A choice



        Being part of demonic royalty carries with it its benefits, its riches –it also carries its responsibilities. To live up to the name of the Ars Goetia, the demon must be willing to follow whatever rules are necessary to reciprocate the benefits given. And as demons punish humans for their actions; since the Goetia are the highest in this hierarchy, it was a golden rule to behave with the utmost virtue –to teach humans how to do things, to show that even as creatures of darkness; they were better than them in every way, even at being good.
        Everyone knows this when they enter or are born into this family, they are indoctrinated into this belief from day one to ensure that they will be worthy bearers of the name. But it comes to pass that a demon’s ambition is stronger than any responsibility; and in pursuit of their own growth, they are capable of breaking every rule in the book. In this particular case it is necessary to explain also what kind of demons the Ars Goetia are; a family of more than 72 demons that were formerly recorded by King Solomon, nowadays already in the hundreds. Hierarchically organised in ranks of kings, princes, dukes, marquises, earls, knights and presidents –with their political power in this same order. In charge of keeping track of the 9 circles of hell, tempting humans who invoke them for some kind of benefit and much more. The demons of the Ars Goetia could be considered as the largest and only demonic family of hell; but outside this family they have been generating new groups that serve as a counterbalance in the share of power, which has proved to be a clear threat to these demons; and socio-political negotiation skills gradually became part of the necessary repertoire. Today the balance of power belongs to them, but there is no one who has a say in what the future holds for them.
        Hell is a place that spares no one, and is capable of reminding its inhabitants, no matter who they are, that a moment off guard can mean the difference between the success, or disgrace, of their campaign. In the end there are only two ways left, stick to your desires even if you fall into the abyss, or become part of the chain.
        
