it, and honestly, I was scared to ask him. The way he’d caught my wrist, and how softly he’d spoken — it was unnerving, because I’d always gotten the sense that the quieter Raikaron got, the more dangerous he was.

The creak of something draws my attention back around; I look to see that Raikaron’s pulled two armchairs and a small card table out of… somewhere, I assume out of his vest, based on the way he’s buttoning it back up. “You said that she expressed a desire to have tea?” he asks, reaching in the pocket of his vest and pulling out a set of gardening scissors that definitely wouldn’t fit in a pocket that small.

“Yeah.” I say, watching as he moves over to one of the nearest flowerbeds, which have white tulips in them. He starts snipping certain ones, gathering them in one hand. “She had a couple big guys with her. I think they’re her bodyguards.”

“Seems about right for Maryah. They’re not there to protect her; she is more than capable of protecting herself.” he says, moving around the edge of the flowerbed to the tigerlilies. “She doesn’t like getting her hands dirty, so her brutes are there to get their hands dirty for her. Hold these for me, would you?”

I move around the table, walking over to take the flowers that he’s holding out. The stems are cool and firm against my fingers, while the petals are soft, like skin. It’s strange to see flowers here in Sjelefengsel — most of the terrain I’ve seen here in hell has been arid, desert, tundra, or unforgiving, barren rock.

“I think that should about do it for table decorations.” Raikaron says, straightening up with tigerlilies in hand. Turning back to me, he pauses, then takes one and holds it up next to my face. “Mmm… not quite. I think a rose might suit you better. The orange clashes with your hair a little. Or perhaps something in pastel hues… yes, a pale pink, or maybe a soft, sunset purple. I think I could find something in the garden along those lines.”

I find myself speechless at that. That’s twice now. Two Lords in one day, flirting with me. Unsure of how to react, I thrust the tulips back at him. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to cut any flowers for me.”

“You didn’t strike me as the doting type, Rai.”

The voice turns both of our heads. Walking along one of the dirt paths is Maryah, running her fingers along the flowers as she goes. Danya is beside her, and the beefcakes close behind. Arriving to the clearing, she doesn’t hesitate to approach us, reaching out and taking one of the tigerlilies from Raikaron. “Flowers for your subordinates? I knew you were soft, but this takes it to a new level.”

Raikaron merely smiles at that, reaching out to take the tulips from me. “Not every waking moment need be an exercise in cruelty, my Lord. A certain sensitivity goes a long way in devising new torments. To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence today?”

“You owe it to the fickle whimsy of a free spirit.” Maryah says, looking the tigerlily over and giving it a whiff. “I wanted to drop in, chat, see how you were doing. Seems like I’m interrupting quality time with your new pet, though.”

My hands curl into fists; I’m about to snap at Maryah, but a single warning look from Danya has me clamping down on my retort. Raikaron notices, and reaches into his vest, pulling out a small bucket. “Jayta, would you mind collecting some fruit from about the garden? A little something for us to snack on while we talk.”

Picking fruit. Seriously? I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to snatch the bucket from Raikaron’s fingers with all the sass I can manage. “What do you want me to get.” I ask tonelessly, lest I let my anger seep into my expression.

Maryah taps her chin, as if thinking. After a moment a malicious smile lights up her face as she looks at me. “Blackberries.”

I grit my teeth. Of all the fruits she could’ve picked, she picked the one that had thistles and thorns. I look to Raikaron, who turns and points off in the direction that the blackberries are in; without another word, I start in that direction, fuming silently. I didn’t like the Lord of Lust at the start, but my dislike was growing the longer I spent around her.

It doesn’t take me long to find the blackberry thicket; I’ve picked blackberries before, so I know what the thickets look like. Tucking the bucket under one arm, I start picking the berries, going for the ripe ones that are on the outside of the thicket. I’m hoping there are enough on the surface vines to fill the bucket; if not, I’ll have to start reaching into the thicket itself to get all the blackberries nestled within. Those ones are usually richer and tastier, but bugs and spiders usually hide deeper within the thicket, and the thorns on the vines often tear up your hands as you try to navigate around them.

Over the course of several minutes, I work my way around the thicket, getting as many blackberries as I can off the surface of it. But at some point I’ve stripped the surface bare; the only ones left on the top vines are the ones that are still ripening. Bracing myself, I start on a second circuit of the thicket, reaching beyond the surface vines and picking the blackberries tucked away beneath leaves and behind cages of thorns, stopping every now and then to yank my hand back whenever I encounter a spider. By the time I’m done with the second circuit, the little bucket is mostly full, and my fingers and knuckles are covered in reddened lines from where they came in contact with the thorns on the vines.

