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A Prince and His Baron - Ch4 (Revised) Preview

“Now you?” A boot thudded on the desk, before another leg swung up. Coins scattered with each thump. The leather of the armchair creaked as Blitzø leaned back. With his best businessman smile, he tossed the gold letter opener back and forth between his palms as he remarked, “A man like you? You look like you’ve got an enemy or two. Don’t lie. Surely there’s some heads you want to see busted? Some lives snuffed out?”

The expression on the Clerk-Recorder’s face became even more pinched. And he decisively went back to review the documents.

Blitzø maintained the megawattage of his grin but he let the conversation between them lapse into silence for a while.

Just like how the Lust ring was known for services which catered toward satisfying depravity, and like how Gluttony was a foodie’s haven, located in the fourth ring the Circle of Greed was the home of those whose sins were defined by their greed. Several administrative and recreational establishments like banks, amusement parks, and civic buildings made up its architecture. Instead of zoning cities and towns separately by ring, according to the building codes drafted into existence by the higher powers long ago, it’d been decreed that establishments like City Halls could only be built within the fourth ring. It was only an inconvenience for the demons who lived outside the Greed Ring, but they had to swallow their complaints and acclimate.

Whilst this was the first time Blitzø had the pleasure of meeting Imp City’s Clerk-Recorder in person, he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the various City Halls that made up the civic buildings.

Despite popular misconception amongst the Sinners who fell into Hell, Hell was dominated by a bureaucracy. And if there was something they were known for, it was suffocating its subjects with red tape.

Blitzo wasn’t as well-versed on their infernal history and politics as much he’d like to pretend he did, but even he knew that as chaotic as the underworld could be, there was an unspoken hierarchy with specific jobs distributed to each demon.

Hell was not so different from the human world in one aspect—and that was ambition. An ambition to conquer, enslave, and oppress. An ambition to live a better life. Even those with slothful natures had an ambition. There was no one without one, whether it be a desire that was grand or humble.

With that ambition came a confounding question: in a society which thrived on chaos and sin, how can order be maintained? Hell was a melting pot of degeneracy and crime. Their ruler, Lucifer Morningstar, had been a firm enforcer in the founding years of Hell, decreeing that Balance must be maintained so that the denizens of Hell could focus their onslaughts on one another. Every person’s heart, deep down, carried a certain malice. It was simply a question of whether or not that malice was hidden deep inside or it lurked closer to the surface.

For more than a millennia, hierarchy mattered. Without hierarchy, their great leader would have long since been overthrown by his subjects with revolts and uprisings, and their realm would be destroyed from the inside out. This was what had been told to young children; this was what Blitzø and his sister had grown up on. Some traditions had to exist in Hell for a semblance of order to be maintained.

The foundations of Hell itself catered to those who abused their power and trampled on the less fortunate—and will likely continue to do so for thousands of years, long after Blitzø’s bones had become dust. Designed as a caste system, it was built to oppress, pitting one against another in an eternal competition of how high one can climb on the social ladder.

Unlike paradise, Hell was a dark, howling eldritch beast of a prison, housing lost souls damned in the eternal torture for their sin. Both subjects and the ruling class existed in a precarious state of equilibrium which was constantly in flux with the nature of how the world operated.

Blitzø might have been a menace in the shadows, with assassination being universally regarded as a shady profession, but it was still a legitimate business. Which meant there were regulations and unspoken rules even he had to respect. As someone with a hundred percent ownership of the company shares, he was bound by the same red tape as any other business owner. Blitzø still had to sign papers and pay the fees to ensure his license to do business within the city was kept active.

The memories were hazy, but he remembered no one had batted an eye when Blitzø brought out an envelope stuffed full of bloodied cash from his coat. Nobody had thought it strange when he’d flirted with the intern over the counter who’d wanted him to point out the physical location of his startup company on her computer and had asked him to specify which classification of “service/ professional” trade I.M.P. would fall under.

Back then, he had been a nobody—which had suited him just fine because of the nature of his occupation anyway.

Then he became someone whose reputation could induce fear. He’d thrived in the underworld. A talented killer. An underdog whom everyone soon learned they could not turn a blind eye to. Some courtesy had to be given to him, as someone who decided who would be added to his hitlist and who would be spared.

Amid the artful clutter of the office, Blitzø was like a bold, eccentric antique. Dressed in a fitted linen white suit, with a dark shirt underneath and his signature black coat draped over his shoulders, he looked like a mafia consigliere who’d stepped out of the front cover of a magazine. Somebody who looked like he was no stranger to staring down the barrel of a gun many times. The only things missing were the fancy heirloom rings—and maybe a cigar.