        ***
        
        It was a cold night in hell; there in the 4th circle, the funereal red moonlight illuminated the streets, gardens and groves. The sad wind could be heard sobbing as it travelled through the atmosphere; accompanied in tone by the screams and cries of the damned, forcing the plants in its path to dance to the rhythm of this dreadful opera. The streets and buildings were chaotically spread throughout the territory, all sharing different architectural styles; from all the times and regions of the living world that had taken place to date. 
        On the 4th circle the miserly and spendthrift reside, but Dante failed to mention that the prideful are also part of this place, punishing also the prideful, people who see themselves on a non-existent pedestal of greatness above others. This makes this floor one of the most competitive; so, although other sins such as anger, lust or greed also compete for certain kinds of superiority; pride resides in them; therefore, this makes it a somewhat powerful sin –some consider pride to be somewhat the sin of sins. This is why this floor is constantly changing its architecture, always in par with human times and fashions, for even in this respect one could consider one or the other as the best –in the same way that your grandfather could tell you "Back in my day" while you think that in your present the situation is different or even better than before. Also it is necessary to explain from the beginning that time in the world of the living is not the same as in hell, because while for us decades and centuries go by, for these beings it is nothing more than indefinite time in absolute eternity, in the same way that for a child it takes an eternity to take a bath, but eight hours of sleep go in just seconds, even preserving, for you, the reader’s ease of understanding, we will somewhat overlook this reality, and adapt it to our own.
        That night, the streets were lonely and empty; if at all with one or two creatures scattered sparsely among wards and alleys, lighted by a myriad of wax candle lamps, while the serene wandered about watching the surroundings, on the lookout for any who might attempt to disturb the peace that ruled there; shouting every hour that passed, “Ten o’clock and all serene.”
        Located on this level far away from all the riffraff is a large palace, with gothic architecture and colours ranging from the classic black and white, to red and purple. Around it, multiple planters with all kinds of flora made, but also others from hell; and according to their habitat –they possessed surreal visual qualities.
        Thus, we begin the story in the bedchamber of one of the demon kings of the underworld, decorated with scarlet-red wallpaper; with a somewhat peculiar patterned design –of two wings raised in flight forming a gentle circle, having in the centre, the figure of a five-cornered crown; long and pointed –covering the wall like a mosaic, for it is repeated over and over again covering everything. In the centre was a gigantic bed, dressed in silk and velvet robes; that just the sight of it invites you to fall into the arms of Morpheus. On the sides were dressing tables made out of mahogany, with beautiful cravings that were clearly handmade; and above them were oil lamps that seemed to burn eternally –for the container of this liquid was practically empty, as if it were only a detail of adornment rather than functional, it was clear that a strange magic was behind this function.
        In the bedchamber were two individuals. One of them, Paimon; one of the 9 kings of the underworld, and the most obedient king to Lucifer; and who commands two hundred legions of demons. A demon of incredible power who offers to those who evoke him all the arts, philosophies and sciences. Being able to reveal the mysteries of the earth, wind, water and even the mind. Able to deliver wonderful familiars to the evokers or deliver power over other people. The power of this entity being truly indescribable makes him a demon whose disobedience is not an option –and his wrath something to be avoided at all costs.
        Looking like an eagle owl with a humanoid body, Paimon has shiny brown plumage, with long plumes (which in a human owl we usually compare to his eyebrows) that surpass in height even his ostentatious crown of gold and white diamonds, an elegant tail that reaches to the ground –and a bearing worthy of someone of his stature. His face is covered by a Victorian mask of white and gold ornamentation, through which two ruby-bright red eyes peep out in contrast to his black corneas –almost as if these eyes were two balls of light suspended in the darkness of their sockets.
        His clothing was reminiscent of the late 1800s; it accentuated his body in an elegant and powerful way, accentuating the breadth of his chest and shoulders, while his slender torso allowed him to show off his slender waist with accentuated curves –with a white camisole and wine-red waistcoat and gold buttons with black laces, the camisole let out a frill that amplified the strength of his chest elegantly as it came out over the waistcoat, while on his hands, black leather gloves made him look like he was going out hunting, and his dark cloth trousers that emphasised the shape of his feet completed the outfit. This attire was adorned by a floor-length, high-collared cloak, gilded on the inside with soft white star-like glitter, and on the outside a gradation of varying shades of red and an even continuation of bright stars along the base of the cloak. 
        Paimon could be seen arguing with the second individual, a woman named Octavia; his wife. Queen Octavia –possessor of all the knowledge that the stars can bring to man. Though not in command of any legion, her duties were more along the lines of those of a common wife, this being such things as public relations with the mob, and the aristocracy of superficial importance –as well as keeping a check on the upbringing of her kid, fruit of their marriage. 
        With a slender, hourglass figure –Octavia’s beauty was matched only by the beauty of her clothes. Her appearance was also owl-like. Grey plumage with shades of light greyish blue, her face as pure white as the winter snow of the North Pole; with a fine, seductive gaze. She had 6 eyes, four of them placed on her forehead, of an infinite blood red colour, and the two main ones; where normal eyes tend to be, sharing the same tone, but contrasted with a completely uniform white iris, overall, it looked like her face was a mask, such like Her long, accentuated eyebrows marked her femininity with the utmost elegance and poise. A fine, small beak completed the face of a gentle mother and a beautiful wife.
        Her gown with its shimmering fabric and one-piece design –so ornate that it seemed to be made up of several pieces, formed an ostentatious and delicate structure in a style similar to her husband’s; reminiscent of the late 19th century. It possessed all the colours of the dark space, with shades of black, grey, blue and white, causing a subtle emphasis on the accompanying gold decorations at the waist, hips, chest, collar and sleeves. Gloves of dark semi-sheer fabric completed the outfit, and a small golden three-pronged crown gave away her position. Just looking at her you could feel a warm sense of maternal love, while an intimidating aura of respect and finesse emanated from her being.
        The argument seemed intense, both wore a look of unfounded anger and resentment. Their shouting woke the little prince sleeping in his cot in the next room.
        This bedroom shared the design of his parents’ room, only having the subtle difference that; to one side of a bed like his parents’, was a cradle beautifully decorated with small brightly coloured ornaments and a soft red cloth that covered the little owl as a makeshift roof, this cradle; made of cedar wood –and ornamented with beautiful hand-carved figures on the sides; simulating constellations in deep space, rocked slowly of its own accord –clearly enchanted to help the little one fall asleep.
        A close approximation would show a small owlet with grey plumage like his mother’s, and a white face like its mother’s, with four eyes, all deep red and bright as rubies. Small and rounded, wearing a small sky-blue striped pyjama. Covered by a soft, warm navy-blue blanket that he cuddled fearfully to the screams he heard coming from his parents. Next to him, a stuffed toy of a red creature similar to a rabbit, but with a sinister smile with sharp, pointed teeth.
        Returning to the parents’ bedroom, the violent chatter could be heard continuing.
        —Don’t get mad? Of all the stupid things you can do, aren’t we supposed to set the example? —Octavia shouted angrily—.
        —Don’t be dramatic, woman; I remind you that here in the Goetia, I am in charge, I can do what I want, when I want. —Paimon replied with a mocking tone—.
        —And because the king cannot keep his dick in place for more than five minutes; he must have the right to sleep with whomever he pleases.
        —You are drowning in a glass of water Octavia.
        —You slept with my fucking sister! What do you say we ask Lucifer what he thinks about his favourite dog not being able to set an example?
        Paimon immediately bristled at Octavia’s threat; it was true that Paimon was at the head of the Goetia, but he shared that title with the other kings, and if one makes a mistake —they all make a mistake. And Lucifer being the greatest of them all; he was the one who commanded the others, so Paimon could not risk making him look bad.
        Enraged at this, he seized Octavia by the neck with one hand, while with the other he held her face by her cheeks and struck her against the wall with all his might –the blow sounding dry and cruel. Octavia, holding with both arms the hand that grabbed her neck, in self-defence she bit Paimon’s hand with a peck, which annoyed the demon even more, releasing that hand to form it into a fist with which he struck her. Octavia’s beak began to bleed as Paimon released it to tend to his hand. While he received only an almost invisible mark; his wife had taken the brunt of it, staining her face and clothes with blood. The sudden violence frightened the little prince, prompting him to cry tirelessly; worried by the loud sounds coming from the wall. His terrible cry was audible from every part of the palace, causing a breaking point for Paimon, who was having enough of the insolence.
        —You’re a filthy animal! -Octavia shouted in annoyance, trying to hold back her own tears.
        Immediately Octavia wiped herself with her sleeve and who was already in the arms of an imp butler who had gone ahead of the conflict; and entered as soon as the crying had begun; but the little one gave him no quarter. Imps are easy to recognise; very short in stature; perhaps half the height and a little less than that of the Goetia demons, their skin is blood red and two white horns with black stripes protrude from their heads. A distinct variation between each imp is the shape of the horns and the striping of the horns; some being of a single colour; white or black, and others being either heavily striped or sparsely striped, they can be pointed and short, thick and long; it seemed at times a game of chance to guess what the next would look like, but this helped to identify them easily if you are someone distracted, apart from these details the imps were very varied; so I could well be skipping even more details in the eagerness to give a general description. The imps being inferior creatures are also the ones with the most varied tasks, as they are part of the majority of the infernal population. For high-ranking demons like the Goetia, however, the imps were no more than the populi and employees if anything, bordering on the equivalent of slavery of the old ages, making them victims of the hierarchical oppression of their overlords. Another important detail about the imps is that, unlike the aristocrats, they could indulge in sin to their heart’s content and be as primitive as their hearts would allow, but if you worked for a Goetia it was different, forcing you to take on the same pattern of virtuous, formal and upright demeanour. As well as these demons, their imp employees were also to set an example to their race, proving that even such inferior creatures could be of good.
        This imp on specific was medium sized and pointed horns; fully erect vertically, with three black stripes. Red skin except for his right eye, which was somewhat lighter, giving him the appearance of having a monocle. A curious white moustache as well as a white mane denoted his advanced age. Three spikes on his tail, which ended in a pointed shape like an arrow. And he wore a formal uniform of a white shirt with a stand-up collar, a reddish-purple bow tie, grey coat and black trousers, with long white socks and black shoes.
        —My sincerest apologies, your majesty. It was just my intention to prevent the prince from causing you any discomfort during your conversation. —The butler immediately remarked as he handed the owlet into his mother’s arms, which made him aware of Octavia’s badly injured condition—. But what a barbarity; let me call the doctor to treat thy injury.
