Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #24: The Demon Tailor of Talingrad]

Log Date: 10/5/12764

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Third Floor Main Hallway

11:24am SGT

I can tell something’s going on.

“Hey, what’s all this?” I ask to Rujnu, one of the towering owl harpies that’s making her way up the stairs in her feathered cloak. A steady trickle of corvid harpies are filtering their way up the stairs to the third-floor hall, moving past us at a faster pace and chittering excitedly to each other.

“We have received a new batch of damned souls from the mortal plane.” Rujnu explains as we start down the hall. “One among them, a man of the law, petitioned for release. Demanded it, even. Father has agreed to hear his request.”

“A man of the law?” I ask as a pair of shrike harpies scurry past me, their barbed whips coiled in their hands. “So like a police officer?”

“A judge of high office. He ruled on many cases that defined the society he lived in.” Rujnu explains. “He believes he was a good man, and so he is unrepentant. Without regret for the things he has done. Therefore, he has been assigned to the Lord of Regret, that we may teach him regret.”

I scratch the back of my neck. “…judges don’t really… strike me as evil people.” I say, a little confused by that. “Kinda surprised one would be here in hell.”

Rujnu shrugs. “Father says that the Deaths are rarely wrong. If they deliver a soul unto Sjelefengsel, it is damned beyond doubt.”

“The Deaths?” I repeat, looking up at her.

“Yes. Harpies call them the Ferrymen. There are many other names for them, but they are the ones that collect souls, and deliver them to their respective afterlives, or dissolve them into the aether of the universe if they no longer wish to be.” Rujnu explains as we near the door of the study, where the harpies have crowded around. She brushes some of them out the way so we can step into the spacious, round room that constitutes Raikaron’s new study.

Within, the harpies have gathered around the edges of the room, forming a whispering circle with a single man standing in the center. There are a few other faces present in the room; Harro’s leaned back against the wall by the door, arms folded. Some of the staff look like they’re using their lunch break to nose in and watch. And Raikaron is sitting in his elegant swivel chair, which has been pulling around in front of his desk. One leg is folded over the other as he idly swipes across a data slate, perusing what looks to be personnel file. Beside him, Danya stands straightbacked and austere, her cold gaze levied at any part of crowd that’s getting too loud.

Rujnu and I settle in along the wall away from the side of the room that Harro’s on, standing in front of the bookshelves that line both walls. “I guess that’s the judge?” I ask, nodding to the guy that’s standing in the center of the room. Dressed in a modern suit and tie, well-trimmed hair, looks to be in his early thirties. “Did he die young or something? Figure he’d be older.”

“The dead usually come to the afterlife in the prime of their youth. It is why you rarely see old people in heaven or hell.” Rujnu murmurs back. “He likely lived a long and full life, and died of old age. In death, he appears in his youth so that he may serve Sjelefengsel with able body and mind.”

The room quiets down as Raikaron finishes reviewing the data slate, and hands it off to Danya, who sets it on the desk behind them. “Harrell Chothbur, who in life was the presiding judge of the High Court of the Mur’ka System. Do you know why you are here?” Raikaron asks, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

“Because of a clerical error, I would imagine.” Chothbur says tersely. “I have committed no crimes that would condemn me to hell, and any competent supernatural judge should see that.”

“Mmm, yes. We quite agree that you committed no crimes in the traditional format of murder, greed, abuse, and depravity.” Raikaron agrees. “By the measure of the laws in the society that you lived in, you were very nearly a perfect citizen. However, the afterlife does not measure person by the flawed laws of mortal society. We gaze upon the soul and upon legacy, and the stick we use to take the measure of a mortal is much different than the one employed among the living.”

“I have a right to know what those measurements are, then, so I can know the standard I am being judged by.” Chothbur says, the demand implicit.

“Yes, I suppose you do have that right. It is one of the few that the damned are permitted.” Raikaron concedes, reaching up to push his thin glasses up on his nose. “But I have neither the time nor the disposition to humor your attempt to dispense with your culpability. I reviewed your file, Harrell Chothbur; you may have followed every law in life, but laws are only as virtuous as those that interpret and enforce them. As presiding judge of the Mur’ka High Court, you were responsible not just for cases of crime, but for the interpretation and the validity of the laws which governed the system you lived in. And you bent and warped those laws to serve your ideology, cloaking injustice in the mantle of judicial power and authority.”

“I did my duty to protect and preserve the structure of society and government as envisioned by the founders of the Mur’ka System!” Chothbur retorts. “There is nothing sinful about that—”

“Aritska.” Raikaron interrupts, nodding to the hawk harpy. Her sword quickly comes unsheathed, the hilt slamming into Chothbur’s lower back and sending him to the floor with a shout of pain. She remains slightly behind him, sword hanging from one hand and her barbed whip uncoiling from the other.

“I will not countenance a politician’s tongue in my House, Chothbur. Every time you tell a lie, the harpies will give you a lashing.” Raikaron continues. “Do not repeat to me your tired lines about protecting and preserving the system of society and governance as envisioned by your predecessors. That system was assembled thousands of years ago, in a different society, a different era, a different culture. Its oddities and quirks no longer serve the population in which you dwelt, and you knew that full well. Your insistence upon originalism was not a sincere belief in adherence to an unchanging document; it was a pretext for you to undermine legislation meant to help your fellow mortals and give them a more just and equitable society.  You may have been given the title of a judge, but you were not a judge. You were a politician in robes.”

Chothbur snorts, though he remains on his knees, one hand pressed to his back where Aritska struck him. “I’ve heard that one before, and worse. All that tells me is that you know nothing about the purpose and the workings of the judiciary.”

“Of a mortal judiciary? Perhaps.” Raikaron shrugs, unlacing his fingers. “But the courts of the mortal realm are notoriously opaque and esoteric, given over to the mind-numbing minutiae and legal arcana used to obscure function, purpose, and intent. The courts of the afterlife are far more transparent, and much more direct. We discern the hearts of mortals; we sift their souls like sand through our fingers and ascertain the truth of their lives. There is no deception in the courts of hell, Harrell Chothbur, and this alone changes every aspect of judgement. I will admit that I do not know as much as I should about the courts of the mortal plane, and I imagine in that arena, you would have had an advantage over me, as you spent your adult life presiding over such courts.” Standing up, Raikaron crosses over to Chothbur, leaning down to deliver what sounds like a warning. “But you are in my court now.”

Chothbur’s eyes flick to the sides of the room, sizing up the harpies as it starts to dawn on him that he does not have the advantage he thought he would have. “This isn’t a court; this is a mob.” he retorts furiously, glancing over his shoulder at Aritska. “You don’t beat defendants when they say something you don’t agree with!”