He knew, to anyone else, he didn’t appear like someone who’d once been jobless—and desperate. Someone whose clothes had to be oversprayed with cologne whenever he had to head out, covering up the musty, dank odor of old takeout and canned soup and unwashed clothes and self-neglect. The smell of a man who didn’t have any purpose or motivation in life and had been alone far too long in his dingy apartment. His origin.

But now?

His attention went to the letter opener, seeing the reflection of a well-dressed imp staring back at him.

White wasn’t necessarily Blitzø’s color—white clothes presented a bigger occupational hazard than wearing the supposedly ominous red shirt—but it sent a bold statement. An assassin who dared venture outside in a white suit? Either that assassin was just plain stupid, or it was testament of their skills.

He felt his mouth stretching into an involuntary, unnatural smile. The image of a scoundrel smiled back at him, full of sharp teeth and wicked intentions mirrored on the yellowed surface of the blade.

It was a legendary glow-up. He’d literally gone from “hello, sir,” to “hello, your daddy calls me ‘daddy’ too.”

There was also nothing overtly ugly about Blitzø. Beneath the dangerous killer, beneath the professional, utalitarian armor of his murder-suit, was just another person. He had grown out of his braces and pudgy cheeks into somebody whose figure was sharp, long, and lithe—with a thick chest and strength in his upper arms. Maybe Blitzø wasn’t as eye-catching as an incubus with rugged good looks or he wasn’t as tall as the other infernal species, but genuinely he’d won the greatest gift from his genetics; he could overindulge on junk food and his body mass index would still stay relatively the same.

It had been the same for his family. Both his twin and their mother had been conventionally attractive, with the only difference being his and sister’s horns which were of different size from the rest of their species. Different from the usual sexual dimorphism of imps.

The corners of his mouth drooped a little. Reminiscing on the past wasn’t a pastime Blitzø liked to indulge in nowadays except the instances when he was in a boozy, self-pitying depressive funk. His childhood memories especially had become muddled with the passage of time, with specific chunks of it—both painful and embarrassing—that he’d rather not recall.

But there had been an old saying his mother used to tell both him and his sister: a banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining, but wants it back the minute it begins to rain. The first time he’d first heard her say this was within their tent; he’d been removing his clown makeup and Barbie Wire had been doing stretches when their mother hurried inside with two garment bags, telling them that their ringmaster wanted everyone rounded up and appearing “presentable” to a meeting with a bigshot.

Even now, he could still recall the ghost of her tired murmur: “Do you notice how Momma always dresses nice to go to the bank? Appearances can be a powerful tool. Even if we’re imps, if you look and talk like somebody worthy of respect and attention, people will treat you differently. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Her warning was a motto Blitzø lived by; presentation was crucial. Even if a person didn’t have wealth or they were under financial difficulties, they mustn’t give others that impression. They must not be seen as inferior. They must present themselves as someone well-off. It was a broad, sweeping overgeneralization but Blitzø had come to learn the saying was also applicable to everyone outside the Circle of Greed.

Blitzø’s gaze transferred to the knickknacks on the desk. The Clerk-Recorder had been in the middle of opening envelopes with his fancy 24-karat gold-plated letter opener when Blitzø barged through the doors for their morning appointment. The same letter opener was now in Blitzø’s hand, an engraved knife he’d snatched out of slackened talons when he’d taken his seat.

The edges of the blade were designed to be dull but he’d determined, after poking the sharp tip against his finger, that he could still use it to stab someone in the eye or puncture the throat if swung with enough force in a downward trajectory.

It’d been fifty-five minutes into their meeting already. Twenty minutes to exchange pleasantries, sign, and initial. The remaining time had been spent picturing twenty-five different ways he could’ve ended this guy’s life had Blitzø really wanted to.

Blitzø was no stranger to the transferring process of the grant deed of a title; he’d gone through a similar process long ago when he’d finally accumulated enough money to purchase the property he’d been leasing ever since he’d founded his startup. Granting legal ownership, from the grantor—the previous title holder—to the grantee—the new owner, was typically a streamlined process so long as there wasn’t a cloud on title. (At the time, there definitely was. How could he have known there was a previous lien on the building?)

Because of the nature of devil’s contracts, Blitzø had paid extra attention to the fine print this time—to ensure he wasn’t being cheated. Of the papers he had to sign, he’d recognized some of the basic information they wanted from him—the name of the new owner, the signature of the person conveying title, a legal description of the property, and so on and so forth. All paperwork had to be notarized in person for legal transfer and recording.

Filing still required a Preliminary Change of Ownership Request, with fees and a Tax Affidavit. Since it wasn’t just one property but an entire city, given from crown to gentry, the process required extra steps. Today’s appointment was supposed to finalize everything.