        No need Rael, you may go. —Octavia replied in a voice so sweet that anyone in his position would not hesitate to feel guilty for doing nothing about it—.
        —At once, Your Highness.
        The imp quickly withdrew. While this was going on; Octavia cooed to her son in her arms, which immediately silenced his dismal cry.
        —There’s nothing to worry about, little one, mother is here. —Octavia comforted him—.
        The baby was still crying while his hands were trying to reach his mother’s face.
        —It’s nothing, mummy is fine. Now, promise me you’ll go to sleep and stop crying?
        His incessant crying continued until Octavia in her motherly wisdom reached for his sucker, which she gave him. The baby focused on his new distraction while smiling at her and waving his arms and feet as Octavia returned him to his cot. Now in bed, she immediately headed back to her room.
        —Sweet dreams, my dear Stolas. —Octavia said to him through the closed door of her bedchamber, before opening it and returning to Paimon.
        Octavia went back into her room wishing she had not done it. Paimon seemed unperturbed by what had happened; clearly confident of his position in the argument, he took it for granted that he had done nothing wrong; and that, in any case, the consequences fell on Octavia.
        —The doctor is coming to check you over; I don’t want the others asking questions at breakfast tomorrow. —Paimon warned Octavia—.
        In the time that Octavia was not in the room, Paimon had taken the initiative in undressing for bed. While notifying Octavia of the medical visit he removed his shirt, and with a single movement folded it and threw it into a basket where other dirty clothes laid. He was left with only his underwear.
        Paimon’s body was perfectly sculpted, the muscles; though not necessarily marked, were visible in a form pleasing to the eye, the broad chest accentuated by moulded pecs –but Octavia was already immune to his physical beauty; which was overshadowed by his toxic personality. However, Paimon didn’t care about that, he still thought that his every charm was as effective as the first time and his flaws became non-existent. This was visible at the moment; Paimon approached his wife and grabbed her shoulders tightly, caressing them sensually as if trying to woo her, thinking that she understood why he treated her the way he did, absolving himself of his sins. Octavia annoyedly looked away from Paimon and tried to remove his arms from her, but it was not until moments later that someone knocked at the door; that Paimon would once again give her momentary freedom.
        —Come in. —Paimon spoke in a thick tone—.
        —Pardon me, Your Majesties. You summoned me? —asked the creature who opened the door—.
        The doctor was another imp. Short, almost completely horizontal horns, like the handlebars of a motorbike, striped with two black stripes. Of round and pronounced, larger than necessary and wore a black suit similar to those of the famous «plague doctors», except for the iconic crow’s head mask, which gave him a somewhat more friendly and warm appearance. He carried with him a black leather case from where he took out numerous tools to check her face and neck, which were the parts injured by Paimon.
        He swiftly used a mysterious cream on Octavia’s neck to avoid any kind of mark, as well as possessing plumage repairing qualities; thus, avoiding also that any injured or damaged feathers could be seen at any angle. On Octavia’s face he placed a towel covering a strange ice; this was to counteract any bruising or swelling that might occur on her face from the punch.
        —This ice is a blessing from the 9th circle. —Said the doctor with a good-natured laugh—. They never thaw. Just keep this in your beak for a few more minutes and you can go to sleep.
        —Thank you doctor, when you are finished you may leave. —Paimon ordered him—.
        —Don’t worry, Your Highness Octavia, it was nothing serious.  —The imp comforted her warmly—.
        After a minute or two, Octavia returned the ice-cloth to the little doctor. And the latter; bowing to them both, put away his things and withdrew from the alcove, leaving Paimon and Octavia alone again.
        —Next time, remember your place. —Paimon turned to tell Octavia—. Now let’s go to sleep, I don’t plan to be late tomorrow.
        Paimon went over to the bed and laid down; staring at the ceiling while waiting for his wife, she; however, once she felt better, she took her time to take off her dress, leaving her in just her panties and bra. She then proceeded to put on a soft, delicate dressing-gown for pyjamas, and against all her wishes, laid down with her husband, who immediately took her in his arms in an icy hypocritical embrace. Octavia’s heart could do no more than to be shattered as she felt her husband’s body touch hers lasciviously as they both succumbed to sleep.
        Morning came, heralded by the morning sun rising from the horizon and slowly beginning to illuminate the palace corridors. The plants reacted to the bain-marie of the incandescent sun, opening up to the comforting dawn.
        These same rays of light began to penetrate the window of the kings’ room, as well as that of little Stolas, who, as his little face was illuminated, his eyes reacted and little by little he began to wake up, and a new kind of crying began.
        —Octavia... —Paimon murmured to his wife, his voice muffled by his pillow—.
        Octavia let a minute pass; from one instant to the next the crying had stopped. Although Paimon depended on his wife for much of Stolas’ care, for he could not be bothered with the duties of a father; he constantly ignored the fact that there were nannies in the palace who were charged with supporting Octavia in the care of the infant, always thinking them unnecessary and really of no real benefit to the running of the palace –but it was thanks to them that Octavia could watch over her son while seeing to her royal responsibilities. Things like feeding him, changing him, or making sure he had done his business were the main tasks of these nannies. And Octavia; despite being a genuine mother, didn’t really do a lot of the heavy lifting, which many other mothers would consider "cheating", or not being a real mother –but Octavia did her best to be one anyway. She always carried the name Goetia with honour and sought to honour the idea that she had been commended for being an outstanding demon and of true virtue, and according to her, caring for Stolas was part of that virtue. However, one who has not lived this frivolous style of life might disagree, seeing Octavia as an uncaring and unkind mother to her creature.
        This thought constantly invaded the queen’s mind, which helped her to get up; and although little Stolas no longer cried, he heeded his call.
        So, it was every morning the same, and so it was happening this day as well. Octavia rose and ordered her staff about as was the custom, giving the primary orders for the new day –preparing the bath for her husband and herself, grooming little Stolas, and though the staff already knew these things; Octavia considered it part of her job to keep track of them, asking that everything be ready for departure and announcing the tasks to be accomplished in her absence.
        —Good morning my prince. —Octavia sang softly as she entered the baby’s room—.
        —Good morning, your highness. —The nanny on duty replied—.
        Good morning Rym. —Octavia responded to the greeting—.
        Rym was the main nanny, followed by her two daughters who assisted her. A little taller than the common imp, that quality served her well enough to carry out her tasks, for the Goetia being demons considerably larger; that made their offspring a larger as well.
        Octavia approached the nanny and took her little boy in her arms. Who, unlike last night, now showed great joy and playfully played with his mother’s beak.
        —We’re going to bathe him now, and from there we’ll give him his first food so that you can travel in peace. —Rym informed her—.
        —Very well. I’ll come for him when we’re ready to leave. —Octavia concluded—.
        She then returned the baby to her and went to the next part of the palace. She checked things like the gardens, the courtyards, the kitchen, among other areas. As is quite obvious, Octavia’s role in the palace was paramount.
        While this was going on, the nannies were bathing little Stolas, who playfully ruffled his feathers in the water like a human bird while the women fought to clean him. The little prince bathed in a large cast-iron tub, a great fashion in the human world at the time. The tub was painted in purple colours and thin layers of gold decorated the edges, and the water faucets, a large curtain rested at the back, which could be closed if the user wished for some privacy –though this was not yet the case for the little boy; he did not even understand the concept at his young age. The bathroom –like the bedroom –was decorated on the walls with the same patterns and decorations, but in a different colour, this one more whitish; as is customary for bathrooms to be decorated, to give that air of cleanliness and purity that we humans adore so much to the point of forcing us to follow these schemes and archetypes without sense or value but that when we normalise them give us a sense of order and logic. We might as well decorate our things and houses in all the colours of the light spectrum and find order in that disorder; and let ourselves be carried away by the emotions they emanate from us –making our surroundings somewhat more pleasurable. But the very need for vanity and beauty is an endless conflict where the only winner is the one who feels superior because the objectivity of the environment does not matter in the end.
        But I digress too much in my thoughts and must somehow give the poor maids time to finish Stolas’ bath, which does no service to describe or write down; when it is more fruitful to describe the denouement, where with great attention to detail they comb and dress him, in fine and beautiful clothes. With very cute little black trousers and a white shirt of soft fabrics –followed by a little red waistcoat with gold buttons and a tiny cape of the same red, tied around his shoulders. They would put on his tiny crown and send him back to his room, where they would then sit him on the bed for when his mother came to pick him up. The last step was to fix the pram. A steel pram adorned with layers and layers of different fabrics, with a seat made of pillows and a lovely roof to cover the sun. The four little wheels with a shimmering planned shade made them look like precious stones.
        In the parents’ room, Paimon waited for his bathtub to be ready, while he quietly undressed. Every morning Paimon started by stretching his body because the bed, although the most comfortable of all, was not suitable for his body –so every morning he woke up with some pain in his back or, in the worst case, his whole body. The doctor had already told him that it was probably not the bed but his lousy lifestyle and his constant state of stress, which in turn fed his lousy temperament and character, but it was something that he could not accept as he was sure that he was perfect.
        Of the three members of the family, Paimon’s bath was the longest –Octavia could do her routine that I have just roughly explained; at least three times. It all started with immersing himself in his tub, which was decorated in the same way as the prince’s tub, with the only difference being that it was big enough to cover not only his body but also his wife’s if they wanted to bathe together -which was happening less and less every day as Paimon was doing more and worse acts of adultery and misandry. Deeply and strongly, he ran the water between his feathers. When it was time to put on soap the process was even more violent; normally he would have someone help him carve out the hard-to-reach places, but he refused because he was sure he was the only one who knew how one should do it. His vanity made him repeat the process twice and then groom himself in front of the mirror two more times as he dried his body more and more. He used this as an opportunity to admire himself and his body, inspecting every part to make sure he looked perfect and flawless. When it came to dressing, he was practical, using magic to make the task easier. The only reason he didn’t use it in other parts of the process was simply for the idea that this way he would work his muscles a little, which would allow him to maintain his shape.
        The last to do so would be Octavia, who was of the three the most elegant at bath time, not taking her time, but not rushing it either –washing and scrubbing herself with great attention to detail, but with the gentleness with which you caress a silken fabric. Lovingly touching her whole body in a highly feminine and sensual way. After the bath the care was the same, applying make-up and dressing with exquisite precision in the details that brought out her innate beauty.
        
