Kelley Armstrong - Blood Lite

"Can she, uh, come out to play?" Vikoka asked, beam­ing with a nasty grin. Bits of hair and flesh from his last meal lay wedged between his teeth and tusks.

"I'm afraid not," Vassago said. He tried closing the door, but Koka gently stopped it with his hand.

"Well, I'm sure as you know, we serve Kali," Koka said earnestly.

"And as you also know," Vikoka added, "we need sac­rifices to keep her sated, lest she awakens in a terrible bloodlust."

"She's not a morning person," Koka confided with a whisper.

"Yes, yes," Vassago said, massaging the bridge of his nose. Each ritual murder was supposed to forestall the arrival of Kali by one millennium and blah blah blah. Western Hell had enough of its conditions and qualifica­tions to distract a demon for a lifetime without throwing Asia's into the mix. It was, after all, the original bureau­cracy. "Yes, well, when Kali rises, I'll be sure to bid her good morning and match her armies against my Legions. Until then, the child stays here. Good-bye."

No sooner had Vassago closed the door than the door­bell rang again. Vassago sighed and opened it; at this rate, it would take hours for the glamours to fully shroud the reek of brimstone again.

The Succubus twins, Lilith and Naamah, had taken Koka and Vikoka's places. They were much more pleas­ant to look at, their naked bodies taut and covered in a skin of oil and dewlike sweat. They undulated against each other, a form of greeting Vassago highly appreci­ated. Why, it almost brought a black tear to his eye, but he remained suspicious. Hell was like a trailer-trash fam­ily reunion on Jerry Springer. If demons weren't forni­cating with each other like country siblings, they were feuding and squabbling . . . sometimes in the middle of intercourse.

The succubae offered Vassago their best lascivious smile and ran their fingers across each other's erect nipples.

"Hiya, Vas," they said in unison, Lilith trying to entice Vassago with her come-hither-and-anywhere-else-you-like look while Naamah stole glances into the apartment. "Ladies," Vassago said, offering them a flat smile. "Remember when you said you'd invite us over to your place for dinner sometime," Lilith said. "No, not rea—"

"Well, I brought dessert," Lilith replied, pushing her smiling companion forward. "There's enough of her for both of us to, uhm . .. eat."

Naamah smiled and sent her forked tongue across her lips.

"Unfortunately, I already devoured the mortal infant," Vassago said.

"Well... pooh. Isn't there anything left?"

"I'd settle for sucking out her marrow," Naamah said with a hopeful smile.

"Sorry. All gone," Vassago said. "Phew!" He unbut­toned his pants to emphasize how full he was.

"Okay, fine," Lilith replied, rolling her eyes. She shim­mied down to her knees, obviously misunderstanding Vassago's pantomime.

"Whoa, ladies!" Vassago said, prying his zipper out from her claws and backing away. "That's not what I meant . . . well . . . okay, maybe later." He jetted out his gut. "I was trying to say, 'I'm full.'" He patted his stomach. "And lo, she was tasty."

With that, Vassago closed the door. He hesitated, and then opened it again. Sure enough, Hecate stood there now, one hand poised over the door to knock, the other hand filing her iron teeth.

"Hi, Vassago, you tricky devil," she said. "Is—"

"No."

"Can I—"

"No."

"But—"

"Go away," Vassago said with a sigh and shut the door. Before anyone else could knock, he quickly erected another glamour to silence the doors and windows. Satisfied at the momentary quiet, he absently swatted at a fly. He paused.

Why is there a fly in my home? he wondered suddenly. In fact, the smell of brimstone should have started vanishing. He shook his head and headed for the couch. A sigh escaped her lips. Little Eve was gone and one of the windows was open.

A flash of momentary annoyance stabbed Vassago, and his human features slipped a touch. The umber of burnt skin and the ghost of long horns shimmered through, but In caught himself. His features returned back to human andVassago went into the kitchen to fix himself a martini. The child would likely find her way back to him soon enough. He knew who had stolen her and doubted they'd last all that long.

"Did you get her?" Lilith asked. Both seductresses walked down the twisting Escher-like stairs into the basement dungeon. Their arrival was greeted by the wailing chorus of the damned so long chained to the walls that they were half-melted into them. The souls of the tortured writhed horribly; a legion of maggots covered their bodies and ate at their eyes and the nubs of their tongues, swelling their throats and stomachs with their squirming mass.

At the center of the stained stone floor was an altar of iron, set between two braziers lit with the dying embers of souls. Presiding over the altar was none other than Beel­zebub, Lord of the Flies and winner of last year's Dancing with the Damned—where unwilling souls were forced to salsa, mambo, and lock pop with Hell's luminaries.

Beelzebub stood over the blood-and-excrement-crusted altar where baby Eve lay. His head was that of a giant fly, his body covered in the torn robes of a defrocked pope, and his skin a thick mass of millions of flies and squirming maggots. From his back emerged two tattered fly wings and stunted fly legs. In his maggot-coated claw, he held a curved iron dagger, the blade dark with rust and caked viscera.

"Bzzzzz!" Beelzebub chanted, ignoring the two succubae until they slithered up alongside him. The demonesses eyed the child and licked their lips, eager for the slaughter. The child smiled up at them, and her ignorance of her fate excited the three devils even more.

"I want one of her chubby little legs," Lilith said.

"Bzzz?" Beelzebub suggested. He stroked Lilith's thigh with his slimy hand.

"But we distracted Vassago for you!" Naamah com­plained. "Zzz! Zz!"

"Fine," Lilith replied, flicking away the maggots that he'd left behind on her leg. "But the last time, you left fly eggs inside us both. We were itching for weeks. This time you wear protection."

"Trojans are good," Naamah suggested. "They complain too much, more so than the Athe­nians," Lilith replied. "So, Beelzebub, agreed?"

"Bzz," Beelzebub said, agreeing to the terms. The flies covering his body buzzed louder in anticipation.

Beelzebub returned his attentions to Eve. He raised his blade, ready for the sacrificial plunge . . . and froze. A beautiful purple and red butterfly rose into the air before them. It fluttered momentarily before rising higher and vanishing. The three hellish hosts eyed one another. Lilith shrugged. The Lord of the Flies prepared a second time to plunge the knife into Eve.

Another butterfly, this one yellow and green, flitted up.

This time, the two succubae backed away from a confused Beelzebub. More butterflies fluttered up into the air, their wings a brilliant collage of bejeweled hues, each prettier than the last. Eve clapped and chirped at the sight. Beel­zebub, however, dropped the dagger and stared at himself. The butterflies were emerging from him. Blue and green bottle flies, houseflies, horseflies, and an assorted other myriad pests were turning into monarchs, blue morphos, goliath birdwings, peacocks, swallowtails of all ilks, and a dozen more species of Amazon flare and brilliance.

Even maggots weren't spared the touch and, within sec­onds, Beelzebub screeched at the butterflies that bloomed from his skin by the thousands. He was aflame in color. He spun and batted at his arms and legs, but the flies con­tinued transforming.

"Stop, drop, and roll!" the succubae cried urgently, but the butterflies continued to fill the air with their kaleido­scopic wings.