Chapter one: Vengeance
He floated within eternal blackness, drifting on dark shifting tides like flotsam upon a never-ending sea. For how long, he could not say. A day, a year, a lifetime? But now, as if from an endless dream, he had awoken. Who he was and why he was here, he did not know. Yet now there was a light in the distant vastness ― a pure white light, and it was calling him.
Lucifer, the Lord of Shadows, Master of the Underworld and Hell Magazine’s ‘Creative torturer of the year’, perched upon his throne of bones gazing into the depths of the fire. The red and orange flames flickering within the hearth reflected their fiery glow upon his pitch-black eyes. Other than the firelight, the chamber was dark. Just how he liked it.
Lucifer wallowed in a bottomless pit of metaphoric seething. A deep scowl creased his devilishly handsome face. His hands squeezed the throne’s bony armrests until his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched and unclenched. As his anger swelled, the veins at his temples throbbed, and his face twitched with uncontrollable rage.
Lucifer relived this irrepressible eruption of emotion each and every night since last Christmas Eve ― a night of infamy. And the only remedy to this debilitating condition: a vigorous abundance of torturing.
Yet tonight, Lucifer had no desire to calm his anger. Instead, he allowed the sensation to fester unchecked. He wanted to feel the blood boil inside his veins and feel the hatred burn within his black soul. He wanted to enjoy it, savour it, suckle upon its malevolence ― because at last, he was ready to have his vengeance.
‘Who does this boy think he is? Without the Morning Star, he is nothing. He’ll know pain. He’ll know pain every day for eternity!’
Lucifer spent more time than was healthy plotting the demise of Timothy Williams. For long months since that fateful night, the demon king had become but a shadow of his former glory, reduced to a desperate thing, mewling and feeble. The power channelled through the Morning Star on Christmas Eve had very nearly destroyed him. And in those dark times when recovery seemed a distant promise, it was Lucifer’s rage and what he was going to do to Timothy Williams that kept him alive from one day to the next. Now with his strength returned, it was time. Time to take back what was rightfully his. Time to rise from the depths of darkness. Time to take his revenge.
‘The boy will come to me, and then I’ll have him and the Morning Star,’ announced Lucifer with a grin. Allowing himself to relax, he leaned back into his throne in triumph. ‘What do you think of that, girl?’ he asked into the darkness.
There was no reply, only a quiet whimpering from somewhere inside the chamber.
‘Oh, yes. How remiss of me. You can’t speak, can you? Well, I do hope you’re going to be a good little girl from now on. At least for your mummy and daddy’s sake, if not your own.’ Lucifer chuckled. ‘Of course you will.’ He watched the fire cast playful shadows that danced upon the walls. He winced. The only problem with a throne entirely constructed of bone was that the thing was so damn uncomfortable. There was no doubting the original concept. Nor, for that matter, the craftsmanship involved. Yet the throne’s functionality simply wasn’t practical. Lucifer finally admitted defeat and pushed himself up from the unforgiving chair.
At that moment, and to Lucifer’s irritation, the throne room was illuminated. The light sparkled down from four magnificent chandeliers hanging from the throne room’s high vaulted ceilings.
‘Oh, sorry, Lord,’ said Astaroth, a vile demon of the first order. ‘I didn’t realise you were in here. My apologies.’
‘God, Astaroth, do something about your breath. I could smell your foulness even before you ruined the ambience with your cursed lights.’ Lucifer wasn’t a fan of this new-fangled electricity. Although, on this occasion, it did present him with the opportunity to admire himself in the full-length mirror. It was something he liked to do as often as possible. Impeccably handsome, he declared, despite his once golden hair now turned silver ― a side effect of his near destruction, and no amount of dark magic or overpriced hair dye could change that.
Modelled on Louis the Great’s lavish throne room within the magnificent Palace of Versailles, Lucifer’s seat of power was more than a match for the extravagance of long-dead French kings. Luxurious velvet carpets covered the floors, and although there were no windows in Hell, plush curtains of rich fabric with tasselled cords hung from gilded rods. An eclectic mix of classical antique furnishings filled the spaces, and all presented in vibrant shades of red, Lucifer’s favourite colour. Competing for space on the thick panelled walls hung portraits, weapons and instruments of torture. Situated at the centre of the chamber was a great hearth where pokers and branding irons waited in their scuttles, ready to be cast into the flames on an evil whim.
In a shadowy corner of the throne room, suspended from the ceiling on a thick metal chain, hung a human birdcage. It was here Ursula Le Rouge spent her days, broken and beaten, both physically and mentally. She sat cross-legged in her prison, dangling high above the carpets with her head slumped forward and her long dark hair with its faded streak of red spilling across her swollen face.
Lucifer moved to a chaise longue on the other side of the fire. The sofa was adorned with plump cushions and soft blankets and compared to the bone throne, was simply heaven. Fixed to the opposite wall was an enormous state-of-the-art plasma screen.There were some technologies requiring electricity that Lucifer did like. Watching news channels with their twenty-four hours of doom and gloom was an absolute favourite, and he was partial to the odd soap opera too ― always guaranteed to be gloriously woeful. Post-apocalypse, Lucifer rather fancied hosting his own Saturday night game show. Lucifer’s game shows wouldn’t be like how they are now ― watching boring people win prizes. Instead, they would be watching boring people get tortured if they didn’t win prizes. The thought gave Lucifer a warm, satisfying feeling inside, but then he remembered Astaroth. ‘Turn the damn lights off and get out!’
Astaroth grovelled. ‘Yes, Lord. Getting out, Lord. But first, might I acknowledge how well you are looking, Lord? Nice to see you up and about and in good health.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. Now get out! Your stench offends me.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘Astaroth.’
The demon with dog’s breath stopped and turned, bowing low before his master. ‘Yes, Lord?’
‘On the eve of the black spirit dance, when next the moon is full, and the fourth star of the celestial rift aligns with Saturn―’
‘Next Tuesday night, Lord?’ interrupted Astaroth.
Once more, Lucifer’s face twitched with anger. ‘Yes, Astaroth, next Tuesday night!’ Lucifer didn’t appreciate interruptions. ‘I require you to fetch someone to me.’
‘Of course, Lord. Which lucky soul do you have in mind?’