From where he sat, Blitzø could still see the stamp of the royal crest on the official document lying out in the open. It was an official statement authorizing the transfer of title from his possession over to its new owner.

He stared. The ink on the paper stood out like dried blood. Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia.

To Blitzø’s shame, he felt the faint stirrings of arousal. His body remembered. As the Clerk-Recorder reviewed the papers one more time, a gloved claw began to tap restlessly on the armrest.

A month had passed. But it was still surreal to Blitzø what had happened. Seeing these documents in front of him only confirmed that it was, well, real.

Blitzø could feel his grin becoming foolish.

The prince is so peculiar, he thought.

It was a really generous gift. Beyond ludicrous. Either the prince had been so impressed by Blitzø’s excellent figure that his sense of propriety took flight or he had planned it all out, an elaborate power move to increase the reputation of his royal family while getting on Blitzø’s good side.

After thinking about it, Blitzø decided it was probably the latter. Who’d be so kind and foolish in Hell? Had Blitzø fallen into bed with anyone else of the Ars Goetia—like any one of the kings or dukes like Bael or Astaroth—things likely wouldn’t have played out as luckily as it had.

In his heart, Blitzø secretly gave Prince Stolas two thumbs up.

Badass. Not only had the owl demon followed through with his side of the bargain, inviting an imp into the Ars Goetia aristocracy—something never done before in the history of Hell—but he had also gifted him a city. It was just unheard of. Stolas’ popularity had skyrocketed in one day with some demons and dropped sharply with others, making him the most controversial public figure as of late. The publicity stunt had invited heated criticism and praise. News outlets couldn’t make up their minds whether his royal highness had sustained some type of brain injury or if the assassin must have had some kind of leverage on him or the royal family.

Either way, whatever Stolas’ real motive had been, Blitzø had benefited in the end. He was not the type of person who’d say no to free things.

As he had come to discover throughout this entire process, the land that would be coming into Blitzø’s possession had originally been part of Stolas’ Crown Estate, a collection of lands and holdings which were separated from the governed estate and His Majesty’s private estate. Imp City had counted among the empty plots of land divided amongst the generals and commanders for their contribution in the War in Heaven—with crown land rights being hereditary possessions inherited from generation to generation.

To Blitzø’s amazement, the original paperwork to Imp City was supposedly a feather plucked from Lucifer’s six wings. Because of its importance, that relic wouldn’t be taken out of His Majesty’s Treasury and given to Blitzø until everything had been finalized.

Even though Blitzø could now be considered as a low-ranking noble of a small family, he’d gotten what he wanted. Recognition. Aiming any higher in status would pin a bigger target on his back.

While Blitzø had grown out of his animosity toward the rich, it didn’t mean there weren’t still traces of an old curiosity. The royal families were the poster children of the upper echelons of Hell. Like trust fund babies who had access to education, power, and influence, anyone of “royal blood” inherited both throne and estates—all because they were related to so-and-so from the great battle long ago.

Yet Prince Stolas was a walking contradiction. A tall, mature demon who spoke with a gentle, refined accent. Intelligent and of striking appearance, of genteel upbringing and a high education. He was a prominent figure whose family employed imps as manservants and maids throughout the years as naturally as he breathed.

He was also a married man who had kept his promise with a lesser demon even after getting what he’d wanted. And threw in a city as a little bonus.

The city was probably an added incentive for Blitzø’s discretion. To keep his mouth shut. An unspoken message of: See how well I treat you? I can give you so much, and I can just as easily take everything away.

Blitzø caught the letter opener again mid-throw. He had thought Prince Stolas might make an easy mark. And in a way, his hunch had been right.

Stolas was unmistakably powerful and prestigious. Rich, handsome, powerful, and not shy at all, he wanted for naught. Such a man could so easily destroy someone’s career and tear a family apart without so much a second thought or empathy. There wasn’t anything in the world that Stolas wouldn’t be able to get if he really put his mind to it.

With a man who had it all, who might not be so easily tempted by power or wealth, there were only a couple more ways that he could be enticed.

Blitzø knew himself very well. Seduction was Blitzø’s usual modus operandi, his default to nearly every situation. It was the art of the grift.

Had to take a driving test? Blitzø had taken one look at the proctor and distracted him with inane chatter and compliments, until they’d driven back and the examiner realized he was supposed to have been scoring him instead of making chitchat. Blitzø had exited the DMV that day with a new driver license.