        ***
        
        It was time to leave. Octavia picked up her little boy from his room and rested him in his pram hugging his stuffed rabbit that I had previously described to you, reader. The idea was that this way you would get the idea once and for all how much he loved this toy and remember in your past if something similar happened to you. A toy or a blanket that you never let go, and that wherever you went it accompanied you in one way or another –and that if someone took it away from you, the power of your cry was such that as if by magic you immediately regained what had been taken away from you. In the same way Stolas loved that cuddly toy.
        Quickly they all climbed into the carriage and left for the social event. A pre-planned breakfast with Crocell.
        The carriage was like everything I have mentioned so far –ostentatiously ornate. The carriage made of steel with ornaments all over clearly based on the gothic idea. Painted black and with gold leafing on the patterns. At the front there would be a seat for an imp or some other creature to drive; but there were only two infernal horses tied to the chariot by magic manifested in the form of chains that seemed to be made of cloud or purple gas.
        It was very important for Paimon to see Crocell that day, but it had become a necessity after the fight he had with Octavia yesterday.
        Gossip was the main reason for these meetings, Paimon was Lucifer’s lackey and to demonstrate his ability to control he needed to know about the actions of the other kings, as well as other demons of importance, and Crocell was so to speak the most trusted informant –but at the same time he was the one who had Paimon’s back when he stepped out of line. I don’t blame you for thinking this was too much of a coincidence given the events of last night, but you’ll have to believe me when I tell you it is –the breakfast had been planned in advance because of another similar event where Paimon had been found to be up to no good, and the idea was to discuss Crocell’s reward for helping him "hide" the problem. But now with a new one on the horizon, the payoff would have to be bigger, but Paimon knew exactly how to deal with that.
        A very dangerous skill of Paimon’s was his ability to handle the art of aristocracy and the balance of power –but above all, the value of that power. If the Goetia family were a board game, a chessboard would be the best metaphor for how he could play the roles of others –and today was a day to demonstrate those skills. What could he give him that matched his requests? It had to be something important, it wasn’t the first time Octavia had caught him doing things he wasn’t supposed to do; and he knew it was only a matter of time before she tried to talk.
        Crocell’s mansion was undoubtedly beautiful, though not as large as Paimon’s or the other kings, if anything half as large and a little more. But the architecture was still exquisite, a mixture of renascence on the outside and intermingled with the gothic art that lasted from the 12th to the 16th century on the inside. Where colours such as white marble and black danced with faint traces of bright red. This was also a construction made with a certain premeditation –for, as on the outside it looks pure and clear; and inside dark and vile –so was Crocell, appearing before exorcist who evoked him with the appearance of an angel, but the wickedness of a demon.
        Because of this image, and despite his low hierarchical level –Paimon always felt a certain aesthetic envy, looking more like his beloved Lucifer, literally; a fallen angel. Paimon could not live with this and so he kept him so close –which to his blessing Crocell never noticed, for Paimon was not so ignorant as to let it show.
        Another thing observable from the outside is the main entrance, which as such is adorned by two gargoyle statues one on each side of the mansion, with bat-like wings and imp-like bodies, but thin almost to the point of malnutrition, you could see their bones through the skin, these types of imps, by the way, were once the ancestors of the current imp, serving as soldiers of hell before the celestial war, slightly larger and more fearsome, and although these statues lacked colour these imps were red as clotted blood and their wings black as the darkest night, where neither moon nor stars illuminate the scene in the slightest. In addition, a small garden showing the perimeter with a dwarf shrubbery. And in the surrounding area a small grove of trees to separate it from the houses in the crowd.
        Another quality of this place was the background sound you could hear anywhere around the perimeter, where you hear the ambience that would otherwise be impossible to find there –water running, birds singing, a campfire faintly burning, footsteps in dry grass –it was Crocell who had enchanted his home with his own magic, generating these sounds in the same way he does with humans. It was certainly a place that, if it existed on the plane of man, would be a wonderful place of meditation, tourism or source of inspiration for any artist.
        In the back area there was a large courtyard with many beautiful plants, plus some white cast steel tables with their pair of chairs, you would think that the sounds would come from the grove or from this courtyard, but as I said, not so.
        As Paimon’s carriage arrived at the mansion gates, two hellhounds stood guard.
        Hellhounds are anthropomorphic, wolf-like creatures. In times of war, they were the scouts, now reduced to security personnel and even pets in some cases, taller than imps, you could begin to notice a pattern between the physical appearance of the creatures and their role in society. Loyal but fierce and capable of the same level of violence as the average soldier.
        One of the hellhounds quickly opened the door and signalled their arrival, while the other stepped aside for an imp butler to rush in to greet them.
        This particular little guy, head of the other imps in the mansion, had a rather disturbing face –with short but coiled horns like a mountain goat and a deep voice.
        Immediately he opened the carriage door and out came Paimon, Octavia and with her, little Stolas who was still in his little pram –which at this moment was slowly levitating to the ground by Paimon’s magic. The little boy loved to float, so you could hear him laughing.
        —Welcome, Your Highness! An honour to have you here with us. —Said Crocell’s wife, who rushed out to greet them, Crocell following at her side—.
        —Paimon, your highness! —Crocell greeted his king cheerfully, his voice deep—. I thank you for accepting our invitation to this refreshment.
        —Crocell, my friend, you know why I am here. Theia, as beautiful as ever. I have it on good authority that your granddaughter inherited your beauty. —Paimon replied in a serious and grave voice, denoting his manhood—.
        Crocell, also known as Pucel or Procell, is the forty-ninth demon mentioned by Solomon. He is a duke of hell; great and powerful. He appears in the guise of an angel (probably to deceive humans who invoke him) and speaks mystically of occult things. He teaches the art of geometry and liberal sciences. At the command of the exorcist, he produces great noises, like torrents of water, even though there are none. He heats the waters and discovers the thermal baths. He belonged to the order of the powers before his fall, as Solomon declares. He rules over forty-eight legions of demons.
        Crocell, who appeared to men in the guise of an angel, was not so different in hell. Following the traditional Goetia look, Crocell had the humanoid appearance of a hybrid between a raven and a harpy eagle, with ash-grey plumage on his body and soft shades of dull white adorning the feathers of his head. Unlike Paimon and Octavia, Crocell had a wing of absolutely black feathers on his back, but only one wing, not two –as if incomplete. Eyes as black as night were lost in his plumage.
        Theia was Crocell’s white, almost celestial-looking counterpart. She would seem out of place were it not for her personality. Her body and plumage matched that of a white dove, and she was dressed in the same colour as her plumage. Her clothing was reminiscent of the Greco-Roman era of Socrates or Diogenes. Her appearance, although she looked pure and chaste, this hid her demonic identity.
        With the ability to give the one who invokes her, knowledge about the earth, its plants, animals, geography and everything that points to the earth as the mother of all life.
        A woman proud of herself and her husband. As dukes they did an excellent job. Of the 23 dukes in hell, they saw themselves as the best; but this was an idea that was shared among all the dukes, what Crocell and Theia used to defend their argument was their friendship with Paimon.
        —Your majesty, you honour me with your compliment. —Theia replied, her voice feminine but dark, like that of a psychotic woman—. Oh, and little Stolas, how adorable.
        —Entering his second cycle, and still refusing to speak. —Octavia replies, smiling and laughing, with her eyes on little Stolas—.
        Stolas only responded with a chuckle and a babble; he did not speak; but he understood what he heard. His mother approached him, scratching his plumage under his beak –his head turning clockwise in response, screeching happily.
        —He knows it’s better not to talk if you have nothing good to say. —Paimon replied, looking at him—.
        Octavia bristled at the comment, to her it always seemed that Paimon hated his own son, but it was that Paimon was proud of his position and wished the same of his son –that he would be powerful, intelligent, a full-fledged demon worthy of being an heir to the Goetia if need be. Even as a child, he treated him coldly and strictly in the belief that it would shape him from a young age.
        —Well, let us not waste time, your majesty. —Crocell insisted—. Surely, you are all hungry.
        Little Stolas began to babble and stretch out his short hands.
        —It seems the little prince agrees with me.
        They all entered the Crocell mansion and walked to the backyard. Meanwhile the conversation continued:
        —What are the reports from the 1st circle? —Paimon asked—.
        —The flow of souls has stabilised. —Crocell sounded relieved—. Your highness Lucifer was right.
        —Remind the presidents of their job; if a condemned man becomes too strong it will be their job to deal with the problem. If they prove incompetent, let them call in the knights, and they’d better have died first.
        —Adam was supposed to have them in control during the cycles.
        Crocell was beginning to sound annoyed as they all sat down for breakfast. Delicious fruit of all colours on big plates, bread, fresh water, coffee, and eggs.
        —supposing is not going to get us anywhere. Besides, that man condemned his whole species; I wouldn’t expect anything from him. —Paimon remained calm—. See our breakfast as an example, gluttony. Men are always hungry, so much so that only recently a king of theirs; with the excuse of eating as soon as he got up, called it breakfast, as if he had invented it. And their offspring, so hungry. They made a book with the idea that the young should eat with their parents in order to ferment this idea.
        Paimon picked up an apple, from between his claws came out a small worm that immediately began to penetrate it. But as it entered the apple, a different worm came out; twice the size, swallowing the first and devouring the fruit until nothing was left behind. Only it remained, moving between Paimon’s claws again and again.
        —See this worm, for example. It grows as much as you feed it. It eats too much, and you will run out of fruit, then it will want to eat life and everything in its path.
        The worm managed to “jump” from Paimon to the table, heading for the large plate of fruit, but upon reaching it, the demon burned it alive in fiery fire that did not stop until it had disintegrated every trace and ash.
        —If you don’t stop the plague before it wipes out everything before you, you alone will be left to sustain it. —I don’t care whether Adam does his job or not, we will do ours. Never underestimate the ambition of the men or you will be next on their list.
        —I understand, Your Highness.
        At the end of breakfast Octavia let Stolas play free in the garden, while she and Theia went off to pursue their own talk away from their husbands.
        Little Stolas was having fun playing with the plants that lived there, unaware of his surroundings, even babbling to them as if he could hear them.
        —Now that we are in privacy, Crocell, did you do what I asked you to do?
        —No one will know, your highness. But if they talk-
        —No one will talk. —Paimon interrupted—. Besides, I have a new problem.
        —I will be happy to help you.
        —It’s Octavia.
        —I understand... a pity; she is a beautiful woman.
        They continued to talk about Octavia and the fact that she knew of one of his many adulteries. If she investigated, talked, asked, or discovered more; she could easily rat him out to Lucifer, being unable to imagine the consequences of failing to do his direct bidding.
        
        ***
        
        On the other side of the palace, Octavia was already telling on her husband to Theia, who, like Crocell to her husband, she trusted the most.
        —Octavia, you know you can’t give him away. —Theia advised her—. If Paimon finds out; before or after Lucifer finds out, he’s going to kill you. If not for yourself, do it for Stolas. How will he grow up without his mother? That man only sees him as his trophy, nothing more than to have his blood on the throne in case some other king stumbles.
        Both could see through the windows the two of them still talking. Imagining what they were discussing. Theia was perhaps an even better mother than Octavia, something within her and her connection to life itself allowed her to see in it, infinite potential, and she loved to see this potential climax in death. For her there was no point in the souls of sinners if their life was not exploited to the full. And she saw the same in the lives of demons.
        —Theia, you don’t understand, I found out this time and he didn’t care. How many times did he do it then? I can’t let him keep spitting in my face.
        —Lucifer protect you, Octavia.
        
        ***
        
        In the early afternoon, Crocell offered to let them stay for lunch, but Paimon refused without excuse.
        You could see on Paimon’s face a strong sense of conviction and serenity. But deep down he felt a deep anger that he would have to keep for a long time.
        Octavia looked distant and stoic, only changing to a faint smile when little Stolas turned to look at her. She thought about what she would do and whether she should do it. She thought about the consequences and whether she was willing to take the risk.
        But she knew that no matter what she did, she couldn’t save him –no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t stop the little boy from growing up under his father’s terrible influences.
        —I count on you Crocell.
        —Yes, Your Highness, it will be taken care of.
        After a good meal at home, all in silence while a servant fed the prince; away from the dining-room. The rest of the afternoon Paimon spent it in his studio, while Octavia spent it with Stolas, showing him how to read, telling him tales of the olden times, stories of human history and fables and so on.
        Stolas listened attentively, loving to see his mother’s magic as she read, telling not only in voice but also in visualisation what the story was saying. To see against a background of the colour of the cosmos a constellation in the shape of a duckling behind others who gradually leave him alone, or a girl who danced and danced until someone had to chop her feet off so she could finally rest as her feet kept dancing away by themselves.
        Octavia would read to him and sing until he went back to sleep.
        She must rest too, she was not yet sure what decision she would take; and she would definitely not take it lightly, but if she must –she would look after the little one first, then she could look after herself. Time is short on this plane, but lies are short-legged, and truth always catches up.


