Halloween Special - Epilogue: Masks Off

Somehow, they’d managed to pull it off.

“WAAAAAGHHH!” 

Kengo screamed, and the (strangely lifelike) demon chased him and Icewolf down a cobweb-strewn, bloody corridor, from one den of horrors into another. In the lobby–decorated to resemble the foyer of a haunted mansion–a bow-tie wearing Scully and his skeleton crew handed out spooky-themed canapes to those less eager to experience Deadboy’s house of horrors. 

What had been a dry, dusty, disused barn had now become a haunted house befitting a gore-fiend. Or at least, that’s what everyone told Deadboy–strangely sullen and distant–and doing his best as master of ‘scare-amonies.’ His velveteen tux was not his usual manner of attire. He tugged uncomfortably on his sleeves. Still, Victor had insisted. Deadboy was only used to turning heads when he was yanking dude’s necks back–to turn heads for being ‘appealing’ was as alien a sensation as anything else he’d experienced the last few hours of his miserable little life.

Daemian swiveled his wine glass and cast a glance at El Amante, off-werewolf duty, speaking to a fishnet-sporting Iggy Astro in the corner of the ‘parlor’. Victor caught his eye and gave him a ‘thumbs up’.

The door to the inner sanctum opened up, depositing a slime-drenched Icewolf in front of Brax, pinning photos of all the other Spellbreakers who had been scared witless at the end of the haunted adventure. 

“Grrrr…it is ten dollars for a commemorative photograph of your ceaseless torment.” The demon sniffed. “Act now and receive a complimentary, souvenir glass.”

Icewolf grimaced. “Nah, I don’t want my fans seeing me covered in goo.”

“Nothin’ they haven’t seen already,” Colt–dressed like a certain, famous, grave-digging, pro wrestler said, approaching his student. “What do you think of my new outfit? The idea just came to me. Thinking it could be a good heel look. Whaddya’ say, Deadboy?”

“Huh?” Still distracted, Deadboy whipped his head over to his boss. “Er…yeah. Real spooky.”

Colt beamed at Icewolf. “See? I got the seal of approval from the Prince of Darkness. I’m thinking of calling myself…the Funeral Man! Nah. The Coroner? Grave Digger? Executor of the Affairs of the Recently Deceased? I’ll need to workshop some names. Anyways, DEADBOY!?”

Finally, Deadboy flinched. He’d heard his name called like that by Colt before. It usually didn’t end well for him. “Er…yes, boss?”

Colt placed his hand on Deadboy’s shoulder. Lucky for him, it didn’t turn into a nerve claw. “Boy, I’m proud of you. You done good, son. Also, your hair looks good slicked back like that.”

Daemian cocked his head to the side. Was this a treat, or a trick|? “Huh? Really?”

“I don’t sugar coat shit and call it cupcakes, boy. I’m stone cold serious.” Colt snapped his fingers.” Stone Cold! Wait, that’s a good one. Stone Cold Colt? Yeah, I need to workshop this a bit more…”

With Colt distracted by his own genius, Daemian saw an opening and took it–slinking away from all the ghouls and guys, and making his way towards Victor. Iggy had gone to get punch.

“You…okay, big guy?” Daemian started.

Behind his signature mask, Victor’s eyes smiled. He brushed his hand over Daemian’s hair, and the ornery Aussie allowed it. “I’m just happy to see you happy, Daemicito.”

“Yeah, but…” Daemian flicked his eyes upwards. I was talking about you. Since becoming briefly bonded with Victor, Daemian had gotten deeper insight on the luchador’s powers. He could read emotions, allowing Daemian to speak to him in a way that was near-telepathic. 

“I’m fine,” Victor answered, blankly. “You know me. Masks. I’m…all about masks.”

The emotional fatigue in his voice was palpable. It even nearly moved Daemian.

“Vicko…I…”

The handsome Mexican shook his head. “Hey, it’s your birthday. Don’t focus on me.”