Raikaron smiles as he straightens up, and the harpies giggle and cackle quietly at Chothbur’s assertion. “Oh, you don’t like being beaten, your Honor? Funny — I seem to recall a case where you ruled in deference to the state’s power to disperse peaceful protests by means of their choosing. And based on what I saw in your file, a great many people ended up getting brutalized by the police for participating in protests the traditionalist administration didn’t agree with. Aritska?”

Aritska brings her sword around, bashing Chothbur in the back of the head with the hilt. It knocks him flat on the ground, where he hunches and clasps the back of his head, groaning in pain. As Raikaron turns away, he makes his way back to his desk, clasping his hands behind his back as he goes.

“You have the nerve, after having been judged to damnation, to demand an appeal of your sentence.” Raikaron says, motioning to his chair, which wheels itself back around behind his desk. “So convinced of your righteousness that you refuse to stop and reflect on what might have sent you here. To be clear, it is more than just your failure to protect the basic right of peaceful protest. The decisions you made as a judge were not formalities or mere procedural questions; they affected the lives of millions. You overturned the right to privacy, the legal underpinning of marriage equality that past courts affirmed, and in so doing gave local governments the power to tear apart countless interracial and nonconforming marriages. You then used the reasoning in that case as a springboard to unravel an individual’s right to bodily autonomy, resulting in a monstrous patchwork of draconian abortion laws in Mur’ka that burdened countless women and young girls with the offspring of their abusers. Perhaps we should examine your rulings on immigration, which saw children torn from their parents and made orphans of those whose parents could not be located later for reunification? I could go on and on, but the point is that your rulings as presiding judge brought misery to millions over whom you had jurisdiction. You twisted the law in the service of ideology, and those contortions inflicted suffering for no other purpose beyond the satisfaction of dogma.”

Turning around, Raikaron’s brow is furrowed with vexation as he stares down at Chothbur. “And the most infuriating thing about it all is that none of this is sinking it; the lecture is not getting through to you. You are too hardened by your career, by decades of ignoring the will of the common people, to care. You simply cannot accept that the choices you made were wrong, and did more harm than good. So it begs the question: how do we punish a man that thinks he can do no wrong, and refuses to acknowledge the suffering he inflicted on so many?”

The harpies start to get restless, jostling and jumping in place as they hiss out various torments that could be inflicted on the man, all of them familiar variations on physical torture. Chothbur has worked his way back up into a kneeling position by now, glaring over his shoulder at Aritska. “And what right do you have to judge me?” he snarls. “You are not my maker!”

“No. I am not.” Raikaron concedes softly, his fingers lacing together. “Your maker sleeps, Harrell Chothbur, under the watchful eye of the Inkling. Recovering from her many millennia of corruption at the hands of the Shyl-tari, whilst people like you worship a goddess you do not truly know or understand. And were she to wake and see what her followers have become, she would weep and rage. She would grieve for the pain and suffering that the Anayan dogma has produced in her name. She would turn her gaze from you, and attest that you are not one of hers, for she would never sanction such cruelties as you have inflicted under her banner.”

“And what would you know of Anaya?” Chothbur spits. “You’re a demon. You’re all demons! You and all your sick little gremlins. What would you know about a goddess? That you even presume to speak in her name or on her behalf, to make assumptions about how she would judge me, shows you for the heretic you are. A demon, lecturing me about my own maker! How does your skinny little body hold all that audacity?”

I notice at this point that Raikaron’s shadow is darkening, becoming thicker, and slowly starting to expand across the floor around him. It’s a small, silent thing that I don’t think anyone else notices because the harpies have short attention spans and everyone else is fixed on Chothbur, but it soon becomes hard to ignore, as Raikaron takes slow, measured steps towards Chothbur, the liquid nightmare clinging to his shined shoes with every step.

“You ask me what I know of a goddess; you ask me what right I have to judge you, Harrell Chothbur. Hear me then, and know my answer.” His shadow, now becoming that familiar black morass, has started to rise up to envelop him as it starts to broaden and expand, and his voice begins to drop octaves, slowly acquiring that antediluvian rasp of two chunks of granite being grinded together. “I am the Lord of Regret, a servant of Sjelefengsel, the hell unto which you have been trusted. I am the Blackthorn Demon, a child of the Dreaming; that same Dreaming from which the God Eaters are born. Therein lies my knowledge of eternity and of powers beyond mortal perception, and therein lies my right to stand in judgement, and levy punishment upon the damned.”

At this point Raikaron has fully manifested, and the confines of the room make him look even more massive than he does out in the open. He practically dominates the study, fourteen feet of eldritch wolf demon towering above everyone else in the room, and the dead glade on his back adding another dozen feet that grazes the ceiling. The harpies have gone from chattering and hissing to pressing against the bookshelves, edging towards the door in mute terror as Raikaron looms over Chothbur. The judge is struggling to take it all in, staring in horror at the vertical maw on Raikaron’s massive chest, lined with its leathery black mandible arms. The hands and fingers on the ends of the arms curl and uncurl, undulating in unsettling rhythms.

“I sift the souls of mortals, Harrell Chothbur; I parse them like books, page upon page, memory upon memory.” Raikaron rumbles, one of the massive pawhands of his forelimb reaching for Chothbur. Aritska quickly backs off, while Chothbur scrambles to get away, but there’s no way he can escape the long reach of Raikaron’s forelimb. “I see you clear, as I have seen so many others. You are prideful, and arrogant, and spent much of your adult life secure in your power, never having to answer for your actions. So rarely challenged that you lost the capacity for reflection and introspection. You never suffered anything in the way of consequences, and so you never knew regret. But you shall know it now.”

Chothbur shouts as Raikaron’s hand moves towards his chest maw, the black arms unfolding and stretching wide to receive him. “Ah! Oh god! No, stop! Okay, okay, I’m sorry, it was foolish to question you! Anaya above, just don’t eat me!” The whole time, he’s trying to pry free of Raikaron’s hinged digits, but to no avail — I know all too well how strong they are.

“Oh no, Chothbur, I do not intend to eat you.” the maw grates as the arms lining it seize upon Chothbur and pull him in. He tries to fight his way free, but it’s to no avail when they are a dozen hands clinging to your clothes, keeping you restrained. “I would only eat garbage if I was starving, and I am far from that. But I know how I will punish you now; there will be no magma pits and lashings for you, no quick absolution for your arrogation. The trite punishments of Sjelefengsel cannot reform zealots such as yourself; no, you will suffer after the manner that the Dreaming ordains for the unrepentant.”

“What are you doing?” Chothbur gasps, still trying to fight his way free of the black arms. The tips of the fingers glow with golden light, starting to leave behind luminous yellow strands that resemble spider silk, even more so when you consider how the arms of the maw are twisting and turning him in much the same way that a spider wraps its prey. “Let me go! Put me down!”