        Paimon, who had to wait until the coming of a new possible heir was confirmed, became impatient with each of these nights –someone who was normally serene and could take his time to act and who recognised eternity as a concept, rather than a metric unit, could not wait.
        He knew well his own strength, his own power –but to know your strength is also to recognise your weaknesses and to know that even in immortality there are limitations. And it was to combat those weaknesses that he needed a true heir, Stolas; sure, he was the first choice that presented itself, but with the slow progress he saw in him and the high expectations he placed on his shoulders –he saw himself in need of having to try again, to make sure that behind him was someone worthy. And he had to do it before Octavia betrayed him –if she really intended to.
        So Paimon procured Octavia for all that time. It almost seemed that, if he set his mind to it, he could be a wonderful husband and excellent father –but after so many attempts, he was no longer fooling anyone in the palace, and it was simply to ensure that whatever was born from that womb was in the best condition –nothing more.
        Finally, the time came.
        According to demonic culture, the birth of a demon royalty warranted feasting, gathering and congratulations all around; a whole ceremony full of gifts and fun, the hope of a future leader who with great power would bring pride to others and carry the name of hell in their blood, if not before, then during, or after pregnancy this would have taken place –so it was curious then to see Paimon taking everything with the utmost secrecy while the midwives helped Octavia with her new egg. As if it were a crime, judging at all times the actions of everyone in the room, even the mother who bore the brunt of it –as if she was not allowed pain and should carry her task with pride and honour, as if it was her responsibility to fulfil vain expectations beyond her control.
        Besides, the life of a new being has always been a cause of happiness, even in adversity one sees again and again the beautifying effects of a new dawn; wars ending even in the birth of a new king. But neither in Octavia’s eyes nor in Paimon’s were there any signs of positive feelings, or feelings in general. Only a desolate mother and a disinterested father as imps cleaned an egg that seemed to exist for no one there. The father not bothering to check its condition or comfort his wife, and the mother denying herself the pleasure of holding in her arms what had been in her womb for so long. There was still no one to judge, and already they both seemed to be disappointed.
        It only remained to think what could cause such contempt, what must have happened to discard the cards that had not yet been played. Or was it perhaps the fact that the cards served, were still waiting to be turned over by their player.
        Little Stolas, who had been awakened by the cries and scandals –managed to show himself with the slightest curiosity. Concerned again at his mother’s wailing. Still not understanding the context of his surroundings; his instinct was pure and sincere in the intention to care for his mother as she had cared for him, and his heart throbbed in grief and pain at not knowing what to do.
        —Is the egg ready? —Paimon asked—.
        Everyone present was silent, as if that answered the question –even Octavia, who had been through it all, refused to answer.
        —Then take it to the throne.
        That being said, Paimon began to get ready, wearing his usual beautiful clothes –while Octavia resigned herself to rest as the servants took the egg away from her.
        And while Paimon’s gaze was earnest and unwavering, Octavia’s slowly fractured in the struggle against weeping –hoping that perhaps sleep would hide her from such cruel feeling. But it was a losing battle, however hard she might try to win; for in the end, she knew that whatever the outcome was to come, the nightmare she once thought was over was returning from the grave to take its rightful place.
        
        ***
        
        The throne room was then enlisted at the king’s command.
        Closed windows, candlelight being the only illumination, and in the centre lay the egg waiting on a beautiful cushion which in turn stood on a small altar. Everywhere you could see Paimon’s seal engraved –even on the floor, where the largest of them all stood.
        Without being able to discern words, there was the whisper of a spiritual chant and like a flute; the wind could be heard blowing through the hinges of the stained-glass windows. This continued until Paimon enveloped everyone with his presence. Then all became silent.
        —It is ready, your highness. —With a bow the butler informed him—. When you give the order.
        Without a moment’s thought Paimon gave the signal to start and everyone left the place except for him, and the little illumination provided by the candles disappeared as if it too was forbidden to witness the ritual.
        This is where I depend on your imagination, on your ability to see in the dark. Imagine the figure of Paimon transforming into a darker version of himself, where the glow in his eyes becomes prominent and more intense –but that despite this glow all is still invisible. Try to watch the seals glow and move counterclockwise as one more appears on the surface of the eggshell. The curtains dance to a wind that does not exist, and the heat rises in the wake of a false fire.
        When you have all this in your perception then remove it and return to normality for the ritual has taken place.
        Now that the view returns to our eyes let us take note of the curtains returning to calm, of the candles relighting; of the windows opening and the sunlight coming back in –as Paimon withdraws leaving the egg behind, being consumed by ash; leaving nothing in its place. Except for the disappointed and annoyed look of a dark lord.
        All that followed was the servants cleaning up, leaving everything as they found it –without sharing words or opinions, they seemed accustomed to what had just happened.
        But there is something beyond that, the inevitable union between mother and child, a union that nothing can sever until death overtakes either of them. And whoever lives after this death knows and feels it –and this is the case of Octavia who, without being present or aware of it, could perceive the conclusion. The result of the ritual.
        
        ***
        
        —Another failure, like your excuse for a son. —Paimon demanded, slamming the door behind him—.
        —Stolas is your son too. —Octavia replied, still lying down—.
        On her face was the pain of childbirth, the pain of saying goodbye to the life that could not be, and the pain of confusion between being relieved that it was all over for now; and the fear that at any moment it could happen again –and that maybe, just maybe, the outcome will be different.
        Paimon was insulted by Octavia’s comment –looking her in the eye with a look of disbelief, understanding her comment as a way of saying that in part or in whole; it was not her fault alone. She was the mother; it was her job to see that her son was at his best at all times. For Paimon there was no time for frivolous things like innocence or childhood –if at any time he had to take his place, he had to be ready to take over.
        But Octavia was the complete opposite, loving her son as he was, with his innocence and simplicity –she fought for Stolas to have these luxuries as a consequence of her never having them. She knew Stolas was more than capable of taking over when he grew up, and she had confidence in his potential.
        —And that’s why he should act like so. —Paimon replied, insulted—. But instead, I have a child who can’t speak nor walk.
        —-It is a child. He acts like a child. —Octavia sounded increasingly annoyed—. If Lucifer asked us to be virtuous, I remind you that patience is one of the highest.
        —Insolent woman!
        Paimon prepared to slap Octavia, but stopped at the last moment, where his hand reached the highest point in the air before falling and delivering the blow –hovering in mid-air as the two stared into each other’s eyes, trying to penetrate the other with their gaze, the anger of the two fighting fiercely to show their superiority. Perhaps it was that Octavia wounded his pride, or perhaps there was another reason for the king’s sudden change of heart (if he has one), but ultimately the blow never connected.
        Silence then took over the scene as Paimon regained his composure and hid his hands inside his cloak as was his custom.
        —I don’t know what you’re trying to do with him, but he’s in my care from now on. —Paimon concluded—. If it turns out to be a lost cause, you’d better be ready by then.
        Paimon was leaving the room. Already he was immediately thinking of how he would deal with the prince’s upbringing, dissatisfied with the “results” of Octavia’s work; it seemed more like sabotage to his legacy –than upbringing.
        —And I will continue to give you failure after failure. —Octavia seemed to give up as her voice changed from an aggressive tone to a defensive one between words—.
        Paimon, dissatisfied with giving her the last word, threatened her.
        —Then I will look for someone to give me what I want.
        —Who? Your concubines? King Paimon’s son; a bastard?
        Octavia’s comment finished igniting the flame of anger in Paimon, who slammed the door behind him; and perhaps as a visual display of irony, he made his way to the wing of the palace where the concubines lived.
        Despite the fact that for the era; for the society, and the demonic royalty of the time a harem was not frowned upon –and was even influenced in its functioning by the same rules that applied on earth (even using these women as currency), Paimon opted for discretion, inspired by the order and control of the Ottoman empire, (To give an example, while the Ottoman sultan had no problem in using this building for royal events, or some parties, Paimon limited it only to the use of his pleasure).
        He forbade the concubines to leave their chambers, limiting who could access this area, and even filling them with luxury; with the condition of preserving their loyalty and obedience. He offered them wisdom and even the opportunity to “renounce” their position, but the fear of his wrath and power, plus the natural ambition of these creatures for riches caused an expected effect –no one dared to escape.
        Even getting to the harem was discreet, being a second palace linked to the main one by streets and alleys that likewise appeared to be ordinary roads, travelled and used by the people; unaware that they were inadvertently crossing royal territory.
        So was the security; though part of the royal guard, they dressed as a common guard in order to maintain the facade –and Paimon concealed his identity with metamorphoses if required. Everywhere you looked, there was a lie and an illusion covering that lie.
        The only thing that did not go unnoticed was the architecture, but in a circle where everything was seen to come from wealth; hiding in plain sight was not the most difficult. Thus, allowing the façade to be completed.
        Inside, the harem was as organised as the palace, with the main hall greeting you on arrival. Armchairs on either side on a raised floor, in the centre a decorative vase and in the corners two doors; one on each side, leading to new corridors filled with mystery and discretion.
        The left corridor led to the baths and the swimming pool, while the right corridor led to each of these women’s bedrooms, one following the other as a stable arranges the stalls of its horses. Finally, the two paths connected in a room the same size as the main hall but where there was only one large bed and the most beautiful decoration. If the whole place overflowed with status and riches, this room made it look like a humble inn, comparable only to the main palace –of course, I am talking about Paimon’s room to enjoy these women at whim and choice.
        
