Resent awoke to an incessant scratching against the carriage door. While practicing earlier, he hadn’t occupied any of his hosts long enough for the fatigue of two souls residing in a body unaccustomed to the sensation to catch up with him. Only a fool would leave themselves to the mercy of hounds, especially when traveling the roads between the great cities, where ambushes from demons belonging to insignificant hamlets were commonplace. But left to his thoughts, with nothing more than the sound of the carriage wheels turning as the hounds steered it this way and that, his eyelids had gradually grown heavy.

  He yanked back the curtains and knew immediately that they had arrived at Vicearia, southeast of the capital. The carriage had stopped a short distance from the tall silver gates. Outside of which, hundreds of filthy, battered humans, who had somehow managed to elude their masters, were in line to be evaluated by the sentries. Some still had the hefty shackles of servitude around their necks that only the most rebellious of their species earned.

  Perhaps it was because positions in Dreadmus’ castle were coveted enough that humans murdered each other for them, that Resent’s own slaves had always been compliant. As a result, he never understood the tolerance some demons had for such defiance. With the various necessities human slaves required as opposed to demon servants, even one was a costly investment. In the rare case of disobedience he encountered over the centuries, if he hadn’t felt insulted enough to execute them outright, he had simply released them into the streets to fend for themselves. Those that avoided capture or death soon returned with an attitude adjustment, begging for scraps. Resent would have left them to rot, though, his bleeding-heart father often bore sympathy for them.

  Most humans, even those born in Hell and whose families had dwelt here for generations, harbored dreams of escape. Yet where Vicearia was concerned, they were all too eager to take up residence among the fallen angels, hearing not entirely untrue tales about how much better the quality of life for mankind was there. It used to be that the city accepted anyone and everyone, but the populace had become so rife with wastrels, that they had been forced to have a culling and grow more selective. Now, they mainly accepted those who excelled at a craft that could further beautify their city or enrich their culture. One of few exceptions were those aesthetically-pleasing enough to serve as some fallen’s plaything, at least until their youth faded.

  Impatient for a response, the hound with mismatched eyes pawed the carriage door open and poked its face in. As it met Resent’s gaze, it jerked its head to the side, urging him out.

  Resent rose, exiting the carriage and standing in front of the three hounds, the two older, less intelligent ones, slavering. He began to disrobe, tossing the battered armor aside, to make it easier for them to get at the meat. “Yes, yes. I have no intention of reneging on our—”

  “Hello!” the solider Resent possessed cried out internally. “Where am I? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Oh, what poor timing you have,” Resent said. “You could have died in your sleep. But then, whether you actually ever killed a demon or merely aspired to, you knew what you signed up for in taking up arms against us. This is the reward for your valor.”

  “Wait! What? What are you—”

  Resent ignored his protests, which inevitably devolved into pleas, instead warning the hounds, “Careful. He’s awake.”

  When the three had encircled him, the runt rearing back on its brawny hind legs for a lunge, Resent’s soul ejected from the soldier’s body. He didn’t even have the opportunity to screech before the hound’s fangs clamped down on his throat, the splatter of blood not out of place among the dark red flecks in the hound’s fur. After the killing blow was dealt, the other two darted in, tearing at the corpse before it could go cold.

  Having no intention of partaking in the inquisition humans underwent to pass through Vicearia’s gates, Resent didn’t bother possessing anyone waiting in line. Instead, he had his soul sink through the ground. He was blind this way, but unlike humans, the fallen were forever gazing up, lamenting the loss of their wings to such a degree that winged demons were prohibited from flying above a pitifully low altitude unless authorized by them. If he approached from the sky, he would be spotted within seconds, and angels, fallen or otherwise, made inhospitable vessels for possession. The clash of souls often eradicated any demon imbecilic enough to make the attempt.

  Resent drifted underground in a straight path for miles, relying on his hearing to guide him. Only when he heard the clatter of pots and pans, suspecting that he was underneath some lesser noble’s private kitchen, did he let his soul phase back up through the ground. Like demons, the fallen didn’t require nourishment to survive, but that didn’t mean those with the luxury to couldn’t enjoy a satisfying meal.