“You shall dream, Harrell Chothbur. Every night, you shall dream.” Raikaron rumbles, continuing to wrap Chothbur up. “But you will not dream the dreams of mortals; no, you shall relive the misery of those who suffered by your rulings. Every protestor beaten to a bloody pulp advocating for a better society; every pregnant woman and every underage girl forced to carry to term, or die trying, because of your ruling; every immigrant ripped away from their children, sometimes never to see them again; every interracial marriage torn apart by the prejudice you enabled. You will live one of these lives every night, Harrell Chothbur, as if it was your own. You will swallow every drop of grief and suffering you poured out upon the heads of others. And only once you have relived the life of every person that suffered from your rulings, will you be absolved of your damnation.”

“I— but— but that’s three hundred and sixty lives in a year!”

“Indeed.”

“Th-that’ll take… it’ll be decades before it’s over!”

There’s a deep, guttural, grinding, chuffing sound from deep within Raikaron’s chest, accompanied by the shaking of his massive shoulders. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s laughing. “Oh, Chothbur. Even now you are ruled by your arrogance, to the point of being blind to the depth of the damage you have done. A few decades? No… try a few millennia instead.”

“A few millennia?! No, I can’t—”

The sound of his protests start to become muted as the cocooning process speeds up, the golden threads starting to cover and bind more of his body. The thrashing and flailing continues, to no avail, as even screaming and shouting become muffled. I press myself back against the bookshelves in the way that those still in the room have done so, unsettled and yet also transfixed — horrified and yet unable to look away. And at the end, it’s a golden, vaguely-person-shaped cocoon that is dropped back to the ground, still thrashing and wriggling, yet clearly unable to break out or do much of anything.

“Take him, and deliver him unto the Graveyard, where they bury the damned alive.” Raikaron orders, using one of his forelimbs to push the cocoon across the floor towards the doorway, where the harpies can reach it without having to venture into their lord’s shadow. “See to it that he is entombed deep within the earth. I do not want him being dug up before his sentence is served in full.”

There’s hesitation on the part of the harpies, not wanting to get too close to the eldritch demon dominating the room, but eventually some of them edge forward enough grab Chothbur’s cocoon and drag it to the door of the study. Once the flock has it, they start to filter out with hushed chattering, followed by the other House staff that are reluctant to remain too long in the presence of Raikaron’s manifest. Rujnu, who was standing beside me, is quick to slip away once there is a clear path to the door, and I start edging in that direction as well, at least until Danya’s voice arrests me. “Jayta, you will remain. Our Lord would have you meet a guest.”

I wince and turn back around to find that Raikaron’s manifest is already melting, the colossal form neatly withdrawing into the familiar contours of our Lord’s human vessel. The contrast between the antediluvian horror and the neat elegance is jarring; Raikaron reaches up adjust his red-orange tie, and then to tug on the ends of his buttoned vest to straighten out any nonexistent wrinkles. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have known that just moments ago, he was a giant wolf with a dozen spidery black chest arms that were wrapping a man in some kind of dreadful dream cocoon.

A clapping draws my attention before I can greet Raikaron properly, and pulls my gaze across the study. Tucked away in the corner of the room was something that is almost as dreadful as Raikaron’s true form: a person dressed in high heels, legwarmers, a bikini, a waistcoat, and a sombrero, with gigantic aviator sunglasses obscuring his eyes. As he crosses the study, still clapping, a towering Cyber trails along behind him, her exposed metal frame vaguely feminine, with the faceplate providing a neutral expression.

“Bravo, bravo, bravo!” he crows as he moves in Raikaron’s direction, still clapping. “A stellar performance, just exceptional! The twists! The turns! The raw delivery! It gave me shivers, shivers, I tell you. It is always a pleasure to watch you sentence the damned, Lord Syntaritov.”

“Taylor. I’m glad you were able to answer the summons.” Raikaron says modestly, adjusting his glasses as he motions for me to come over and join him. As I make my way over, he nods to the robot standing at attention just behind the fashion disaster’s shoulder. “A good day to you as well, Helga. Taylor, this is Jayta Jaskolka, my new avenger.”

“Oh, is she now?” Taylor gasps as I arrive next to Raikaron and Danya. “Then I suppose…” He glances dramatically to the side at Helga. “…it’s time for introductions.”

Helga nods, plates on her frame sliding back to reveal bulbs and strobe lights. Without warning, Taylor violently strikes a pose while Helga raises her arms and flexes her strobelight muscles. It provides a dizzying, flashy backdrop as Taylor snaps his head towards me. “I am Taylor McTailor, Fashionista Extraordinaire.” Reaching up, he grabs his aviators and pulls them off, revealing another pair of sunglasses underneath as he strikes a different pose. “Otherwise known as the Demon Tailor of Talingrad in the twenty-three hells.” Reaching up again, he pulls off those sunglasses to reveal yet another pair of reading spectacles behind them as he strikes yet another pose. “Personal tailor of the Lord of Regret. Pleased. To make your acquaintance.”

The sense of whiplash is real. Going from watching a man being sentenced to thousands of years of reliving the horrors he inflicted upon others, to witnessing an altogether different, albeit absurd, horror with my own eyes. I take a cautious step backwards, and in the same motion, I reach back to grab at Raikaron’s sleeve, somewhat offput by the herky-jerky, almost violent posing of the wardrobe abomination before me. “What in the twenty-three hells am I looking at.” I murmur to Raikaron, not entirely sure how I’m supposed to react to this.

“This is Taylor, my personal tailor.” Raikaron explains calmly, as if this behavior and this kind of attire was all very normal and unsurprising. “He helps provide my wardrobe for formal events that I must attend.”

“Are you insane?” I hiss back at Raikaron while Taylor continues to hold his pose like a mis-dressed mannequin, the strobe lights still stuttering around behind him. “Have you seen what he’s wearing?!”

“Yes, that is the odd thing about Taylor. He cannot dress himself to save his life, but he does wonders for other people.” Raikaron remarks mildly. “My wardrobe has little need of expansion; I will have him compose something for me for the coming season simply to spice things up. But the primary reason I have called him here is so that he can compose a few outfits for you to wear to the upcoming Congress.”

“The Congress?” I say, glancing back at Raikaron.

“The Congress of Sjelefengsel. The Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Circles, and their associated Houses, meet every decade to discuss and set policy and agenda for Sjelefengsel for the next ten years.” Danya explains stiffly. “It is a major political event which lasts about a month or so, and in addition to the meetings and minutiae, contains several smaller, social events which the Lords and their personal retinues will be attending. Dances, galas, entertainment of that sort. While your current wardrobe contains pieces that are meet for formal events, you have no outfits which would rise to the occasion of ceremony, or what we refer to as ‘hyperformal’. Taylor and Helga are here to remedy that, in their own… unique way.”