        ***
        
        —Patra.
        Paimon’s voice saying this name as he entered was command enough.
        Patra was a succubus. Similar to imps in appearance, succubae and incubi are creatures of semi-human appearance. But, unlike imps, these creatures retained their wings, and, as with imps –their use was almost non-existent after the war. Because of this, their wings were relatively small; tiny even, compared to what they used to be.
        Also, their horns were different, they could vary in many more ways, and they usually kept the colour of their skin. If their skin was pink, the horns would be pink, for example. In other cases, they would have black markings, or in others, completely black. One horn would also vary from the other; the two could be symmetrical and of the same colour, or one could be larger than the other, one black and the other the colour of their skin, and so on.
        We could say that these creatures were among the most chaotic to describe and it was impossible to generalise them. If you happen to be in hell one day, I recommend reading Giacomo Casanova’s "Dark Encounters: Tales of Succubae and Incubi". As he was in life, as he was in hell –they used to say of him before he was murdered in the circles of hell at the hands of Asmodeus himself, who despite loving to see the damned succumb to his pleasures, made it very clear that there were limits to what you could fuck with.
        Patra is in fact mentioned on more than one occasion and describes her as I will now: “A woman whom the word beautiful cannot cover even the smallest fibre of her seductive hair, who with an exquisite scent captivates your sense of smell and snatches it for herself.
        Everything about her is soft as the finest fabrics of Asia, her black hair and ashen pink body overloads your nervous system (if we still had one, anyways) until it shuts down, stealing your touch as well.
        Her voice is so soft and seductive that it calms your heart and makes it race; if that’s even possible. Her tone is as penetrating as her gaze that takes away your sense of hearing and makes you deaf to anything but her enchanting singing.
        Her perfect body, just the way I like it; and this from a man who has enjoyed every woman in his life –it was like a million bodies in one, and there could be even more. Imagine the most beautiful woman and multiply it by thousands –and keep that image, for by then she too will have stolen your sight.
        You lose the taste at the end, when you’re already in her charms and she kisses you with those honey flavoured lips. The last thing you’ll ever taste in your life, or in my case eternity, I’d thank God for this wonderful opportunity, but that would be sinning! Damn if we’re in hell what difference does it make, thank you, God for this beautifully killing woman!”
        Patra was undoubtedly the succubus among succubae and in Paimon’s harem she was the chief and somewhat his protégé –for he relieved her of all the responsibilities of satisfying him, as well as leaving her in charge of the harem as such. Her attire alluded to her position by being of the highest quality and far more ostentatious than what a concubine would normally wear. Or at least in Paimon’s system.
        —Your Highness.
        Patra replied as she bowed and marched to the living quarters, alerting the others that the master had just arrived.
        When Paimon arrived in his bedroom, his five concubines, and Patra were already there.
        —For you, my lord. —Patra made a reference and held out her hands—.
        Showing the others; as a vendor shows their tent to the people one sees passing by, and then she withdraws from the chambers, leaving the others with their king.
        From left to right you had 3 hellhounds, an imp girl, and another who looked like a mix of imp and succubus. In the same order their names were Livia, Cornelia, Faria, Mella and Mirra.
        Livia’s fur was white as the first snow of winter, like all her kind, her corneas were red as fresh blood and her eyes white with black pupils –of the 5 she was the tallest, she looked as if she belonged to a kind of winter wolf; her ears were long and pointed and her hair long and beautiful, reaching to her waist in back and covering half her face in front. Her tail was furry and seemed to be a soft, fluffy cloud. Her body was like an hourglass, her breasts small but beautiful and her ass was big. Despite her lifestyle in Paimon’s harem, she was always positive –perhaps because she was younger than the others.
        Cornelia had a coat in every shade of grey known to man and two others. Slightly broader in figure than Livia’s, but more accentuated in her breasts; it seemed that what one lacked, the other had. Curious when you took into account how close they were; even at this moment –they were next to each other. Although she had entered the harem with Livia and Faria, she was the least experienced as she was terrified of Paimon from the start.
        Faria was the least tall of the three; her body was also the most conservative, something that caused her a stir when she was the eldest between Livia and Cornelia –so she used to always stand at a distance from the two in an effort not to be bothered by them.
        Her fur was the same as that of a Mexican wolf, with shades of brown and shades of black and grey. It was almost impossible not to mistake her for a coyote; even more so when her personality was as aggressive as one.
        Mella, relatively tall for the average height of the imps of the time, with small, striped horns and deep red skin. She was also conservative in body –but no less sensual for that, her yellow eyes appearing tender while her red tail, long and pointed, showed her to be as violent as a scorpion.
        Mirra, perhaps the most neglected of the five; the result of a night of passion between an imp and a succubus. For this very reason she was taller than Mella, but because of her defensive position it was somewhat obvious that she was being bullied by the others. Her proportions were the largest of all and her figure the most attractive –her mother’s inheritance. Her skin was a shade between Mexican pink and red, with one horn striped like that of an imp and the other pink like that of a succubus.
        They all wore the same, a light cloth that barely covered their naked bodies. Each in a different colour; red, blue, purple, white and black.
        —Welcome, Master. —They all said in unison.
        Paimon was silent as he magically undressed in front of them –depositing his clothes in Patra’s arms, who took them away once he had finished undressing.
        The five concubines hurried to bed with Paimon: Livia with a cheerful and excited attitude, Cornelia with some nervousness, Faria with a more serious look than the others, and so on, with light, childish giggles or gestures. In spite of their adult age, they seemed to enjoy showing among themselves and with him, a certain air of innocence and submissiveness –showing pleasure at finally being able to submit to the whims of their master.
        —Whatever you wish, we will do for you. —Livia said seductively—.
        With the most extroverted attitude of all, she was the first to embrace Paimon –on her left side, hugging herself against him while Mella took over on the right.
        —And whatever you wish, you can do with us. —Mella continued—.
        Paimon looked into their eyes with indifference, but enjoyed admiring their bodies, having them on top of him was enough to excite him as they pressed their breasts against him without any problem. Cornelia, Faria and Mirra, who were the least assertive of the group, sat kneeling on the bed –Faria and Mirra on the right side and Cornelia on the left.
        Livia and Mella seemed to do all the work as they kissed the neck and cheeks of Paimon, who occasionally turned to look at them to kiss their lips. Gradually Paimon vented his morning tantrum by scratching or squeezing their buttocks –to which they responded with soft moans of pleasure, plus an uncontrollable wagging of their tails.
        But just to have fun with the two of them, it was not necessary to have called them all; so, he saw no alternative but to goad them into action himself. During one of Livia’s wiggles, he grabbed her tail by the root and pulled it towards himself –to which Livia reacted with a moan that disguised pain.
        The sudden movement forced her to wiggle her buttocks a little and flex her legs as a way of reducing the intensity of her discomfort, something Paimon took advantage of to run his fingers over her vaginal lips. Moving from pain to pleasure again, this was beginning to enrapture Mella, Faria and Mirra, while Cornelia remained inert and showing a pique of fear.
        Mella was quick to respond, running her thin but long tail around Paimon’s arm –enticing him to tug on it as well. But Paimon’s gaze now seemed fixed on Cornelia, further enrapturing Mella.
        After running his fingers over Livia’s crotch several times already, Paimon spoke:
        —Cornelia, lift your sister’s leg.
        They all turned to look at Cornelia as she fearfully grabbed Livia’s paw, who looked her in the eye, and she looked back. Livia knew that her sister was the most fearful of them all, and it helped her courage to look her in the eye when something happened around her that terrified her.
        But Paimon would insist on playing with her for a while longer.
        —Look down, watch. —He ordered her—.
        Gradually she obeyed and watched as Paimon presented her sister to her, his claws opening Livia’s vulva, who held back her moans (again in an effort not to frighten her sister any further).
        —I have five of you to attend to help me with Livia.
        Cornelia was beginning to waver.
        —We must obey, sister. —In a gentle voice, Livia reaffirmed—.
        After a few seconds and a strong intake of courage, she obeyed –performing oral sex on her sister and licking Paimon’s wet fingers.
        Livia did not want to take pleasure in this, but her body was stronger than she was, and she would inevitably continue to moan in pleasure at Paimon’s caresses and her older sister’s tongue.
        It was unusual to see the younger sister as the emotional support, but the life they’d had before the safety of the harem had made the younger one’s innocence the older one’s safeguard. Faria, who was the middle one, fulfilled the cliché better than Cornelia, being more overprotective –the jealousy she was feeling so far was not from wanting to take her place, but from wanting to prevent any harm coming to her, preferring to take her place as a form of rescue.
        Mella and Mirra, who had no affiliation with each other or with the hellhounds, only saw this as a sign of immaturity.
        When Paimon was finally satisfied with the act, he let them continue as he finally complied with Mella’s whim, pulling her tail –but unlike with Livia, he inserted his claws into her anus, making her scream.
        —Faria, start licking too if you’re not going to do anything.
        Paimon already knew that Faria was more concerned about Cornelia than doing her job, although she wasn’t bad at it either –even if it was necessary to give her direct orders so that she didn’t look like a mere statue.
        Perhaps it was a hellhound thing, having a long snout and long tongues; plus, a peculiar hot breath, which made oral sex a unique experience for the recipient –and Paimon was fascinated by it.
        In the end Mirra would be left watching as she tried to find her place in the orgy –another one Paimon loved to torment; for being a mixed race, the inferiority complex was ever present –but with one on each side and Faria between his legs sucking his cock, there was little left to do; what she was always left to do.
        Without Paimon giving the order she climbed on top of him and put her buttocks as close as she could to his penis and Faria’s snout. Faria’s job would become: to continue with the oral sex but making certain pauses so that when she lets go; Paimon’s penis would fall between Mirra’s buttcheeks.
        By the time it was her turn to put it back in her mouth, she would have to force it out of the way. What Mirra enjoyed would be the feel of Faria’s wet nose trying to push her aside to retrieve Paimon’s penis and consequently, the caresses of it as Faria moved her mouth up and down.
        It was as if he was playing with each other’s personalities, abusing their strengths and weaknesses. Maybe he got more pleasure from doing that than from the sex itself.
        The first few times; it was pandemonium, they criticised each other as they tried to please the king, and Paimon had to be more violent to show them their place. After a while, and with Patra’s guidance, the desired order would be obtained –and Paimon rarely deviated from the script that he himself implemented; these cases being when he only asked for one, two, or some combination of his choice.
        If it was the three sisters, he was sure to make Cornelia do something humiliating, he used Faria to replace Cornelia down the line and always started with Livia.
        If it was Mella and Mirra, he played with Mella, but I started with Mirra.
        But no matter what the mix, he always included Cornelia or Mirra –which the others saw as being his favourites. This provoked more than one quarrel after his visits.
        The same would happen later, for on command Faria would drop the act and force Mirra to be penetrated by Paimon; though forced was not exactly the right word when Mirra enjoyed being used and Faria enjoyed using her; with his supposed favouritism as an excuse, she would make her sit down hard or have Paimon penetrate her anally suddenly and then return to a vaginal penetration –anything involving force, discomfort or both; Faria would be in charge.
        Paimon also enjoyed fostering this false hierarchy, watching them take it out on each other was part of the pleasure for him.
        Mirra’s moans were not long in coming either, her body working with Faria’s willingly as she took hold of the hellhound’s claws; the more force Faria applied against her the more she enjoyed it, consequently Faria also enjoying the pain she caused her.
        Cornelia, whose tongue was beginning to dry up from so much licking, was the one who followed as soon as she stopped to rest when a signal from Paimon to tell her that she could made itself clear. Being taken away excited Mirra too somehow, and Cornelia being penetrated forced her to give a dry moan due to a lack of air and an already numb tongue –but her work would be rewarded as she received Paimon’s first orgasm.
        From there they would stay and watch while one after the other followed. Mella, Faria and finally Livia, with whom he would last the longest, as not having them all on him allowed him to play more; he enjoyed squeezing her buttocks and teasing her with the sensitivity of her nipples, if the subtext was visible; you could almost discern the king’s true favourite.
        When he was satisfied, Paimon ordered them to go and clean up, and as a punishment for not following his order immediately –he excluded Cornelia, who would have to clean him, as per instructions. Again, she and Livia stared into each other’s eyes as one went to wash, and Cornelia followed Paimon into his personal bathroom.
        