If the Lord of Lust ever asks for blackberries again, I’m going to pick her up and throw her in the thicket, consequences be damned.

Leaving the thicket, I make my way back through the garden to the clearing and the tree in the center of it. Since I’ve been gone, Raikaron and Maryah have taken their seats at the small table; Danya’s brought out a tray with tea on it. The beefcakes have relegated themselves to the edge of the clearing, and Danya’s nowhere to be seen; dismissed, possibly, so Maryah and Raikaron could have their privacy.

“Ah, there she is.” Maryah say when I return to the clearing. “You got us all the best blackberries, right?”

I set the small bucket down on the table, next to the tea tray. “I picked all the ones that were ripe. Most of the good ones were hidden deeper in the thicket, so it took longer to pick them.” I say, stepping back. “I hope you enjoy them.”

“I believe we will.” Raikaron says, taking one and looking it over. “The thicket needs to be pruned; I’ll see if I can get around to that sometime. You look like you planned on being somewhere, Jayta — I assume you intended to handle one of the jobs from the angel’s share today?”

“Yes, I was on my way to the lesser common room when Lady Maryah rang the doorbell.” I answer without looking at her. “I answered it, since I was close by.”

“So this is how she dresses when she plans on visiting the mortal realm.” Maryah says, curling one hand into a fist and resting the side of her head against it as she sizes me up. “Boots like those show you mean business, and those jeans are nice and tight. What’s the point in hiding those lovely legs behind that drab duster, darling?”

“Unlike you, I’m not an exhibitionist.” I retort before my common sense can catch up to me, giving her judgmental look. “With all due respect.”

“Don’t be a liar, dear, we both know that there’s no respect in those words.” Maryah drawls lazily. “So, you think I’m an exhibitionist? How hurtful. The Lord of Lust is more than just a sex object, you know.”

“You don’t say.” I reply drily, averting my eyes.

“I do.” she says, reaching out and taking her teacup. “Lust is more than sexual craving, my dear. It is craving, period. A lust for life. A lust for adventure. A lust for power.” She sips from her tea, giving a shrug. “Now, granted, sexual lust does make up the vast majority of the punishments I dole out, but it is by no means the sole definition of Lust. I am so. Much. More than that.”

She says the last words slowly; I let my eyes flick to her, then away again. Silence lingers; Raikaron’s not said anything, merely watching and listening from behind his rectangular glasses. After a moment, she lifts her head off her closed fist, reaching over to take a blackberry from the bucket. “Come here.”

My shoulders tense up. I glance to Raikaron; even if I don’t say anything, my question is plain enough. He gives me a small nod in return, his expression betraying nothing.

I approach the table, keeping my hands folded behind my back where it’ll be easier to resist the urge to reach out and slap her. Maryah holds up the blackberry — at about chin level for her, and well below eye level for me. “Open your mouth.” she orders.

I grit my teeth. “You don’t seriously—”

“Raikaron, how do you punish your demons?” Maryah asks without taking her crimson eyes off me. “Surely you don’t throw them in the magma pits like the brutish Lords do. I imagine you, of all people, would have creative, sophisticated punishments for the ones that are so dear to you.”

“Jayta.” Raikaron says softly. I look to him; he looks very quiet and solemn. “Please humor Lady Maryah.” The way he says it is like a warning, albeit a very gentle one — he sounds more concerned than coercive.

Biting down my resentment, I look back to Maryah and open my mouth, glaring at her the whole time. She only smiles in return. “Now lean down.” she orders, not moving the hand with the blackberry. With my fingers digging into the sleeves of my jacket behind my back, I lean down until Maryah’s hand is right in front of my mouth.

“Good girl.” she purrs, placing the blackberry on my tongue. “Now chew. But don’t swallow.”

I close my mouth, still glaring at her the whole time as I bite into the berry and chew it. It’s hard not to swallow — you get so used to eating berries, you usually just swallow them on reflex. Maryah sips from her teacup without breaking eye contact, and after a few seconds, she holds it out towards me. “Now spit it out.”