“So…so what?” Daemian stammered. “I don’t even really like my–”

“Hey everyone!” Victor suddenly called out to the room, his voice booming. “Gather around! It’s present time!”

He may as well have dropped his dack and whipped it out right then and there (not that Daemian would have disapproved). A wave of embarrassment washed over Daemian. He hated his birthday just as much as he hated being the center of (positive) attention. He also hated being used as a smokescreen.

Daemian’s eyes briefly turned demonic black. “Oh no, you don’t you fucker–you don’t get to shirk your emotions by making other people happy all the time!”

Victor flashed him a sheepish grin. “But it’s better than scaring them for the same, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t over!” Daemain shook his fist at him. “This is…hey.”

Someone had forced a small, pink-wrapped gift box into Daemian’s head. Looking up, Daemain saw that the person in question was Iggy Astro, who had no doubt come to their lover Victor’s aid. The pink-haired heel–who had shown up knowing full well Daemian’s love of all things macabre–smirked at his compatriot, waiting for him to react.

Damiean looked down at the box, then up at Iggy. “Wazit?”

Iggy blew a strand of hair out of their androgynous, attractive face. “I believe you would call it a ‘birthday present’. Foreign concept, I imagine. Open it, dingus!”

Scowling, and annoyed at all of this strange, new, positive ‘attention’, Daemian shredded the glittery wrapping like a wild animal and opened the cardboard box. After a period rummaging around, he withdrew what looked, at first, like a rather withered root vegetable.

Icewolf, standing close by, noted the sewed up mouth and eyes. “Ew. Hella gross.”

The human remains dangled from Daemian’s hand. He looked at them like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. If this rock star heel intended to get him to cry, they were doing a damn good attempt at it. “AN…ACTUAL SHRUNKEN HEAD!?

Iggy shrugged. “Sourced ethically, of course. I had some help, of course.” Iggy pointed to the small card at the bottom of the box. Daemian picked it up and read it.

My Dark Prince,

Since I cannot be there on your special day, I hope you do not mind giving you some well deserved head.

That was a joke that Iggy came up with.

 I would never stoop to such innuendo. 

However, I imagine you appreciate the sentiment.

With love,

Your Tiger

Joey

Love. What a four letter word. And probably the one least spoken by Daemian, who realized then–holding back the swell of emotions–that he had quite literally descended into the depths of hell just to rescue the people he held dear (and possibly kicked off an intra-demonic conflict in the process…but that had yet to be seen).

“Mate. Iggy.” Daemian did his best. “This is…the best thing anybody has ever gotten me.”

And then, surprising both of them, Daemian (head still dangling in hand) wrapped his arms around Iggy in a tight embrace. 

Iggy turned red. “Oh…ok…we are hugging now.”

Daemian smiled. “Shut up and hug me back before I break your neck. You’re making me look like a sap.”

“That’s more like it,” Iggy said, returning the gesture. He let Daemian go before it got too embarrassing for the two of them. 

“I better put this away before I spill goon on it,” Daemian said, swinging his head.

“Goon?”

“Not that kind of good. But hey, the night is still young!” Skipping away like an excited, little kid, Daemian vanished into the shadows of the haunted house.

Now, Iggy only had questions. He turned to Victor, who had been too-quiet this entire evening.

“What exactly happened, belo?” Iggy asked.

“I’ll...tell you later.” The luchador, uncharacteristically uncomfortable (had everyone switched personalities tonight) swallowed. “Er, a boundary check, if you will? I want to check up on something.”

Iggy scrunched up his face. “Oh, I know that voice. A hall pass, I take it?” He crossed his arms. “I guess you can have some fun. Very well. Who are you making scream tonight?”

Victor bit his lip and leaned in to whisper.

Iggy’s eyes darted back and forth, then grew wide.  “NO FUCKING WAY. Ahahahaa! Of course. Just because it’s FUNNY.”

Victor went bright red. “Not so loud!”