“And remedy it we shall.” Taylor says, abandoning his pose as if that was his cue. “We shall take this dowdy little pigeon and transform her into a bird of paradise. Mark my words, it shall be done.”

“Whu— dowdy?!” I say indignantly. “Are you kidding me? Have you seen yourself?”

“Of course not, dear. I never look in mirrors. Narcissus did it once, and it killed him.” Taylor says, brushing away the suggestion with a dismissive wave. “At the risk of offending my hellish patron, I must say that these boring black uniforms you House servants are crammed into are a crime against fashion. Nay, against individuality.” he says, leaning in to tug at one of my sleeves. “Look at this. Soulless, crushing conformity. The only saving grace is how tight they are around the bust and the rear. That at least allows them to accentuate something. But still, it’s not enough. I must be allowed to remedy this.” He drops my sleeve, pivoting abruptly to Raikaron. “Lord Syntaritov! I hereby diagnose your little flower with Stage 3 Conformity; it’s very severe but not fatal to her personality or her prospects… at least yet. If we don’t move quickly, then she may be forever condemned to a life of uniforms while she’s on the clock, and sweatpants and tshirts while she’s off of it. And that would be a tragedy, make no mistake. There is value here, I promise you; I’m going to have to dig to bring it to the surface, but when I’m done with her, she’ll be a fresh spring tulip instead of just another dandelion.”

“You have my list. Simply remember to treat her gently.” Raikaron nods. “Danya, please show them to the rec room we have temporarily repurposed as Taylor’s workshop. Taylor, if you need anything, you may call on Danya.”

“Excellent.” Taylor says, grabbing my wrist and pivoting on the spot, dragging me along as he marches towards the study’s door. Helga turns off the lightshow, her plates sliding back into place as she follows along beside Taylor. “Come along, little flower; the day is yet young and we have much work to do. You may be a demon, but if I have anything to say about it, you’ll be one of hell’s angels by the end of the night.”

I glance helplessly over my shoulder as I’m whisked off by this whirlwind of a man. Danya appears unruffled as always, but Raikaron offers me a reassuring smile. Or at least he tries; I don’t feel very reassured. I’m not much for getting dressed up, or going to dances or galas, but it looks like it’s part of the job, whether I like it or not.

And if you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well join ‘em.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Repurposed Rec Room

12:07pm SGT

“Now, I don’t mean to boast, but I feel it is important that you know that I have designed outfits for a wide variety of influential figures.” Taylor says as he examines the slip of paper Raikaron gave him. “Demon Lords are not my only clients. I have dressed presidents, prime ministers, monarchs, pop stars… why, I have even dressed the one and only Songbird. Let me tell you, that was a battle for the ages. We struggled long into the night, but at last, with Helga’s aid, I prevailed and gave him the makeover that managed to land him one of the top spots on the Bad Guy Appreciation Page.” He lifts a hand, sniffing as he wipes away a tear from his eye. “And now he’s the handsome face of the newest paramilitary defender group on the block. They grow up so fast. I’m getting emotional just thinking about it.”

I don’t know what to say to that. This guy is just too much for me; everything about him is two hundred percent overdrive. From conversation, to personality, to body language — he’s just too much. So instead of replying, I reluctantly tug off my shirt as I’ve been asked, and hand it over to Helga, who folds it neatly along with my pants and sets it aside.

“The point is, you can rest assured that you’re in good hands.” Taylor says, strutting over to the raised dais that he’s got me standing on. This rec room’s been repurposed, some of the game tables and couches moved out of the way to make way for a fabric cutter and sewing array, along with closets’ worth of material and tailoring tools. “Makeovers are something of a specialty of mine. I take the ordinary, and make it extraordinary. I take the ore, and refine it into silver. No, gold. No, platinum! This is my forge, and make no mistake, we shall refine you today.”

“Look, I’m only doing this because it’s my job, and because Danya will glare at me for months if I show up to a work event underdressed.” I say, folding my arms and hunching my shoulders, feeling exposed in only my underwear. “I don’t do parties and dinners and… stuff. Honestly, if I had the choice, I’d be dressed in a hoodie and jeans.”

“Pah! Hoodies! Jeans.” Taylor scoffs, giving a dismissive flick of his hand. “Clothes of the plebeian, the commoner, the lazy. I almost fought Songbird over his pink hoodie fetish. And jeans! I had to dress a witch boy that refused to give up his jeans some months back. He only got away with it because I wasn’t there in person; if I had been, Helga would’ve held him down while I cut those abrasive blue monstrosities off of him.”

“A witch boy?” I repeat, perking up at that. “You dressed a witchling?”

“I tried to; I don’t know if I succeeded.” Taylor says, rolling his eyes. “I daresay he was the awkwardest, gangliest thing I had ever seen. Now don’t get me wrong, I can dress a scarecrow; they’ve got plenty of them on the Talingrad fashion circuit. But I can’t do anything about awkward, except maybe dress it up a little and try to hide it. I can give a person all the best clothes, but I can’t give them the confidence to wear them. That must come from within! From the soul.” He thumps a fist to his chest, then points at me. “And given how you’re trying to collapse into yourself like a supernova trying to collapse into a black hole, I can tell that confidence is something you clearly lack.”

“What? Excuse you!” I protest indignantly. “What are you— actually nevermind, forget that. I was asking you about the witchling! What was the witchling’s name?”

Taylor scrunches up his nose, lips pursed together in thought. “Ah, it was something weird, I do remember that much. Those Aurescuran names are all strange anyway. They’re not like the traditional stuff that your Marshies and Venusians and Mercurials and ‘Riginals all have. You can tell that Aurescurans don’t come from the same branch of humanity that all the others come from. But anyway, that’s talk for another time. We’re working right now. Helga, how are we coming on the scanner array?”

Helga, who’s been setting up one of the optics modules for the holoarray around the base of the dais, lifts a hand and tweaks it back and forth, forming a few symbols with her mechanical fingers. Evidently Taylor can read this, and nods. “Some minor adjustments? That’s understandable; we are in hell. Leaving the mortal plane puts the equipment on the fritz sometimes.” Reaching over, he snags what looks like a hand towel off one of the side tables, and whips it at me, the snap audible as it nails me right on the ass. I jump nearly a foot in the air, clutching my butt and wheeling on him.

“WHAT the HELL?!” I shout at him, more in disbelief than anger. There’s too much shock running through me to be properly mad right this second. I’ve seen other girls get ass-whipped with towels before, but it was usually at school pool parties. No one had ever done it to me before.

“My dear, we can’t take your measurements or get a good sense of your figure with you all hunched up like that.” Taylor says matter-of-factly. “I need to know what I’m working with. This isn’t Mystery Makeover, although I did guest-star on one of the season finales before the men in the white coats tossed me in the psych ward. Stand up straight! Shoulders back! Chin up! Chest out! Feet together! C’mon now, chop chop, we haven’t got all day!”

