Sculpting a Demon Read Free Page B

standards, and his sadism legendary. Had his people not been supplied with what they perceived to be his insanity, and thus weakness, he probably never would have been overthrown. Arien had reveled in the revolution his poisoned whispers ignited. “Everything he did, he did on his own.”
    “Of course, Jeqon ,” Hordas said and gave him a mocking bow.
    Jeqon. The Inciter. A title he had earned a thousandfold since his damnation. “No one’s called me that in decades.”
    “Maybe ’cause you spend all your time moping at my bar.”
    “Moping?” Arien asked. “Is that what I’m doing?” Maybe it was. But it felt like so much more than that. He shifted in his seat. “Do you ever want more, Hordas?”
    “More of what?”
    “More than this,” Arien said, sweeping his arm across the bar. “More than vice and decadence. More than mindless hedonism and destruction.”
    “What are you saying?” Hordas sputtered. “We have everything a demon could ask for. This is the infernal paradise!” He paused, suddenly worried. “You’re not thinking about seeking redemption, are you?”
    Arien snorted. “No.” He had been cast out of heaven eons ago for his sins and he had no intention of crawling back now. Or ever, for that matter. It would take a lot more than some idle boredom to get him to beg for anything, let alone forgiveness. “It’s just…” Just what? “There’s just something missing.”
    “Arien!” a musical voice said, cutting into his thoughts. “I thought I might find you here.”
    “Dyne.” Arien grinned as the former Cherub took the seat next to him. It never failed to amuse him that this physical embodiment of perfect beauty, right down to the golden curls, pronounced cheekbones and full lips, could be so utterly and unapologetically vicious. “How was the possession?”
    Dyne’s pouty lips twisted in distain. “Possessions aren’t what they used to be,” he said, and nodded his thanks to Hordas for the drink the bartender placed before him. “There was a time when a good possession would have had the Bible-waving priests out in droves, all full of righteous indignation and holy wrath and whatnot. Done right and a simple possession could spark a witch-hunt. Burning. Torture. Whole villages corrupted. Hate and spite in every heart.” His eyes shone with the fond memories then turned dark and brooding. “Now they feed my host fistfuls of drugs—and not the good ones, mind you—and ask them how they feel about their mommies.”
    Arien laughed. Poor Dyne. “There’s always next time.”
    “Right you are,” Dyne said brightly. “In fact, that was why I was looking for you.”
    Arien raised his eyebrow and waited.
    “There is a man gaining influence among many lost and desperate souls as we speak. He claims to be righteous, but I have seen the darkness within him and he is ripe for corruption.”
    “So?”
    “So?” Dyne asked. The astonishment on his beautiful face was almost comical. “What do you mean, so? This man is in a position to infect thousands. If we turn him properly, blood will stain the streets. Think of it, my friend! Magnificently senseless murders! Destruction! Chaos!”
    “I don’t see what you need me for,” Arien said, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”
    “Arien, you were always the greatest of the tempters. Second only to the Great Prince himself. This man is ripe, but he will not be easily swayed. I need you on this.”
    Arien opened his mouth to tell Dyne to find someone else when a shiver raced down his spine, making him bolt upright in his seat. “Did you hear that?”
    “Hear what?” Dyne asked.
    There is was again. A voice. “That,” he said.
    “I don’t—”
    “Shh,” Arien said, cutting Dyne off. A woman’s voice. Singing. Singing from somewhere in hell. He leapt off the barstool and glanced sharply around the Grand Hall. His wings spread out behind him, ready for flight.
    “Where