Need to slip into a stadium to look for an optimal sniping vantage point for an upcoming concert? His answer had been to learn the daily routine of one of the lesser famous performing artists and fabricate an encounter with her when she was out dressed lowkey in public. Put on a confident smile and give her the illusion of the type of demon that a succubus of her caliber liked.

(And not have her fall in love with him.)

But royalty?

Had I.M.P. been like its early years, then in another time, in another place, and in any other circumstances, Blitzø imagined he might have been desperate enough to attempt to steal a grimoire from the prince’s mansion. A dangerous, high-stakes heist which ran the very real risk of being caught red-handed, being sentenced to a public execution or having his hands chopped off for his crime.

And if it was the prince himself who caught Blitzø in the theft, then while the difficulty of the mission would have skyrocketed, Blitzø might have even resorted to an even crazier stunt: seducing a married prince.

For a moment, a dark thought ran through Blitzø’s brain. If Stolas turned on him, becoming a stumbling block in his life and ruining everything Blitzø had built, then Blitzø would see to his ruin.

He tossed the letter opener into his other palm.

Stolas could also be considered as a powerful big backer.

As the sole heir of his parents’ empire, the prince was so repulsively, unthinkably wealthy that he basically walked on another plane of reality. He was somebody so disconnected from what was expected that Blitzø was surprised that there weren’t security guards stationed around his mansion to prevent abductions and potential assassinations.

The higher a person was, the harder they fell. Nobody was innocent in Hell; there was no reason for saints of good virtue to exist here. Even the most put-together, beloved public figure had skeletons hidden inside their closet. As far as Blitzø was concerned, Prince Stolas and his family was one of the model rulers; they hadn’t fallen into any big controversy or scandal.

People were naturally opportunistic; they sought after the rich and powerful.

There was not a day that went by where Blitzø did not see the latest celebrity scandal on the gossip forum websites. Prince or princess, king or queen, nobility or a commoner, it was all the same. Once someone was rich and powerful, once they had access to big fat wallets and bank accounts, keeping a beautiful young mistress or a young handsome partner on the side was almost a given. It was also the ultimate status symbol, practically an indispensable accessory of accomplishment and an ego-boost.

Not every marriage was like Moxxie’s and Millie’s; theirs was a special case. Blitzø could count on one hand the number of couples he knew whose relationships did not end in a disastrous break-up.

Cheating was often the underlying reason, but there existed other causes.

Although ordinary people could have affairs, it was not a secret that successful entrepreneurs and even politicians were notorious for showing up at business functions with their paramours. Some had even been filmed or photographed in a public outing, lavishing thousands on their lovers in a different ring of Hell while their families were at home.

Blitzø was also not ignorant of the underlying reason why certain cities were called the den of mistresses—or why certain red light districts were bustling with a never-ending stream of clients. A significant portion of I.M.P.’s own clientele had been jilted lovers ordering hits on their spouse’s secret lover, with several cases being the reverse where it was the cheating spouse and their young lover who wanted the wife or husband gone so that they can claim their life insurance benefit and start a brand new life together.

To survive in Hell, it was all about finding money and forging connections. Having someone there to provide for emotional and financial needs, being able to afford nicer things and being able to find opportunities that one might not be able to without someone supporting them and helping pay their bills was a method of ensuring stability.

Damn, wouldn’t that be nice though? For a moment, Blitzø allowed himself to fantasize. He imagined how amazing it would be to have a member of the infernal high society smitten with him. Him being someone’s object of adoration. An ordinary single father and businessman swept into a fairytale romance with a handsome and powerful prince, transported into a world of unimaginable riches and luxury.

When the image entered his mind, Blitzø nearly broke character, just on the cusp of guffawing and slapping his knee.

A rusty voice intruded into his thoughts. “…Is something wrong?” The Clerk-Recorder was peering down at Blitzø over his spectacles.

“Ah.” Blitzø shook his head. He rubbed the corner of his eye, wiping away imaginary tears. “No. Just had a funny thought. I could be a standup comedian.”

The four blue eyes narrowed.

But before the Clerk-Recorder could say anything, Blitzø interjected, “Is everything good to go now?” Propping his chin on his palm, Blitzø gestured to the papers. “Don’t tell me you plan on triple-checking it.”

Author’s Note: Keep in mind this is not from the final draft so some details are subject to change. Ch1-3 can be read on AO3!

Summary: It was undeniable that there was a new and upcoming threat in Hell, rivaling some of the realm’s most ancient fiends in ruthlessness despite his pedigree. Prince Stolas arranged to meet the hitdemon, ready to confer upon him a title. Their first meeting didn’t go exactly according to plan.

Blitzø didn’t think he’d catch a royal demon’s interest in that manner, but as an assassin who’s got several centuries under his belt, he might be able to roll with it.