As the party winded down, and Daemian dismissed his skeleton crew to go have fun, Victor found Daemian mopping up the fake blood (at least, he hoped it was fake) in the corner of the slaughter house room. Victor insisted he help. The two got to chatting.

“Can’t believe I’m not even drunk,” Daemian said, laughing to himself. Tonight was a success. And nobody died. Which was either a good thing, or a bad thing. “Probably the first birthday where I haven’t gotten blitzed and ended face down in the bog!.”

“Probably for the best,” Victor said with a shrug. “How do you…feel?”

Daemian propped up the mop. Brax had already gone to bed. Well-earned rest. It was just the two of them now…and Daemian knew he could trust this big idiot with just about anything at this point.

“Loved,” Daemian said, blankly. “It’s…a weird feeling. Look, I haven’t turned face, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

“Hahaha, I wasn’t thinking anything!”

Daemian’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Oh, and by the way, mate, I also haven’t forgotten about you. All of what happened.” Shit, I don’t have my empathy flashcards on me. What’s the one that Joey is always telling me I should try out? “I’m sorry? It must have been a lot?” He spoke as if he was talking in a foreign language.

Victor laughed. “Are you sure you are not Daemian, and not a demonic doppelganger?.”

“Well.” Daemain shrugged, nodding to his companion. “I learned from the best. The King of Love and the Prince of Darkness. We were bound to overlap eventually. This is turning into a wrestling match of who can face their emotions first, mate, but I’m not gonna press you.”

“No…you’re right.” Victor sighed. “I never thought much of my biological father. All I had to go on was the legacy of my mother’s husband, and the uncles who raised me. Now…I don’t know. I can choose to wallow in anger and sorrow. Or I can let this fuel me.” Victor’s fists tightened into balls. “I will speak to my father again. And I will get answers.”

“Life is not always that simple, mate. Take it from me. But if you ever want to go back to Gehenna, I can open a shadow corridor…”

“No. Fate brought us together the first time. It will happen again. When the time is right.”

“Okay good, phew, because it would be really really dangerous.” 

The floor was wet, but clean, which meant Colt wouldn’t tan Daemian’s hide for leaving the place a pig sty…whatever that meant. Daemian plopped down on top of a coffin and sighed, contented and tired.

“So. That was…fun, I guess. You know, besides the parental trauma and near death experiences.”

“That it was!” Victor said, merrily. “I haven’t given you a birthday gift though.”

Ugh, all this sweetness is gonna give me diabetes. “Aw mate, you’ve done more than enough.”

“But doesn’t the Prince of Darkness deserve a good shock!”

“Shock? Ha! Mate, nothing shocks me.”

Victor smiled. Then, carefully reaching behind his neck, he pulled off his mask.

Revealing his face.

Time froze. Daemian’s eyes, wide as dinner plates, took in the sight of an unexpectedly beautiful man, with big lips, a flat, handsome nose, coal-eyes, thick eyebrows, and a heart shaped scar that encircled his left eye. His face was smooth (all that masking up must have done wonders for his pores, Daemian thought) and characteristic of his indigenous heritage. Victor was more pretty than rugged or handsome, as Daemian had always expected. Now he knew why he kept the mask on–he would have competed with Iggy for beauty.

Daemian picked his jaw off the ground. “Except…that.” He swallowed. Was he about to die? For real? “You’re…prettier than I expected, mate. BUT THE MASK? You aren’t gonna kill me, are you?”

“No!” Victor said. It was so weird to see him talking, maskless. “I’ve been thinking. I have always seen this mask as a shield. But perhaps it has been something I have hid behind for too long. Almost like a second skin.”

“Creepy metaphor. I like it.” Daemian took a deep breath. “What…does this mean?”

“Oh, nobody will know my identity in-ring, of course. That is the luchador’s way! But…among those I love and respect and trust…perhaps it is time they got to know the real me.”

Daemian swallowed. This was weird. He felt all tingly. “I…like the real you,” Daemian said.

“And I like you.” Victor approached Daemian, with respectful hesitancy. “White Tiger and you have…an arrangement, yes?”