I stop chewing, staring at her. Looking down at the teacup. Did she mean for me to spit out a half-chewed berry… into the teacup? It seemed like she did, based on how she was holding it out to me. I look back up to her again, and she lofts the teacup towards me once more. Awkwardly gathering as much of the berry as I can, I get it to the front of my mouth, and spit it into the teacup, wincing as I do so.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Maryah asks, pulling the teacup back to herself and tilting it this way and that, swirling the tea around as if to mix it in. I straighten back up, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth; then, without warning, Maryah lifts the teacup to her lips and takes a long sip from it.

I can’t help but gag on the spot, letting out a little hrk noise at seeing that. Hell, I’m not even the one drinking it and grosses me out. I look at Raikaron, but he looks calm, as if this is something he’s seen before; he’s merely watching and waiting as Maryah lowers the teacup back to its saucer and licks her lips. “What’s the matter, dear? Has your Lord never tasted you before?”

All I’ve managed to do is flip my hand so it’s covering my mouth and holding in my disgust; I’m not sure I trust myself to speak. “N-no… no, he hasn’t.” I stutter quietly.

“Oh, is that so?” Maryah says, her eyes straying to Raikaron, who merely takes a demure sip of his tea. “Somehow that does not surprise me. I’m willing to bet he would somehow find a way to say it was beneath him.”

“Why would you…” I stammer, staring at her teacup.

“Oh, you don’t know?” she says coyly, examining her teacup. “This is one of the ways Lords learn more about a person: by tasting them. Bodily fluids, usually; blood in most cases, but saliva will do in a pinch — a peek through the window, rather than a tour of the house, so to speak. It provides us a unique insight by allowing us to glimpse the things in that person’s life over which our domains extend. For me, that means I taste the things that people lust after in their life. For Raikaron, that means he tastes the things that people regret.” Raising a hand to her mouth, she runs a finger along her lips as she stares at me. “And in you, I taste traces of a great many lusts, little demon.”

I swallow hard, lowering my hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I say firmly, trying to recover my composure.

“Don’t you?” she asks, sliding her finger off her lips and licking it. “There is something in you that lusts for control, for dominance. Something that lusts for freedom, to be free of the chains that bind you to your Lord. There is something in you that lusts for revenge, to punish the people and circumstances that led you to being here. And yes, there is something in you that lusts for intimacy, to be held and touched and satisfied. All these lusts, held down and hidden away for the sake of your outward dignity, aren’t they?”

I can only imagine how red my face is right now. “N-none of that’s your business.” I stammer, trying to cling to my dignity as I fold my arms to hide how exposed I’m feeling.

“She’s just too precious.” Maryah says, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt as she looks to Raikaron. “Trade her away to me, Rai. It’s been a while since I’ve had a toy I could really enjoy.”

“With respect, Maryah, I must decline.” Raikaron says, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I’ve already invested considerable effort into her, I have plans already laid out for her, and beyond that, I’ve found myself oddly fond of her. I know you are going to make a compelling counteroffer, but I’m not going to trade her away.”

“Oh, you’re so tactical.” Maryah sighs. “Always two steps ahead, aren’t you? Should I even bother making the offer?”

“You could do so to amuse and entertain me.” Raikaron suggests. “I admit I’m curious what you think she’s worth.”

“I’ll refrain, but I would simply love to break her of her innocence.” Maryah says, giving me a longing look. “Corrupting the pure is a pastime that brings such joy. I suppose you would know that, given how you follow in the footsteps of your ancestor.”

“I feel like there is a slight, but important, difference in how you define corruption, and how my family defines it.” Raikaron says, sipping from his tea. “But I do agree that it’s a pastime which rarely has an equal. I know it is disappointing, but I must decline any offer to take her off my hands — I started this project, and I intend to see it through to its conclusion.”

“A pity. There’s so many carnal delights I would’ve relished introducing her to.” Maryah sighs, picking a blackberry out of the bucket and popping it in her mouth. “Well, we’ve discussed what we needed to, and a few other things besides. I hate to duck and run, but I’ve got a conference call with the rest of the Eighth Circle this evening, so I should excuse myself. The backlog at the registration offices is starting to catch the Ninth Circle’s attention, so we have to figure out what to do about that.” Standing up, she grabs the bucket of blackberries and holds it out so one of her beefcakes can come grab it. “Do try to stay on top of your quotas, Raikaron. Don’t let this…” She runs the tip of her tongue over her lips as she looks at me. “…delicious little side project distract you. You are still the Lord of Regret.”

