Chapter 3
1175 Words
The frosting was a simple vanilla buttercream, but it was proving to be a theological crisis.
“The swirl is anemic,” Asmodeus declared from his cage, which Elara had placed on a sturdy wooden stool for a better view. “It lacks conviction. A true peak should speak of ambition, of a reach for heavens it can never truly possess. This… this whimpers.”
Elara paused, her piping bag poised over a chocolate cupcake. She had decided that maintaining routine was the key to not succumbing to existential terror, and her routine involved finishing the day’s baking. The fact that the day now featured a personal demonic critic was just a new variable to be managed.
“It’s a cupcake, Asmodeus. Not a statement on the futility of mortal aspiration.”
“Everything is a statement,” he retorted, his voice a low rumble. “Especially dessert. It is the last taste upon the tongue before the end. It should be memorable.”
She ignored him, finishing the swirl with a deft flick of her wrist. It was, she had to admit, a perfect swirl. He was wrong. It had conviction. It was a swirl that believed in itself.
“And the color,” he continued, his golden eyes narrowing. “That pallid, insipid white. The color of surrender. Of a flag waved before the battle has even begun. If you must use white, let it be the blinding white of a dying star, not the white of… of milk.”
“It is made of milk. And butter,” Elara said, placing the finished cupcake on the rack and picking up another. “What color would you suggest? The blood of your enemies?”
“Don’t be crass,” he sniffed. “A deep, volcanic crimson. Or the abyssal black of the void between worlds. That would be a statement.”
“Black frosting uses an ungodly amount of food coloring. It’s not cost-effective.” She piped another swirl. “And it stains the customers’ teeth. Bad for repeat business.”
“Your concern for ‘repeat business’ in the midst of the eschaton is both baffling and, I must confess, vaguely admirable,” he said, leaning his head back against the bars. “You are either the sanest creature I have ever encountered, or the most utterly deranged.”
The back door of the bakery burst open.
Elara jumped, sending a rogue squiggle of frosting across the counter. Standing in the doorway was Brenda from three houses down, her hair in curlers and a silk robe tied tightly around her waist. She was holding a small, yapping dog under one arm.
“Elara!” Brenda screeched, her eyes wide. “There is a creature defecating on my petunias! The HOA bylaws, section 4, paragraph 12, clearly state that all… all… fauna must be curbed!”
Elara blinked, slowly setting down her piping bag. “Brenda, I think there are slightly bigger problems right now. Did you see the sky? The… the knight?”
“I don’t care if it’s the Second Coming! My petunias are prize-winning!” Brenda’s gaze then fell upon the birdcage. Her eyes traveled from the rusted iron bars up to the impossibly handsome, brooding man contained within. Her jaw went slack. The dog stopped yapping and whimpered, burying its face in her armpit.
“What… is… that?” she breathed.
Asmodeus drew himself up to his full, albeit seated, height. A slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile spread across his face. It did not reach his eyes.
“Greetings, mortal,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a silken promise of whispered sins. “I am Asmodeus. I could make your petunias bloom with the eternal screams of the damned. It would be a fascinating horticultural experiment.”
Brenda stared, her face pale. She took a stumbling step backward. “I… I… I’m calling the board!” she stammered, before turning and fleeing, her robe flapping behind her.
Elara let out a long, slow breath. “You threatened my neighbor with hell-flowers.”
“I offered her a consultation,” Asmodeus corrected, looking immensely pleased with himself. “She was rude. And her familiar was irritating.”
“That was a Pomeranian, not a familiar.”
“A distinction without a difference.”
Elara was about to retort when a different sound cut through the air. It wasn't an explosion or a screech. It was a chime. Pure, clear, and resonant, it seemed to vibrate through the very molecules of the air, making the glassware on the shelves hum in sympathy.
Asmodeus’s smug expression vanished. His head snapped towards the front of the bakery, his body tensing like a drawn bowstring. The molten gold of his eyes seemed to harden into something cold and wary.
“What was that?” Elara whispered, the hair on her arms standing up.
“Trouble,” he said, the word short and sharp. “A different kind. Lock the front door. Now.”
The command in his voice was so absolute, so devoid of its usual arrogant drawl, that Elara didn’t think to argue. She moved quickly to the front of the shop, her heart thudding again. Through the glass door, she could see the street was now eerily empty, save for a few drifting motes of light, like golden dust caught in a sunbeam.
She twisted the deadbolt just as a figure appeared on the other side of the glass.
It was not a knight of light. It looked like a man, tall and slender, dressed in an immaculate, dove-grey suit. His hair was the color of polished silver, and his features were so perfectly symmetrical they seemed unreal. He held a simple, leather-bound ledger in one hand. He smiled, a bland, professional expression, and tapped a single, graceful finger on the glass.
The chime sounded again, directly in front of her.
“Elara, proprietor of ‘Proof & Provision’,” the man said. His voice was pleasant, but it carried through the door as if it weren’t there. “I am Sariel. I am here to conduct a celestial audit. Please open the door. We need to discuss the unlicensed infernal entity on the premises.”
Elara stood frozen, her hand still on the deadbolt. She looked back towards the kitchen, where Asmodeus was watching her, his face a stony mask.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Whatever he offers, whatever he threatens, do not let him in. An audit never ends in your favor.”
Sariel’s polite, unblinking smile remained fixed in place. “It will be easier for everyone if you comply,” he chimed. “We just want to take him into custody. There are forms to be filed. A hearing. It’s all very orderly.”
Elara looked at the celestial bureaucrat at her door. Then she looked back at the caged Demon King who critiqued her frosting techniques.
She made a decision.
She flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.
- Writer