“Yeah, sure, why do you ask?”

“Because he is the one opponent I do not think I would want to face for…doing this.”

Victor pressed his lips around Daemian’s, before the baffled Aussie even knew what was happening. It was like taking three shots of hard liquor back-to-back, or being punched in the face with flowers. When Victor stuck his tongue in, it felt like one of the many many times Daemian had gone to hospital–pure morphine. He felt his eyes roll in the back of his head, and his pants….grew immediately tighter.

Victor pulled back.

“Oh…” Daemian said. 

“Did you…like that?”

Daemian pretended that he didn’t, ignoring the high he was feeling. “Please, I’m immune to your pretty boy charms.” He sniffed. “You taste like strawberries.”

“And you taste…” Victor started. Then stopped. “Well, you’ve very hot.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Daemian stared at his former opponent, rival, friend…and now…???

Then, he pounced. Victor caught him in a tight embrace, while Daemian wrapped his legs around his waist (he knew the big guy could take it). He would show the prettyboy who was boss! With his tongue, that is…

Daemian had enough sense to pull back. “We tell no one,” he demanded.

Victor smiled. “You got it. Now, let’s find somewhere a bit more private, shall we? My bad, bad boy.”

“Happy Halloween.”

“And happy birthday.”

The End

Halloween Special - Part 5: The King of Hell

Demons had no need for trash talk or petty vitriol. 

When Brax entered the ring, clad in his spiked, iron harness, he barely had time to stare down his nemesis–the hulking Ralgar–before the two charged forward, passions fueled by their mutual hatred of each other. This was a grudge match.

Therefore, El Amante and Deadboy–watching cautiously at ringside–knew instinctively that this was not the time to interfere, tag in, or try and get involved. This was Brax’s fight alone. Deadboy looked askance at their defeated opponents, the demons of fire and ice lying unconscious in a nest of darkly conjured thorns. The Australian punk scratched his neck.

“Not keen on apologies, mate,” the black mage started, just as Brax and Ralgar locked up in the center of the ring, grunting viciously while all of demon-kind cheered from the stands. “But I feel bad I got you all involved in this.”

The stalwart and emphatic luchador tilted his head upwards towards the exclusive balconies, just about where he thought his mysterious benefactor, Crimson, was watching. “This is fate, my handsome devil. The period between October 31st and November 2nd is a ‘thin veil’, just as it is for the Eastern Ghost Month. The dead come back. Unresolved destinies return in full force to demand resolution. It is a time of death and rebirth.”

Deadboy swallowed. “‘Dead’ is part of my name, but even this is a bit too bloody much for me. I feel…so….naked? And not in the good way.”

“Heh. Because you have begun to open up to your teammates? Does it feel good?”

“...It doesn’t not feel good.” Deadboy’s attention was grabbed by a sudden grunt from the ring. With growing horror, the punk watched as his best friend was hoisted into the air by Ralgar. “Shit.”

The vicious leader of the Wrath demons cackled with glee. “Now do you see, foolish one? Now do you see how more powerful I am than you?”

Brax strained against his rival’s iron grip. “If I die, I die with honor and satisfaction at facing you.”

“Just as I thought you’d say. Then…you shall die with the knowledge that, when I am through with you, I will turn my violence towards your human worms. And then I will rid the Two Cities of those mewling, weak Luxerians.”

Brax roared. “SO! That’s it then. You and the Hierophant. This is your scheme. A craven power grab. I bet you don’t even realize you’re being played.”

High in the stands, watching over all, The Hierophant smiled with satisfaction, consumed by this premature victory. So consumed, in fact, that they failed to notice the figure, the shadow, slip past their partition, stabbing the puppet master’s henchmen with sleep venom, knocking them out…

Back in the ring, an enraged Ralgar body slammed Brax into the mat so hard that it could have caused an impact crater. The stunned demon went limp.