“You’re insane!” I hiss at him, still rubbing on the stinging spot on my ass where he whipped me with the hand towel. God, I’m gonna be feeling that for the next five minutes.

“Darling, the only thing that’s insane is that haircut, and your frankly boring undergarments.” Taylor says, making a vague wave to my hair and person in general before he goes back to looking at the slip of paper that Raikaron gave him. “Now, Raikaron gave me a list of the occasions that I needed to dress you for. He wanted me to get you one of each: something for a formal ball, something for a socialite dinner party, something ceremonial but functional for meeting with dignitaries, and something that would be appropriate for a meeting with the Sovereigns of Sjelefengsel, just in case.” He snatches up a pen, scribbling on the piece of paper as he circles around the dais. “Although I personally think we should add something playful onto that list, because all work and no play makes a cute little blonde like yourself a dull girl. And then, because we are in hell and we simply cannot pass up the opportunity, I think we should add something sinful to the list as well. Ohohoho, yes. Sinful is fun. Maybe sinful and playful could be the same thing. Maybe separate things. We’ll see. Don’t get me wrong; I am an artist, and I do like designing showstoppers that convey power and speak to the magnitude of those that wear them. But there’s something that’s just incomparably satisfying about designing something that enables bad behavior. It comes with a thrill, a challenge, a rush of adrenaline that leaves you breathless with excitement. It’s like walking a tightrope. I love the challenge that comes with it.”

“For someone that claims to be so dedicated to their work, you do a lot of talking and not a lot of working.” I mutter, doing my best to stand up straight and square my shoulders, though I’m not going to push out my chest like some preppy high-school cheerleader. “How long is this going to take? I didn’t have a chance to grab lunch before I went to Raikaron’s study.”

“Lunch can wait until after we’ve taken your measurements, which won’t be happening anytime soon if you continue being bashful about stripping down.” Taylor replies, stepping up on the dais behind me. “So let’s hurry that along, hmm?”

I hear the words, but they don’t click until I feel fingers snag on the back of my bra, and start to unhook it. And the response is instant; I don’t even think, twisting on the spot as heat rips through me. My demon manifest is blazing out of me as I grab him by the throat and yank him into the air, his feet dangling over the dais.

“DON’T. TOUCH ME.” I snarl at him as my pale, leathery wings finish unfurling from my back, counterbalancing the weight of holding him in the air.

“Look, I dress people and tailor clothes for a living, I kinda have to touch them in order to do that!” he wheezes through his constricted windpipe.

“I stripped down to my skivvies. That’s all you’re getting.” I growl at him, shifting my digitigrade feet so I can better balance the weight across my splayed toes. “You are not my boyfriend. You do not get to see anything beyond that. Take it or leave i— ghhck!”

I’m cut off by a metal hand clamping around my throat and lifting me into the air the same way I’ve lifted Taylor into the air. The hand of course belongs to Helga, whose faceplate is registering something approximating disapproval. I kick my springy legs at her and flap my wings, but she’s a tall, broad, sturdy Cyber. Definitely more along the lines of a bodyguard than a fashion assistant.

“She’ll put you down if you put me down.” Taylor wheezes. I still haven’t let go of him, and he’s at the top of this tower of stacked throat lifts.

“I’ll put you down when she puts me down!” I cough at him, refusing to let go.

“Must you really be this stubborn?” Taylor gasps. “Danya!”

“G’won, shout for ‘er ya coward.” I wheeze. “Can’t even fight your own battles—”

The door to the rec room slides open, and Danya steps in, her expression going from vaguely annoyed to alarmed. “Lilith have mercy! What is going on here?” she demands, striding towards us.

“This limey bastard tried to take off my underwear!” I rasp past the vicelike grip around my throat.

“How am I supposed to dress this little gremlin if I can’t get her measurements?” Taylor gasps, his hands clutching at my arm.

“Well, neither of you are going to get anywhere while you’re trying to choke each other out!” Danya says as she arrives at the dais. “Helga, put her down! Jayta, let go of Taylor!”

Helga looks at Taylor, who shakes his head. “Make her let go of me first.” he wheezes.

“I’m not letting go until your rustbucket lets go!” I rasp back at him.

“Oh for chrissakes…” Danya mutters. “We are getting nowhere like this. On the count of three, both of you will let go, understood? One… two… three!”

Though I don’t want to, I let go only because being held by the neck is starting to really hurt. Helga likewise lets go, and both Taylor and I drop back to the dais. I immediately step back, glaring at the pair as I rub at my throat.

“Alright. There.” Danya declares, planting her fists on her hips as she glares at all of us. “Now, what is the issue?”

“I already told you. This slimy fashion disaster was trying to take off my underwear.” I growl, still glaring at where he’s sitting on the dais. “He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not going to strip down for him.”

“I need to get your true measurements if I’m to design an ensemble that truly represents and maximizes your inherent qualities!” he wheezes, massaging his throat. “Art cannot be served by half-measures. Why is this so difficult? Your Lord has no qualms when I ask to take his true measurements, whether male or female!”

“Raikaron doesn’t care about people staring at his bodies because his bodies are just marionettes he wears to hide the fact that he’s a big goddamn entropy wolf with chest arms and a chest mouth and dead things growing on his back!” I shout at him. “Me, on the other hand, I only have the one body, and it’s my body, and I would rather not have strangers staring at it!”

“Enough.” Danya orders, cutting into the conversation. “Taylor, I know you consider yourself an auteur, but the House is your client, and you have an obligation to accommodate the client where it is reasonable. Insofar as I can discern, Jayta’s reluctance to completely strip down in front of strangers is reasonable within the response that most individuals would give in a similar situation. You will take her measurements as they are; underwear should not make an appreciable difference in designing the outfits that have been requested.” At this point, Danya turns her stern gaze on me. “Jayta, I understand you are upset, but you stand in a place of authority in this House. Throttling a guest in a moment of fury does not befit the station you have been entrusted with. I expect you to work with Taylor, and if you have an issue with his methods, to express it in a more civilized manner. And if you cannot resolve it civilly, then call me, and I will resolve it for both of you.” She turns her piercing, dark blue gaze back to Taylor. “Which I do not think either of you want. Is that clear?”

“Fine. I have worked under worse conditions before; the outcome may not be my best work, but I will try.” Taylor says, getting back to his feet as he glares at me. “But I am going to need her to turn human again, unless you want me to design outfits for… whatever this is.”

“It’s what I look like when I feel like ripping someone’s arms off and beating them senseless with them.” I spit back at him, flaring my wings.