        ***
        
        —And how is her majesty the queen? —Asked the young hellhound as she cleaned one of Paimon’s arms—.
        —She is fine.
        —What about the prince?
        —In perfect condition. —Paimon sounded a little annoyed with an interrogation—. But I think the state of my wife and child are none of your business. Don’t forget your place.
        As the afternoon drew to a close and evening approached, Paimon returned to the palace to rest, and to indicate to all that from tomorrow he would be in charge of the prince. Cornelia’s question had him somewhat annoyed at just what he had gone to forget; the child seemed a disgrace; compared with what he wanted him to be.
        But Paimon didn’t want a son, he wanted a surrogate –and the wait to find out if he would be worthy was the worst part, and what worried him the most.
        
        ***
        
        —Your Highness Octavia, good morning. —Rym said as she heard the door to Stolas’ room open—.
        She could not conclude her good morning when she realised that it was Paimon who was entering and not Octavia. Despite the order given, it was still unknown how involved he would be –and by all appearances, it would be to completely supplant Octavia, leaving her to devote herself only to the bureaucracy she had been doing all this time.
        —I’ve come for the child.
        Rym handed Stolas into the arms of Paimon, who surprisingly knew perfectly well how to hold a baby.
        But Stolas did not feel safe in his arms, on the contrary –in his eyes there was fear, insecurity, and an instinct to flee. When Paimon lifted him up to examine him closely for his physical condition; instead of getting excited as he did with his mother, he kept looking at the ground and shaking his feet thinking that he would let him fall.
        —This is ridiculous. —Paimon said to himself, using his telekinesis to put him down—.
        Through it all, Rym stood watching, partly out of her own protective instinct for the prince and partly out of morbid curiosity at seeing her master take the baton –a sight she never thought she would ever have.
        When Stolas hit the ground, he immediately went into a crawling position, but with the claws of his paw, Paimon lifted him to his feet. Stolas again fell to the ground and got into a crawling pose.
        This continued for at least 3 times, for on this last occasion Stolas did not put his hands out to break his own fall –hitting the ground with his beak and bursting into tears, which were short-lived as he realised that his father was looking at him with a look of contempt and disdain, but above all; of disappointment.
        Finally, Rym withdrew as she could not afford to see the child go through such abuse and had no choice but not to intervene.
        By the fourth attempt, it was Stolas himself who tried to stand up, but fell on his buttocks, and ended the patience of his father, who with his magic lifted him up perpetually enough to keep him on his feet, and not end up on the floor again –from there Paimon left his room.
        –You will walk to the table if you plan to eat. —Paimon threatened as he left—.
        Little Stolas did not understand the situation he found himself in, he was waiting for his mother’s arms to hold him and spoil him; and there to take him to breakfast as they had done the days before. He was even gradually learning a little of the etiquette used at the table –mainly not to smear food on his face.
        Now he saw himself almost standing, Paimon’s spell only helping him to keep his balance and bear the weight that his little legs could not on their own. As the figure of his father disappeared, worrying Stolas even more as he instinctively tried to reach him.
        As usual, Octavia, who had risen early to do her chores properly, was already waiting at the table –and she eyed Paimon grudgingly.
        Paimon didn’t care, more interested in whether or not Stolas would make it to the table.
        —And Stolas? —Octavia asked with annoyance—.
        —If he’s hungry, he must be on his way.
        Octavia knew perfectly well that his legs were still too weak to support his weight and that if he were to walk, it would be clumsily. Worry immediately overcame her, forcing her to get up quickly. For this Paimon ordered her to do nothing:
        —My rule stands, woman. —You will not interfere with his growth any longer.
        And indeed, Stolas moved awkwardly forward; during the whole discussion he had hardly moved at all, and Paimon could observe him almost out of the corner of his eye. Disappointed at such a display of incompetence he resented it; and with signs, he ordered one of the butlers to fetch him –to bring him to the table and seat him in his perch.
        It was the same scene again as at first, Stolas sitting at a table where Paimon did not receive him; and now the little prince embarrassed, without really knowing why. It was enough to feel his father’s rejection to notice it.
        Octavia’s glance at Paimon could also be felt with disdain. She wanted to mock him or make some sarcastic remark, but her concern for Stolas outweighed all her hatred.
        Meanwhile, Stolas ate timidly bite by bite; watching the two in between, hoping not to be corrected for his biting of the food or something more.
        Ultimately, none of them enjoyed their breakfast that morning.
        