“Of course. You know I’m not one to shirk my responsibilities.” Raikaron says mildly, inclining his head to her.

“No, you just elicit to interpret them differently than the rest of us do.” Maryah says, turning on her heel and striding back the way she came. “Ta for now, dears. Try not to have too much fun.”

With that, she’s on her way, heading back through the garden with her beefcakes following her. It’s only once she’s fully disappeared from view that Raikaron looks to me. “So, now you’ve met one of the other Lords of Sjelefengsel.”

I’m fighting to hold my temper down. “So what, you just let her toy with all your demons like that? Treat them like playthings to be traded around?”

Raikaron examines his teacup, then holds it out to the side and dumps it out. “Here, the damned are our playthings, so yes. It is part of the culture of cruelty, depravity, and degradation that pervades Sjelefengsel. Maryah’s fascination with you, however, likely has more to do with the fact that you are a demon by contract, not a demon by damnation. As such, one might say you are more… innocent than the vast majority of Sjelefengsel’s population. Maryah, being the Lord of Lust, takes an especial pleasure in breaking the innocent of their innocence.” Noticing how I stare at his empty teacup as he returns it to the saucer, he explains, “I hate tea. I drink it only as a courtesy to guests.”

“So what, you were just going to let her toy with me?” I demand.

“There are certain lines I would not have let her cross.” he says, taking Maryah’s cup and dumping it out as well. “She is the Lord I answer to, so I must humor her to an extent. But there are limits to what I would allow on my own estate, to one of the demons I value highly. She knows that, and knows that she would encounter pushback if she tried to cross those lines.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my indignation. I’ve learned by now that it doesn’t get me very far in hell; this isn’t a place where people respond to moral outrage. “I guess even the big dog has to lick someone else’s boots sometimes.” I mutter.

His eyes flick to me. “There’s always a bigger fish.” he says gently. “We all must answer to someone. The key is to know where you stand, and know your place. If I copped an attitude like the one you had with Lust, I would not be very long for my position. She humored your attitude only because she found it amusing, and because she thought you attractive. Otherwise, she would’ve been far less permitting of your antics.”

“Only because I’m attractive, huh.” I snap at him. “Yeah, thanks for that. Good to know my survival depends on how pretty I am.”

I’m expecting some condescending remark in return, but his lips merely draw into a flat line, like a muted form of disappointment. Setting the saucers and teacups on the tray, he stands and picks it up, holding it out to me; though I’m reluctant, I know what’s expected of me, so I reach out and take it. Once I’ve got it in hand, he reaches out, brushing some cobwebs and leaves from the blackberry thicket off the arms and shoulders of my duster.

“I did not pick you for how pretty you were.” he says as he straightens the lapels of my coat. “Were that my criteria, there are plenty of fashion shows and runways in the mortal realm that I could’ve visited.” Reaching out, he tucks the knuckle of his forefinger under my chin, lifting it slightly. “I heard a soul crying out in anguish — young, overworked, with their dreams put on hold and their life crumbling beneath a deluge of regret for having invested four years of their life into someone that betrayed them. I saw someone that needed help. Someone that needed support.” He takes his hand away, folding it behind his back once more. “And I do not trade away the people I have promised to help.”

My hands tighten around the handles of the tray as I fight with conflicting emotions. It’s this constant battle with Raikaron, this contradiction between his desire to help people, and how he goes about it. He does sincerely want to help me, I believe that much. I honestly believe he doesn’t intend any malice by it.

But his definition of helping isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s like those parables about making wishes — you get what you wanted, but not in the way you expected it.

“I never asked for your help.” I say, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath. “But… I know you’re trying your best. In your own weird, twisted way.”

He allows for a rueful little smile. “I suppose I am not so different from mortals, in that regard. We are all trying to do the best we can with what we have.” He motions to one of the paths leading back to the gate. “Let’s have you on your way. It’ll be dinnertime soon. You should eat something before you head out to do that job from the angel’s share; we can’t have you working on an empty stomach.”

I nod, turning and starting towards the path. I expect to hear his footsteps following me along, but when I don’t, I look over my shoulder to find that he’s turned back towards the lantern tree. Standing at the edge of its shadow, hands folded behind his back as he stares up at the lanterns within its hollow canopy. For a moment, I consider asking what the tree is, and why it’s so important to him.

But I think I’ve had enough of demon Lords and their secrets for one day, so I turn around, and start back along the path leading to the House.