“Take the measurements of her demon manifest.” Danya orders, turning and stalking back towards the door. “Where possible, I want you to design her outfits to accommodate both her human form and her demon manifest, without sacrificing any of the elegance or functionality. I do not want her accidentally destroying her attire if she has a similar moment of rage during one of the Congress’s many social events. Jayta, I will have the kitchen send up one of your favorite desserts, and a glass of milk to go with it. That should help you calm down and return to your human form within the hour.”

With that, the door slides open and Danya steps back out. As it slides closed again, Taylor takes a deep breath, straightens his sombrero, and folds his arms. “Very well, then. Shall we resume?”

I bare my teeth at him. “Touch me again and I’ll destroy you.”

He sniffs dismissively at that, stepping off the dais. “Follow my orders and I won’t have to touch you. Now, as I said before: shoulders back. Chin up. Feet apart in the command stance, since you’re digitigrade now. Spread your wings; we’ll have to take multiple pose references with your wings both open and closed. Helga, fire up the scanning array and let’s get a three-sixty…”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: The Library Labyrinth

10:47pm SGT

“…and then he said, well at least I don’t have to worry about putting too much structure in the bust, there’s not much there that needs support in the first place. He actually, literally said that! To my face!”

“Indeed?” Mek says, reaching up and adjusting his spectacles. He’s sitting comfortably in one of the many chairs in the library’s core, while I continue to rant. “I imagine he said it with a great deal more sass than is presently being conveyed.”

“Yes! Graves of the gods, sass out the ass for days!” I groan, running my hands through my air. I’m sprawled out on his bed, venting after having been at Taylor’s mercy for more than ten hours. “I was this close to strangling him, Mek, this close. If he wasn’t here as a guest of the House I think I would’ve snapped his neck within two hours. And all so I can have something to wear to a bunch of parties I don’t even want to go to!”

“Ah yes. The Congress.” Mek says, turning a page in the book he’s got in his lap. “It’s actually quite an honor to attend. Very few get to experience the various and sundry offerings of Sjelefengsel’s Congress.”

“What is it, anyway?” I ask. “From what Danya said, it sounded like some kind of month-long conference for Sjelefengsel’s ruling class.”

“You could describe it as such. The Lords and Sovereigns gather for the Congress so they can report on their domains and assigned projects over the last decade, assess the state of the mortal plane, and set the Sjelefengsel’s agenda for the next decade.” Mek explains. “This all takes place over the course of several meetings, and between those meetings, the Lords and their retinues entertain themselves with various social activities while they are gathered at the capital of Sjelefengsel. Some take place within the capital itself; others take place within the Palace of the Sovereigns or on the grounds thereof. As Danya tells it, it’s a partier’s paradise if you’re into that. Some of the best sex, drugs, and raves Sjelefengsel has to offer, and you don’t have to pay for most of it since the Ninth Circle usually subsidizes the Congress and its associated activities.”

I make a face at that. “State-sponsored sex and drugs. Just when I thought that hell couldn’t get any weirder.”

“Yes, the mere suggestion of such socialized debauchery would doubtless give traditionalist governments on the mortal plane a sanctimonious aneurysm of epic proportions.” Mek remarks, folding down the corner of the page he’s perusing. “But this is Sjelefengsel. Sin and suffering, our bread and butter.”

“And I’m guessing I can’t wriggle out of attending.” I sigh, curling up on my side. “Since I’m the avenger for the Lord of Regret, I’m pretty much required to attend.”

“I would presume as much.” Mek says, folding shut the book in his lap and looking directly at me now. “You’re not looking forward to it?”

“I’m not a party girl. I don’t do… parties. Or social events.” I sigh, rubbing at the manacle marks on my wrist. “It takes so much energy to be social, to posture and smile and pretend to be interested in people. I can do it, but I’m always exhausted afterwards. And having to do multiple of those events in a single month…”

“It will be a very busy month.” Mek agrees. “Have you expressed your reservations to Lord Syntaritov?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to impose on him. I feel kind of embarrassed after what happened at the House of Envy.”

Mek’s whiskers twitch in amusement. “Ah yes. Danya did tell me about that. But I am sure that Lord Syntaritov knows that you were not in your right mind, and did not mean anything you may’ve said to him in the heat of the moment.”

“It’s not exactly that… well, it is that, but…” I mumble, hunching my shoulders. “…I bashed him in the face with the butt of my shotgun.”

“Oh my.” Mek says, his tufted ears perking a little. “I was not aware you had physically assaulted him.”

“Yeah, Danya gave me a lecture about that.” I grumble. “She said that if it had been anyone else laying hands on Raikaron like that, they probably wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.”

“Well, she’s not wrong.” Mek shrugs, setting book on the table beside him. “There’s a reason that most other demons have a healthy deference for the Lords. You have seen Lord Syntaritov’s manifest; you know what he is capable of. Laying hands upon him, or any of the other Lords, is usually rewarded in a way that sends an indelible warning to anyone else that is considering the same.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” I say, puffing out a breath. “There was a new arrival this morning, a judge from the mortal plane. Wanted to appeal his damnation and got mouthy with Raikaron. Lemme tell you, that did not go well for him.”

“Must’ve had quite the nerve to be giving lip to a demon Lord.” Mek speculates.

“Oh, he had some nerve, all right.” I confirm. “Dude couldn’t keep his mouth shut and accept that he’d been a dickbag that made a lot of people suffer. Raikaron busted out his manifest and…” A shiver runs down my back as I think back on Raikaron wrapping up Chothbur like some profane hybrid of a wolf and a spider. “…didn’t end well for the judge, let’s just leave it at that. So yeah. I’m a little reluctant to talk to Raik— Lord Syntaritov after the ‘shotgun to the face’ incident.”

“Ah. Well, that is understandable.” Mek concedes. “That being said, I do not think you should sell yourself short. We all know that Lord Syntaritov is fond of you, and fondness lends itself to forgiveness. If you have reservations about having to attend the social events of the Congress, I think you should speak to him and let him know. He will listen to you.”

I press my lips together. “Yeah, I kinda put the nix on that a while ago… told him— well, her, at the time — that I wasn’t interested in demon Lords. I think it cut deeper than I meant it to, and Lord Syntaritov doesn’t seem like the kind of person to forget something like that. He’s still polite and professional around me, but he keeps me at arm’s length now.”

“I see. Well, that is unfortunate.” Mek says, folding his pawhands in his lap. “Is that an exchange you are regretting now?”

“I mean… yes? Sorta? It’s complicated.” I say, sitting up and resting my heels on the edge of the bedframe as I try to sort through my emotions on the topic. “Everything’s complicated with Raikaron. Like, on one hand, he pushed me into murdering someone in a fit of jealousy, and then trapped me in a contract, but he gave me a really good contract, and he was giving me a chance to escape the rut I was in on the mortal plane, but getting a second chance in hell? Seriously? So that’s… I dunno, good intentions executed in an awful way. But he’s always been kind to me, and the only time he’s raised his voice at me is when I screwed up the miracle heist and got myself captured, and that was a whole… thing. It was… my fault, I’ll admit that. But other than that, he always humors my questions, even if it is annoying when he almost always wins any arguments we have. I mean, he’s interesting? But he’s always so busy with work, and I have no idea what he does for fun. I don’t know if he even does anything for fun; he’s not human, so… I dunno.”