        ***
        
        As the day wore on, Paimon kept trying to make Stolas walk, forcing him to follow him as he worked. Stolas, who by sheer necessity learned to be cunning, found that he could throw himself on his father’s cloak and be carried by him. His weight was so insignificant compared to his father’s strength; and the magic he had conjured up to lift him, made it so he was almost as light as a feather.
        The palace servants tried not to laugh or warn the king of this; in a way taking the side of the queen and treasuring the innocence of the little boy. Commoners or other personages who visited or saw these two from afar, inadvertently took the same stance of silence –thinking that not doing so would anger Paimon in some way.
        Fortune had somehow taken the little boy’s side, and his father never noticed. He gave Stolas the order to walk and he was following it; for what Paimon concerned, the humiliation in the morning had been motivation enough –and now Stolas was keeping up with him without complaint.
        At one point Octavia noticed it too; she had the most trouble holding in her laughter, and the sight of her proud smile was enough to make Stolas feel comfortable with what he was doing as if in a way his mother was giving him permission for his mischief.
        
        ***
        
        As dusk approached, Paimon felt he had already surpassed Octavia by far, but something still bothered him.
        Stolas was still not speaking. The end of the cycle (the year, if you must) was approaching; the prince’s third birthday would follow soon after, it was about time he could do it without a squeak.
        So, he took Stolas to his studio. Stolas gave a little hop off from Paimon’s cloak to pretend he had walked, and Paimon lifted him onto his desk as you would lift an animal, or a plant. He took a deep breath and began:
        -Pa-i-mon. -he said slowly to Stolas. Say it, Pa-i-mon.
        Stolas stood silently and watched him charismatically, it seemed that his mischief with his dad had robbed him of all the fear he once had.
        —PA-I-MON.
        The little boy still did not answer him, if at all he babbled in the rhythm of his father’s accent –the nearest he had ever come to the idea of speech. Just as Paimon had mentioned Crocell; Stolas seemed to refuse to speak if there was nothing good to say.
        Somewhat annoyed, he even lowered the difficulty:
        —Paaaaaa —Paimon said, stretching out the vowel—.
        Not a word. Stolas was already more interested in the books and gadgets on his father’s desk than in his father himself, reaching out and grabbing for anything he could get his hands on.
        And Paimon took things away from him again and again, the pen, the inkwell, etc.
        —Speak up! —He shouted angrily, banging his fist on the table—.
        Stolas was immediately filled with fear of his father again. He wanted to jump, but no longer having the aid of his father’s magic he could only throw his weight backwards, almost falling if it were not for a lamp behind him.
        —You’re useless. —Paimon kept insulting him—.
        As the attempts passed, Paimon lost patience, and shouted still more at poor Stolas; for as the shouting increased, his fear grew, and the less noise he made –and therefore the less he obeyed. When Paimon seemed to reach the height of his rage, Stolas was self-conscious and hugged himself, his head bowed down, but his eyes looking towards his father, ready for the worst.
        Then Paimon took a breath, and returning to his calm tone, got up and prepared to leave the room. Paimon had tried with several words, which he considered easier to say or certainly impossible to say badly; so, as he went, he left Stolas on his desk, who, as his father walked away, left his defensive position and stretched out his little body again. But never out of sight.
        —If you want to come down from there, you’ll have to ask. —Paimon said as he walked through the door and closed it behind him—.
        Conveniently a servant was crossing the corridor and saw the scene taking place, so he doubled his pace as soon as he understood the context of the situation. Luckily Paimon seemed to have ignored him as he did not threaten him or speak in general after closing the door.
        The servant, an imp with half-red half-white skin, dividing him vertically perfectly into two equal parts, trimmed and neatly groomed white hair and small black horns. As soon as he was out of the king’s field of vision, he ran to the queen; he knew he couldn’t get him out without upsetting Paimon, but he knew she could at least persuade him –or at any rate, defy him.
        —Your Highness! —He implored for Octavia’s attention—. There is something you must know about the prince.
        Octavia was tidying up the plants in the back garden, something she usually did with Stolas to entertain him. As soon as she heard that something was wrong with her son, she didn’t hesitate to stop what she was doing.
        —What’s going on with Stolas?!
        —Your highness, please, I beg your discretion. —He whispered—. I saw his highness, the king, lock Prince Stolas in his studio. It would seem-
        He had not finished explaining the situation when Octavia was already on her feet and on her way. The servant kept imploring her not to be so indiscreet as she would give him away at once and feared for the king’s wrath –but Octavia already had this in mind of her own accord, she was to walk in all directions of the palace until she found Paimon or his son. Unfortunately for her fortune, she got the former. Seeing the king, the imp quickly retreated without a trace. For Octavia, holding back the rage was truly her most difficult challenge at that moment.
        —And Stolas?
        —It’s none of your business.
        —He’s my son, that makes it my business.
        —-You’ll see when it’s ready.
        Octavia would not take no for an answer, and showing little by little her real humour, she walked on at a brisk pace.
        Opening door after door of various rooms made it appear that he was looking for him; but she knew well where to go and how not to let Paimon suspect anything.
        —I forbade you to interact with the child, and you will comply with that order!
        She refused to answer, walking faster and faster until she reached Paimon’s studio.
        Octavia’s swift footsteps towards the door gradually alerted the little boy, who, like a sixth sense, could already discern that it was his mother who was running.
        All the time he had been alone he had not moved an inch from his place and was even beginning to worry that no one would rescue him from there, but feeling his mother approaching provoked in him an impulse of bravery equivalent to that of the most valiant knight in the court of King Arthur or the army of Alexander the Great, immediately crawling to Paimon’s chair (taking something like a leap of faith) and from there to the floor.
        Of course, being a small boy, both moves were met with a blow; and the second one was impossible for him not to cry for, and this was the final motivation Octavia needed to open the door and rescue him immediately.
        —You barbaric bastard! —Octavia shouted at him as she ran to carry Stolas in her arms—. What kind of a father does this?
        —The excuse that you call your son can’t even say his name, even if his life depended on it. —Paimon replied in annoyance—. Especially not with a mother who covers everything up for him.
        Octavia didn’t even bother to answer him, devoting her concentration better to her son’s cries; trying to soothe him as best she could, but nothing was working. As she gave up hope of comforting him, she tried other ways to make him feel safe; like clutching him to her chest and cuddling him.
        Paimon found himself growing more and more furious with Octavia, he was sure that it was this protective attitude that was holding back the child’s growth. So, he could only resort to intimidation.
        Without a second’s hesitation and in a violent act worthy of him, he snatched the child from her arms, intensifying the screams of the little one and ending up invoking the wrath of his wife.
        —Let Stolas go! —Octavia ordered him—.
        Paimon; while carrying the child by his clothes, with his free hand he slapped Octavia hard.
        —You have interrupted and ignored my orders enough. —He rebutted her—.
        Ready to get his message across; and as Octavia recovered from the first assault, he seized her by the throat –beginning to choke and lift her by the neck.
        —Now choose, you, or the child. -I threatened her as he lifted Stolas as high as his hand would allow.
        Stolas’ cries went on and on throughout the discussion, and Octavia’s panic to spare her son from harm was stronger than her rebelliousness, and as soon as she was able to trade her welfare for his, she did not hesitate to accept the deal.
        She didn’t need to answer the question either, letting her body go, she communicated her decision.
        With a ghoulish laugh that could barely be heard, he released her. Stolas, who was still suspended in the air, tried to reach her by stretching out his arms, but to no avail. Paimon then pulled him closer to her on his own and dictated his final rule:
        —You lay your hands on him again and it will be the end of him. —Then he addressed Stolas directly—. This is what happens to anyone who doesn’t follow my orders, kid.
        Stolas was terrified as Octavia tried not to look her son in the eye, fearing that eye contact would be enough of an excuse to provoke Paimon.
        And as he took him away, Octavia simply remained on her knees on the floor; wondering how it had all ended so badly.
        
        ***
        
        The rest of the night Stolas spent with Rym, who was also threatened from even informing Octavia of the child’s condition. And Paimon spent that night and the others alone in his room –Octavia would not sleep next to him from then on.
        
        ***
        
        Divorces certainly existed in those days, but they were so frowned upon and such a total embarrassment to either party involved in the situation; but there were certainly cases where it was more than inevitable. The only way in which this separation could be accomplished unceremoniously was to live their lives as separately as possible; Octavia ceasing to sleep next to Paimon would be the best example of this. Octavia had divorced Paimon, if ever by word of mouth; but never officially.
        To make matters worse, divorce would only give Paimon another excuse to take her away from Stolas or get rid of him altogether, as he would be left in total charge of him, and she would lose any chance to intervene.
        In addition to the social stigma, which harmed women more than men as well as their families, giving them the image of a defective or problematic wife, anyone in her situation knew that the best thing for both of them –and for the child, was to keep the marriage, however cruel it might be.
        This separation was also visible in other areas, such as when eating –where Octavia sat at the other side of the table; away from the two of them, or in the throne room with Stolas sitting to the right of his father.
        Public appearances were the only exception for the next few months (as this had gone on for a long time), precisely for the reasons I have just explained. But you could still see certain signs that something was wrong.
        Octavia’s gaze, Stolas’ now funereal silence and Paimon’s steady gait.
        This and more showed an image of the family that even the commoners themselves were not used to.
Somehow, everyone was beginning to sense that something was about to go very wrong. 
        


        











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