  Resent surfaced in the kitchen’s corner, keeping low to the floor, and out of anyone’s direct line of sight. Like most of Vicearia, it was unconventionally modern by Hell’s standards. The electricity powering the appliances was generated by the city’s wind turbines, all maintained by the select few fallen, such as Semiazas and Devika, who could manipulate the air itself. He only had a moment to assess the potential hosts, lest someone catch on, forcing him to slaughter the room of them. If he had any hope of getting to the palace, he needed someone with some measure of authority, at least among humans, so that his every move wouldn’t be questioned.

  He saw the head chef dressed in powder blue, dictating to the rest of the staff, and made his choice. He sank through the ground again, following the chef’s strident voice, fervent with a desire to please his master, then from beneath the man, surged upward the moment he paused his spiel to take a breath.

  Resent focused all his effort into keeping his eyes from transitioning, ignoring the hairs that spiked up under the chef’s winged hat. A number of the staff saw the strain he was under, and were looking at him, either in concern, or praying he was on the verge of a heart attack so that they could supplant him. As the difficulty of the task lessened, he tried to ignore the intoxicating smells that surrounded him. There was enough food here for a banquet.

  To not seem out of place, he grabbed one of the cooked meals resting on a silver platter with a dome cover. Clearing his throat, he ordered, “Don’t mind me. Carry on.”

  When Resent burst through the double doors at the kitchen’s end, he froze, at a loss as to what he was witnessing. He was inside of what might have been mistaken for a high-class human restaurant, if not for the clientele and decor. All around the white-and-silver room, lit by floating balls of angel radiance small enough not to be harmful to even the frailest of demons, the three different species, enemies elsewhere, dined together. The fallen angels with their skeletal wings sticking out their backs. Diavoliks dressed in sickeningly bright colors. And a few humans, who had apparently done well for themselves, despite living in a society where they were third-class citizens at best, and the easiest prepared meal at worst.

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  Of course, the hierarchy was still clear. The fallen had the best tables, and in their vanity, not a single demon from any of the other, less-humanoid races was to be seen. Eateries must have been a recent development since the invasion, with humans being dragged to Hell in greater quantities than ever before. Resent found himself hoping construction of such establishments had reached Dreadmus, though he doubted it.

  Resent was so confounded by all this that he nearly retreated into the kitchen to strategize. But angels lacked the energy sense that demons had, instead relying on their sight to distinguish the essence of the being they were staring at. One of several advantages alongside flight they had lost with their fall. If he was caught, it would be because of his suspicious behavior, or that a gutless demon sensed and informed on him.

  As Resent approached the exit, the two fallen on either side, dressed in pristine white armor, crossed their spears, barring his path. “Where do you venture, Chef Dimitriadi?”

  And there it was. Humans didn’t have as much freedom as it first appeared. Resent was certain he would need to abandon this vessel to proceed, but he decided to test how many of their traditions the humans had brought along with them. “I have a delivery to make.”

  This must not have been that unusual a statement, because the guards relaxed, looking more bemused than leery. “Why not send one of the impish couriers?”

  Ah, so there were other races here. Just out of sight, out of mind. Resent was becoming unnervingly skilled at sneaking around like a rat, not something royalty should be forced to stoop to, and the lie fell from his lips with ease. “Lord Devika sent her retainer to request my presence. If the meal fails to meet her standards, I presume the lord intends to have me make it—”

  The guard on the right lashed out with vicious speed, backhanding Resent across the face. It took all his restraint to keep himself from throwing the platter to the floor and hitting back much harder. If they had deduced he was a demon, they wouldn’t have ceased with a slap. But whether because he hadn’t studied the chef’s mannerisms closely enough, or the two had been standing here long enough to know no such retainer had come, something had stood out to them.

  “Lady Devika,” the fallen that hadn’t struck him corrected, fixing him with a flat stare. Resent could have hit himself for the misstep. He had forgotten about that ridiculous discrepancy between Vicearia and the rest of the cities. She was a lord everywhere else, but under the rule of the Goddess, a being so ancient her age was unknown, Heaven was a matriarchal society.