Deadboy, foaming out the mouth with fury, snarled and slammed his fist against the ring apron. “COME ON, YOU BIG, BAD, FUCKER! TEAR HIS FACE OFF, BRAX! I know you got it in you, Ripper!” Fuck it, I’m getting there. Nobody messes with my demon mate.

Still, the specter of doubt weighed heavy on Deadboy’s heart. Victor sensed it and held his hand out, detecting Deadboy’s heel tendencies triggering. “Basta. I sense something…”

In ring, Brax peeled himself off the ground. Green blood ran down in steaks from the gashes in his face and shoulders caused by Ralgar’s assault. The demon breathed. The crowd, stunned, held their breath. Even the two-headed commentators were rendered speechless. 

“You…exert force through fear,” Brax said to his towering opponent, who was more annoyed than impressed to see his rival toughing it out. 

The monster narrowed his red, glowing eyes. This whelp was only delaying the inevitable. “Oh? And what would you wield as power?” A swell of red energy wreathed around his claws as the demon laughed. “Don’t tell me. Love. Friendship?”

“Actually…something like that, yes.”

At ringside, Deadboy lifted his head up to reveal that, much like his demonic opponent, his eyes had tinted over in a single hue–that of purple black, the color of Daemian’s magic, fused with Brax’s. A tether of energy, a black band, traveled from the demon to the demoniac, connecting two souls together. A black spark became a flame, washing out the ring in ethereal light–even Ralgar was forced to step back and throw his hands in front of his face.

Brax’s wounds healed over in rapid time. His muscles tightened. He stood tall. “I am soul bound to a human. Without shame. With perfect trust.”

Ralgar would not accept trickery. He dashed forward to tackle Brax and tear his heart out right then and there, ending this farce. But the Wrath demon latched onto the usurper's arm and used his momentum to throw the massive monster into the ropes. The burst of strength caught the audience off guard.

Shocked, but not shaken, Ralgar spat onto the mat and stared his opponent down–aura or no. “Borrowing your human’s magic won’t be enough!”

This time, it was El Amante who answered the demon king’s threat. The skeletal luchador tossed his flaming, violet hair back over his shoulder, gallantly. “Correct! But when he’s empowered by the magic of another…”

Victor went for it. He pressed his hand upon Daemian’s shoulder, and initiated his magic. The soft pink glow enveloped El Amante. Magic flowed from his meaty arm into Daemian’s body, making the dark mage radiate with new vibrancy.

For Daemian, such overwhelming love was an almost alien emotion. Though, one not unwelcome. Not anymore. Still, caught off guard, the ‘Prince of Darkness’ turned to his partner. “Victor?”

The larger man became aware of Daemian’s innermost feelings. “Your heart…is a curious reflection of my own. Two sad, mad, lonely boys. Lonely no more. Take my power and give it to Brax.”

Daemain said nothing. He had never been one for sentiment or affirmation. Instead, his power grew larger, and he poured it into Brax. A river of pink, violet, and black light intertwined and expanded. The energy swelled. Then, like the calm proceeding a storm, everything fell silent.

The audience waited. A thousand demonic eyes focused on the pillar of light emanating from Brax, and the demonic leader…waiting to initiate his next move.

They all failed to notice the thorns gathered around the ring. A twitch of a branch here. Then, movement. The unconscious bodies of Phleg and Cytus fell from the unraveling, undulating vines. The whole tangle was moving. Alive. The brambles reached the ring, passed over and under the ropes, and descended on Brax.

El Amante, never relenting, opened his mouth to issue a warning–but Daemian shook his head. This was intentional…

The thorns wrapped themselves around Brax, cocooning him, shielding him from the green flames pouring from Ralgar’s mouth–a last minute attempt to end this. The nest of thorns bulged at the top, then transitioned to a more shadowy substance. They formed into Brax’s familiar silhouette–towering, even over the arena. The earth beneath the ring cracked, and the runes glowed with intensity at the influx of raw magic.