Mek raises an eyebrow. “Indeed.” is all he says to all of that.

“Sorry, I know that was a lot.” I sigh. “It’s just… complicated. Like… I like who Raikaron is as a person, I think. It’s just that as a demon Lord, he’s… I dunno, he’s like… bigger than me. Is that weird to say? Like, he’s larger-than-life. And he’s part of a fancy-schmancy social class I’m not sure I want to be part of. But if I could just separate him from his job and the social class, I think I’d like him.” I pause for a moment to try and untangle my words and thoughts. “I think, what I’m trying to say, is that I like who he is as a person. But the job turns him into something else. And it’s not a bad something else, it’s just the kind of something else that is alien to me. I’m a failed witch, who became a failed scientist, from a single-parent family in a midtown coven… I don’t, like, have elegance and refinement. I can’t play the social games upper-class types do. I don’t fit in that world. I’m just a normal person that’s trying to make things work.” I puff out another long breath, wrapping my arms around my knees.

“I think I understand.” Mek says softly. “Have you considered expressing any of this to Lord Syntaritov?”

I let out a sharp laugh at that. “Are you kidding me? After I smacked down his first admission months ago? Gods no, that’d be embarrassing. Humiliating, even. No, I can’t go back to him and tell him that I’m interested in him, not after I shot him down earlier.”

“I suppose that is an understandable reluctance.” Mek concedes. “However, if I may offer my wisdom unsolicited: for better or worse, Lord Syntaritov will respect your declination. If you have already refused him, he will not attempt to make another pass, especially if you do not indicate you wish otherwise. The ball is now in your court, so to speak; since you have already turned him down, it will be on you to make a move, or otherwise indicate that you are open to getting to know him better.”

I blow a raspberry at that. “I can just wait for him to try again, right? Guys are usually pretty persistent, right? They usually try a couple more times.”

Mek flicks one of his tufted ears. “If a man continues to make advances after he has been turned down, that’s called harassment, Jayta. Not persistence. Decent men will not keep chasing after they’ve been told to stop, and Lord Syntaritov is a decent man.”

“Yeah… I guess.” I say, looking away. I guess I’ve taken for granted the fact that men are expected to do the chasing, at least according to a lot of the media I’d absorbed throughout my teen years. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“At any rate, you can take my counsel with a grain of salt.” Mek says, unfolding his legs. “It was, after all, unsolicited, and I hardly expect you to take relationship advice from someone that’s spent almost two centuries in a library for crimes against morality and decency. Much of my understanding of courting comes from all the self-help books we’ve got in here.”

I snort, sliding off the bed and standing up. “Honestly, you probably give better advice than everyone else does. Everyone else has an angle. Can’t imagine the looks I’d get from Danya if I started getting sweet on Raikaron.”

“She would have words, I’m sure, although I doubt you’d ever hear them.” Mek says with an amused smile. “Go speak to Lord Syntaritov about the Congress. If you explain your difficulties, he may exempt you from some of its more frivolous functions.”

“Is he even still awake this time of night?” I ask as I start to make my way back towards the maze.

Mek glances to the side, checking his data slate. “It is late, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized since I never see the outside world. If he’s not still awake, you can always raise it with him tomorrow.”

“Alright. Yeah, I’ll ask him about it.” I say, waving over my shoulder. “Have a good night, Mek!”

“And the same to you, Jayta.”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Third Floor

11:36pm SGT

I’ve just finished brushing my teeth when I hear voices out in the hall, and quickly tugging on my nightshirt, I poke my head out the door. Down the curve of the hall, out of sight but still within hearing, are Trinity and Raikaron’s voices.

“Girls, you must go to bed now. It is nearly midnight. I have already given you a story and cookies and milk. Why are you up so late?”

“The silly man in the bikini and the sombrero has disrupted our schedule.”

“Yes. He is very chaotic. He made our vision very blurry.”

“We did not know what our day would be like, so everything is out of order.”

I quietly slip out of my room as Raikaron answers. “Incredible. He’s really such a wild card that he scrambles the vision of the Fates? Well, I must admit he is rather spontaneous and difficult to predict. You won’t have to worry about him; he will not be returning to deliver the pieces I commissioned from him. One of the House demons will be going to pick them up once he has completed them. Now let’s go; all three of you should’ve been in bed an hour ago.”

“Okay.”

“Very well.”

“But you will sing us to sleep, yes?”

“One song, that is all.” As their voices start to move down the hall, I follow along behind them, always staying far back enough to remain out of sight. “The Ninth Circle has asked me to perform at one of the social dinners they will be having during the Congress. Will you be able to provide instrumental accompaniment?”

“Yes, most certainly.”

“We already know what you will sing.”

“It will stir the heart and strike a flame.”

“Will it now? You three don’t usually gaze that far into the future.” There’s a quiet rush of air as a door is opened. “And here I have yet to decide what I will be performing. I suppose the inspiration has not struck me yet, but if you are certain about its impact, I am sure it will be good. Now, what shall I sing for you tonight?”

“Favorite Things!”

“Yes, sing Favorite Things!”

“Tell us of your favorite things!”

“Predictable, as ever.” Coming to the edge of the open door, I peer around the doorway to see Raikaron helping Trinity, all in their white nightgowns, up into their beds, which appear to be oval nests protruding from the walls. It’s definitely a strange arrangement, as far as beds go, but I suppose it makes sense for harpies. They probably like to sleep elevated off the ground, since they’re part bird. “Favorite Things it is, then.”

With that, he starts to hum, and after a few measures, begins singing as he finishes helping them into their nest-beds. His voice is surprisingly rich and pleasantly smooth, just like it was when he sang during the Krysmis party at the old House last year.

Teardrops on children and succubi kisses,

Brimstone and hellfire and lustful red wishes.

Grief of the angels and demons with wings —

These are a few of my favorite things.

As he sings, each of Trinity gets settled into their nest beds, fluffing their pillows and gathering their long white hair to be kept out of the way as they lie down. As each of them gets comfortable, Raikaron starts tucking them in, still singing as he does so — the words providing a jarring contrast to the otherwise smooth and calming voice.

Bats with barbed wire and jars of hellfire,

Poetic justice and sacrifice pyres.

All of the anguish that loneliness brings —

These are a few of my favorite things.

With each of Trinity tucked in, he starts moving to turn off the lights above each of their beds. Each of the triplets lets out soft little chirps and coos as they burrow down into their covers, and Raikaron’s voice grows softer as he winds down to the end of the song.