  “I beg your pardon, sirs,” Resent said, attempting to look sufficiently cowed, while committing the two perfect faces to memory so that he could come back in his own body and tear what was left of their wings out their spines. “I meant no offense. Slip of the tongue, now that she’s acting high lord in her father’s stead.”

  His meekness seemed to mollify them, as the guards withdrew their weapons, allowing him to pass.

  Upon stepping outside, Resent shaded his eyes with his hand. He had repressed a great deal of the memories created in this accursed city, including what a riot of color it was. Cyan, xanthic, viridian, ivory, and a myriad of other outlandish hues rarely observed in the rest of the great cities were dominant here. The climate, while nowhere near as frigid as the human world during winter, was among the coldest in Hell. One of the original angel settlers first priorities had been to freeze over every naturally boiling hot lake in the city. If not for the crimson sky and melting pot of inhabitants, one might be forgiven for thinking they were in Heaven.

  Resent walked down the road, paved with gleaming opalescent stones, spotting the inexplicably levitating isle that housed Semiazas’ palace, far off in the distance. Something he had discovered long before about the denizens here was that of the three species, the fallen were in the minority. It was a gulf that continued to widen, as their males were sterile, their females infecund, and their erstwhile brethren could only fall from grace so quickly. Yet whether because of the shallowness of their human sycophants, or that the angels’ supremacy was so deeply ingrained into every aspect of this city, they managed to retain their power.

  This chef must have been a minor celebrity in these parts, because Resent received nods and waves from a number of different beings. No longer another face in the crowd, selecting a host of some prestige was a double-edged sword. He moved at a brisk pace, keeping his head down, to discourage anyone seeking to strike up a conversation.

  “Someone stop that fiend!” a high-pitched voice screamed from behind him, and as he heard the pounding of boots, Resent nearly vacated this body at once. But as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a man running toward him. He was remarkably grimy for a resident of this city, carrying a wailing infant, far cleaner than he.

  Beyond him, a fallen waited in her garish carriage, drawn by a quartet of hounds with some of the blondest pelts he’d ever seen. She pointed a manicured finger out the window, and at the man’s back. Even after decades, Resent recognized Michaela. Like all angels, she was unaffected by the march of time, having ceased aging upon reaching her physical prime. The flaxen-haired fallen was one of Semiazas’ courtiers, and also his chief concubine. He remembered thinking her passing resemblance to Devika mere coincidence. Oh, how bereft of imagination he had been.

  “He’s my son!” the fleeing man yelled, as if that mattered to anyone. Fosterage of children who arrived outside the city gates with undesirable parents had always been routine. Many parents volunteered their offspring, but even those that didn’t, eventually learned that being the ward of a fallen was a better lot in life than most humans in Hell could expect.

  “You, there. Cook!” Michaela demanded, pointing at Resent now. “Seize that man or I shall have you drawn and quartered by my pups alongside him.”

  If Resent had the slightest inclination to assist her, she had just smothered it. Though he had seen similar behavior from her and other high-ranking fallen before, the indolence in allowing oneself to be robbed by a human, and expecting another to intervene on your behalf, never ceased to baffle him. Besides, if he won a fallen’s favor, an envious demon would expose him. Better to be done with this troublesome vessel entirely.

  But before his soul could leave the chef’s body, a large imp dove out of the sky, snatching the infant from the man’s hands, and lashing him across the face with his tail. The man collapsed, his head hitting the stone with a sharp crack, as even a demon half his size was still far stronger. Dead or unconscious, his blood sullying the pavement would be scrubbed away within moments.

  The imp examined Resent with a quizzical look in its black eyes. Having a keener energy sense than the majority of races, during the invasion, one of them had even been able to identify Rodrigo for a half-breed before Resent himself did.

  As he was wondering whether the imp would incriminate him, from her carriage, Michaela snapped, “Do not test my patience, goblin. Return my progeny this instant!”

  The imp scowled, giving Resent a subtle shake of his head, then turned and glided toward the aspiring mother with a strained smile, probably hoping for a reward.

  Nothing but a slave by any other name.