Asmodeus
Perched atop a gnarled oak like some gothic gargoyle, I, Asmodeus, the demon of lust, am currently engaging in the least dignified activity known to demonkind—spying on a mortal. Below me, the flicker of television light dances across the curtains of an apartment where my supposed mate, a witch named Tiffany, lives.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath, my demonic nature rebelling against the idea.
A witch—a creature that withers and worries over time is my mate? I can’t believe this. What makes it worse is that she probably has an entire shelf of sage ready to ward off the likes of me. Yet here I am, tilting my head in confusion, trying to unravel this cosmic joke.
Are we really meant to be together?
I watch through the window as Tiffany, her brown curls cascading like l