When the angels smite,

When my guilt stings,

When I’m feeling sad…

I simply remember my favorite things —

And then I don’t feel so bad.

With that, the song dims to an end as he moves from bed to bed, giving each of Trinity a kiss on their heads. “Good night, girls.”

“Good night, Lord Father.” they reply in unison as Raikaron starts to turn back to the door. Realizing that he’ll see me, I jerk back out of the doorway and quickly light-foot back down the hall the way I came, hoping to get out of sight before he before he steps out of the room. I hear the door slide shut, and for a moment I’m certain I managed to escape detection.

“Did you need something, Jayta?”

I stagger to a halt, my heart jumping into my throat. Shit. I don’t know how he did it, but he knew I was there. Looking over my shoulder, I can see him slowly pacing around the curve in the hall, his arms folded behind his back and his expression somewhat bemused.

“Uh… no, not really, was just heading back to my room.” I say, awkwardly turning halfway to face him. He’s still in his vest, slacks, and collared shirt, and I feel painfully underdressed, standing here in my pajamas. I was going to take Mek’s advice and ask Raikaron about being exempted from the Congress’s social events, but I feel the courage bleeding out of me while the embarrassment seeps in to replace it. “That’s uh, really sweet of you. Tucking them into bed like that.”

“An occasional indulgence. They are adults now, but I humor them now and again.” Raikaron explains. “Harpies are quick to mature in some respects, and slow to mature in others. To that end, they can sometimes seem at once carnal, and yet childish. They find their own ways to indulge the former, and I will occasionally humor the latter.”

“Well that’s, uh. Nice of you. That you’ll sing them to sleep like that.” I say, rocking awkwardly on my heels and not sure what else to say.

“I try to be nice where it is feasible.” he says, stopping in the hall. “But it is almost midnight; I did not expect you to still be awake. Is something the matter?”

“Well, I…” I say, trying to muster the courage to bring up the Congress. I try to think back to Mek and what he recommended, but I’m blanking hard and all I can remember is what he said about the ball being in my court after turning down Raikaron months ago. And that’s not what I was here for, but now it’s all I can think about since he’s standing right there in front of me, and now I’m starting to get flustered just thinking about it…

Raikaron tilts his head to one side. “Jayta?”

“Yeah, I… you know how long I spent putting up with that fashion psycho? We were playing dress-up for over ten hours!” I blurt out, skidding the conversation onto the first topic I can think of. “What the hell was that? He tried to strip me naked! Why couldn’t you have gotten one of the normal tailors from Hautaholvi?”

He seems a little taken aback by the suddenness of my outburst. “Danya had mentioned that there’d been an altercation, but she told me it had been resolved. I will admit that sometimes Taylor is a bit more handsy than most people are accustomed to, but is strictly professional. I am sorry about that; in retrospect, I should’ve given you some advance notice.”

“Yeah, no shit!” I say, folding my arms and hunching my shoulders. “He’s not coming back, is he? It took everything I had to keep from snapping his skinny little neck…”

“He returns when I call upon him, but with this latest commission, there will not be a need to call on him for another season or two.” he answers. “One of the House staff will go pick up your outfits from him once he is done with them.”

“Good. I would’ve slapped him silly if he came back and made another comment about my figure.” I mutter.

“If I call him to tailor for you again, I will speak with him beforehand so that we are clear on expectations.” Raikaron assures me. “Would you like some hot cocoa after the day you’ve had?”

“No, I’m… I’m good.” I say, relaxing a bit. I’ve bought myself some room to clear my head and think, and now that I’ve got my thoughts in order, I can reflect on Mek’s relationship advice without panicking. “Look, I never told you, but uhm… I’m sorry about a couple weeks ago. When I whacked you in the face with my shotgun. I didn’t mean to do that. I mean, I meant to do that, but my head was all screwed up and I wouldn’t have normally clobbered you like that.”

Raikaron’s mouth curls up at the corners, melancholically so. “It is fine. I know you still have not forgiven me for how you ended up here. Anger, even subconscious, runs wild when inhibitions are removed.”

“Yeah.” I say softly. “I still haven’t forgiven what you did to me. But…” I pause for a moment; really, truly reflecting on the last year. Thinking about how I’d adapted since arriving here, and how my life had been pretty nice, even if this wasn’t where I wanted to be. “…I was able to forget it for a little while.”

He lifts his head slightly at that. I can tell he’s reading between the lines, or at least trying to. But I’m too nervous to stay and see what he gets out of it, so I tilt my head back down the hall. “I think I’m going to call it a night. Like you said, it’s late.”

“Yes. Yes, it is late, isn’t it.” he says quickly, the professional veneer reclaiming its place on his face. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I understand mortals have a greater need for sleep than the dead or the supernatural do. Sleep well, Jayta.”

I nod, turning and heading back down to the end of the hall. Reaching my room, I step in and wave the door closed, letting out a sharp breath once it hisses shut behind me. My heart rate is still elevated, and reaching up, I run a hand through my hair, sighing a long breath.

“I don’t like you.” I mumble to myself as I trudge to my bed. “I don’t like you. I have no reason to like you. You’re a demon Lord, and I’m a… demon, I guess. And you’re just a, a… a big creepy eldritch wolf, or a snobby aristocrat that likes messing with people’s heads… you’re not someone I would ever…”

But I don’t finish that sentence, because I can’t forget the way he tucked Trinity in, and gave each of them a kiss on the head. Gentle, loving, fatherly. A refutation of my desire, my need, to see Raikaron as the bad guy.

I flop onto my bed and curl up there with Cinder, my lips pressed tight in a frown. Even if I’d figured out how to get along with him over the past year, worked for him, carried out his bidding, learned from him, had regular conversations with him, some part of me still insisted on seeing Raikaron as the bad guy. I needed to see him as the bad guy, because that was what separated me from him. He was a bad person, and I wasn’t. And I couldn’t be with someone like that.

But if he wasn’t a bad person…

It became much easier to imagine him lying here next to me. Glasses off, bright green eyes studying me, a curious neon stare—

I shake my head, pressing my hands to my eyes to scrub away the image. I must be out of my mind, letting my imagination run away like that. Fantasizing about having someone in my bed that was really an ancient horror wrapped in the skin of a well-mannered aristocrat. That was just insane; I had to be insane to even consider it, after what I saw this morning. And yet, with what I’d seen tonight…

I needed to believe Raikaron was the bad guy.

I needed to believe I was the good guy.

Because if either of those things weren’t true, then it took away the biggest difference between the two of us. That I was the hero, and he was the villain, and there was a line between us that couldn’t be crossed. That imagined line was the excuse I needed, and if I didn’t have that excuse…

It might not be so hard to fall for a demon Lord.