“THORNS OF DARKNESS,” the massive Brax bellowed. “YOU ARE MINE TO COMMAND.”

Ralgar stepped back and stared up at the entity. He clenched his fists. Defeat, the very thought of it, never crossed his mind. ““I WILL NOT RELINQUISH MY KINGDOM! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Two moons, slits of lights, opened up on the area where the thorn conglomerated giant’s ‘face’ would have sat. “NOBODY ASKED FOR YOUR INPUT,” the beast roared, sending out tendrils of dark ropes towards the puny demon in its shadow. “MAGGOT.”

The giant’s prehensile appendage wrapped itself around Ralgar, immediately choking off any guttural noises the king could have made, had Brax permitted him to breathe. The punishment was swift, and far more merciful than Ralgar deserved. Brax hoisted the demon into the air, and then SLAMMED him down–once, and only once–into the canvas, putting him straight through it. A black, lightless ‘Ralgar-sized’ hole remained, the only testament to the demon’s existence.

Ralgar would live, of course, but his ego would never recover. Brax, demon of few words that he was, had no more to say. He had been waiting for this moment for more than twenty years. 

A jubilation of chaos swept through the arena, and the audience–but up in the balcony, the The Hierophant–watching slack-jawed–could only seethe at this inauspicious outcome. “No!” they hissed. “This is NOT what I had ordained.” It was only then, in the grip of failure, that the Hierophant detected the icy chill of…something amiss. They whipped around, coming face-to-face with the regal individual in the sweeping cape and mask, standing amid the unconscious bodies of the Hierophant’s useless servants. 

The assailwent’s stature was familiar to the demonic mediator, but the mask obscured everything else the Hierophant could have possibly known about them. “Do you intend to kill me?” The Hierophant asked, plainly. In fact, they wished for it. Better a death than endure the humiliation of failure. 

Crimson knew it. “And spare you justice?” the regal demon laughed. “Hierophant. Your authority has been revoked.”

“On whose order?”

“The order of the ruler of Clan Luxerian.”

“There is no ruler of Luxerian, you sniveling dandy!”

The demon in the wide brimmed hat tilted their head past the Hierophant, bidding them to turn and look. The Hierophant hesitated, but knowing the bastard meant not to kill them, followed their captor’s lead. Across the way, standing on the opposite balcony, the demoness known as Calis stared back at them triumphantly.

“Oh yes,” Crimson said. “There is, now. Pity it took a ridiculous wrestling match to watch all the chips fall into place, but setting things on their proper course often takes both time and the intermingling of most unusual bedfellows.”

The Hierophant groaned. For years, they had cleverly orchestrated demonic politics to their advantage. Peerless. Now? Undone.

Meanwhile, back inside the ring, the timid referee bestowed the win upon El Amante, Brax, and Deadboy, who raised their arms in triumph.

“My first win as a good guy,” Deadboy said. “Feels weird to be cheered. How do you feel, Brax?”

The demon in the middle snarled his approval. El Amante, however, was strangely silent.

The twin-headed commentators were more than happy to fill in the gaps. “Annnnd that’s all she wrote, folks! Ralgar and his men have been wasted. What a match! The winner, The Infernals and El Amante Intoxico!”

It was Glor, the less talkative of the double-headed demon, who noticed the figure standing at the edge of the ring…watching. “BUT WAIT. WHO IS THAT?”

Crimson had waited until the three unlikely heroes had basked in the audience’s approval. He spoke only when Victor sensed his presence. He held his hand up, letting them know he meant to harm. “Congratulations.”

Victor dulled his magic, allowing his hair to return to its normal luster. “Crimson?” He looked towards the balcony, where The Hierophant had stood, and saw the tail-end of the demon being led away in chains. “I see you have disposed of the fiend pulling the strings.”

Crimson stared back at the fighter. 

How strange, Victor thought. He gives off the mystique of a luchador. But why has he been helping us?

“Oh, I’m afraid he was not the true master of puppets in this mummer’s farce,” Crimson said. Until now, he had spoken with a rich clarity, as if he’d rehearsed in his head what he would say next. This time, Crimson wavered.

“Hmm?” Victor felt like he was on the verge of remembering something, or the sensation of having woken up from a deep dream and forgetting everything that had transpired. 

“But what a farce it is,” Crimson said. “Now that the play is through, it is time for the actors to take off their masks.” 

The suave demon removed his hat, letting free a tangle of beautiful, raven colored hair. In one swift movement, he removed his mask. The being that looked back at Victor, with soft, black eyes, had purple flesh, golden, regal, horns, and a meticulously trimmed mustache and goatee. He was handsome, in an unearthly way.

“Optional, of course, for you…my son.”

Daemian’s mouth went dry. “Oi, Vicko, he kinda looks…like a purple ‘you’.” 

Victor blinked. “Father?” His first thought was that this was one of Daemian’s tricks. But no, even he wasn’t that cruel. He went to speak up, open his mouth, but his words were lost in the collective gasp of the audience.

“Lord Asmodin!”

“Lord no longer,” the regal demon said. He gestured to the balcony. “I abdicated this seat long ago. However, I fear I have hidden among shadows for far too long. I bestow my title among Lady Calis.” He nodded to Brax. “And to the Earthlings, your new king. Braxius.”

The audience had fallen silent yet again–save the muffled whisper of ‘this is some good shit,’ from one drunken Luxerian to another. Atop the balcony, Calis stood back and held her hands fast to the rail, clutching it tightly.

Brax looked just as dumbfounded as Victor. “But…Lord Asmodin I do not want the title of King. I only wish to go back to Earth, with my companions.

“Father…” Victor repeated. 

Crimson, or Asmodin, bowed deeply to the large demon. “Then the throne shall remain vacant, until a new king is decided.” The purple-skinned demon turned to Victor. “Conrado. You are owed answers. I regret that you will not receive them today. Just know that what you have done here has benefited the realm of both the Children of Eve and the Children of Lillith. The universe has been restored. And I am proud.”

Victor bristled.  “You…”you don’t just get to…pull off that telenovela crap like it’s nothing!” “Where were you all those years!”

Daemian flinched at Victor’s outburst. He had never heard Victor ‘angry’ before. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t imagine what was going through the man’s mind now.

Asmodin smiled softly, but he was wiser than to try and approach his son. “Not an even a master of rhetoric such as I could conjure an apology that would do you justice or soothe your righteous anger! But I am afraid that the curtain has now closed. We will make amends ‘ere long. So, good night until you all.” Asmodin held his forefingers up and snapped them.

A sudden rush of air behind Daemian, and the shocked cries of the demonic audience, made the dark mage look over his shoulder. A dark corridor, perfectly shaped and highly stabilized, appeared in the air. Usually quite obscure, the window to the other world was a perfect view onto the ramshackle, dusty barn that Daemian, Victor, and Brax had left only several hours before.

“Holy shit, this…this is POWER.”

“A shadow corridor between worlds,” Brax observed. “With the snap of a finger.”

It wasn’t just a normal corridor, either. Victor felt the tug on the hairs on the back of his neck. It was pulling them in. So that was it, then? This being who claimed to be his father had just dropped a bomb on them, only to send them on their way.

“You don’t just get to do that!” Victor snarled. Asmodin remained unmoved.

But Daemain interceded before the large man could step forward and do something stupid. The look of fear in the handsome Australian’s eyes was what snapped Victor out of his rage. 

“Vicko,” Daemian said, over the rush and roar of wind, “mate. Your pops isn’t just a regular demon…he’s one of the Seven Principles.”

The words were lost on Victor, but it didn’t matter. The color and light drained from the world around him, as the luchador realized that his father had enchanted them all away before he could get a word in. The last thing Victor saw was his so-called father’s handsome visage, staring back at him. He thought he saw a glint on the side of the demon’s face. Perhaps, a tear.

Or maybe this was just mere wishful thinking.

To Be Continued