From The Deepest Pits Of Hell

Chiara Icewing let out a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her chest—the kind that only shows up after a long-ass day of soul wrangling. The moment she cleared the threshold of the soul house, she let the glamour cloaking her demonic features melt away like sweat in Hellfire. No more humans or spirits to scare—just the sizzling, sulfur-laced breeze and the comforting scent of brimstone in the air.

Her Hellform shimmered into view, skin darkening to an eerie storm-grey shade, with black veins crawling up her arms and neck like ink in water. Her canines elongated into fangs, and her eyes brightened into a glowing, hellfire orange. Bone ridges peeked from her forehead like the hint of something that never fully formed, and small red horns curved out from her temples on either side of those ridges. Her dusky red wings unfurled from her back with the crack of joints that hadn’t moved for hours.

Being a Soul Reaper in Hell wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it paid the bills—if you considered eternal servitude and the occasional soul bonus a paycheck. And as Reapers went, Chiara wasn’t the worst-looking, but she sure as shit wasn’t winning any beauty contests either. She hovered in that awkward middle-ground: just demonic enough to send the newly dead running for the hills. Which, of course, completely defeated the purpose. A soul that wasn’t reaped didn’t get to move on to the afterlife—it ended up wandering Earth forever as a lost, confused ghost. That was one thing Chiara always tried to avoid.

With a stretch of her wings, she pushed herself off the ground and into the thick, hellish air. The temperature in Hell was always uncomfortable, a mix of heat and stifling pressure, but Chiara welcomed it. The journey home from Evaet, the Soul Reapers’ city, was one she took regularly. She soared past charred volcanoes, ruined cities, and rivers of lava that burned like liquid fire. All of it felt... familiar. Like an old friend.

Soon she veered toward WitherDroum, Hell’s oldest and most charmingly fucked-up city, with even the tallest buildings crumbling and falling apart. Situated in front of an active volcano, many of the walkways in the city were broken up or completely covered by burning lava. To Chiara it was far more than just a centuries-old city, it was home. This was where she lived, sharing an apartment with her brother Zaras.

Zaras, older than her by at least a century, was a celebrated warrior born with the raw strength and charm of a high-tier demon. Naturally, that earned him the enviable job of personal bodyguard to Lyvar—Satan’s spoiled, hormonally-overclocked heir. Lyvar was a disaster in a designer cloak with more power than sense, a mouth that needed stapling shut, and the mastermind behind some of the most outlandish pranks in Hell’s history. Zaras, however, had no patience for such nonsense, and the number of pranks greatly decreased after he replaced the previous bodyguard. Chiara wondered what fresh chaos he’d endured today.

She smirked as she touched down outside their apartment complex, a decrepit structure nestled in the shadow of a miniature volcano that liked to spit lava without warning. The sidewalks were cracked, half the buildings looked like they’d survived a demon riot (they had), and everything was wrapped in the constant hum of heat and menace.

Great Wyvisr above, she loved this dump.

She kicked open the door to their apartment and was immediately hit with the mouthwatering scent of something spiced and sizzling. Her stomach growled like a caged beast.

“What’s cooking, good-looking?” she called, kicking off her boots and padding inside on bare, slightly clawed feet.

Zaras stood in front of the stove, glancing over his shoulder at her with one eyebrow raised. “Thanks for noticing. I was feeling particularly sexy today.”

Chiara snorted and walked over to give him a hug, resting her cheek briefly against his solid stomach.

Zaras was a mountain of a demon, towering well above her at an intimidating 6′5. He was broad and well-muscled, his skin a deep reddish-brown that darkened to black at his hands and feet. His spiked ebony horns curved ominously upward, coming to a sharp point a good two feet above his head. His long hair—dyed a bright orange—was tied back into a low knot at the nape of his neck, and his huge black wings were folded neatly against his back.

Zaras’ demon type was that of an Incubus, which explained why he had the day shift as Lyvar’s bodyguard. His nights were spent walking the minds of human women, drawing energy from the sensual dreams he gave them. Chiara sometimes asked Zaras if he ever considered forming a relationship with one of the women who left an impression on him, and every time his answer was yes. Chiara didn’t blame him, human women were far more attractive than any of the female demons she knew.

“How was Prince Asshat today?” Chiara asked as he plated the food.

Zaras groaned like he’d aged a decade. “He had to sit in on Lord Satan’s court today. You know, learn the ropes, absorb the demonic gravitas, maybe grow a spine. He lasted five minutes before asking if any of the ministers had ‘a hot daughter he could bang to make an heir.’”

Chiara choked on her food. “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was. He said it with complete sincerity. Then when people looked horrified, he doubled down and said it was his duty to ‘continue the bloodline.’ When that didn’t fly, he acted like they were the ones overreacting. I counted five inappropriate propositions before he got booted. Then he tried to sneak out to the mortal realm. Again. I had to threaten to staple his wings to the throne. He called for his trainer before I could actually do anything,” Zaras said, smirking. “They beat the crap out of each other for a while after that, so at least something good came out of it.”

“Shagor’s flaming nutsack,” Chiara muttered, rubbing her temples. “If that brat ends up running this place without getting tight some manners, we’re all fucked.”

“Preach,” Zaras muttered, pouring himself a drink. “Oh, and speaking of things that make me want to impale myself, Ichoras asked me if you’d go to the Midwinter Celebration with him. Again.”

Chiara groaned, letting her forehead hit the table as she dragged her hands through her bone-white hair. “Wyverns help us, if that slimy bastard hits on me one more time I’m turning him into a pile of ash. How many fucking times do I have to say I don’t like dick before it gets through his thick skull?”

Zaras clapped her on the shoulder. “I told him again, plainly. You’re not interested in men. Not now, not ever.”

“Thanks, Z. You’re the only person in this place who actually gets it.”

“You’d cease to exist without me.”

Chiara narrowed her eyes. “Say that again and I’ll rip your wings off and use them as oven mitts.”

He was already halfway down the hall, flipping her off as he retreated to his room. “Love you too, little sis.”

Laughing quietly, Chiara cleaned up the dishes, then wandered to her room. She traded her reaper gear for pajamas, brushed her teeth, and collapsed into bed like she’d been tackled by gravity. She was out like a light.

Then, in classic Reaper fashion, the universe decided she’d slept long enough.

A beam of blinding light sliced through the darkness of her room, making her hiss and cover her eyes. A mind-link portal bloomed open, flickering with eerie white-blue flames.

“Fuck’s sake,” Chiara muttered, sitting up. “This better not be another lost ghost stuck in a sewer.”

“Chiara,” came the clipped voice of Master Vaiygrn, the Lady of the Reapers and Chiara’s ex-mentor. She was made entirely of sharp cheekbones, colder-than-death eyes, and unfiltered disappointment. “Car crash in your sector. Soul needs collecting.”

Chiara scrubbed her face with a hand. “Anyone dead I’ll miss?”

“Not unless you were fond of random mortals. Just go before the soul slips through.”

“On it,” she sighed.

Chiara was already grabbing clothes—tight black jeans, boots, jacket. With a muttered word, her glamour snapped into place. Her features softened, the demon parts melting into an alluring, human form: dark hair, pale skin, red lips. Pretty, but not too pretty. Just enough to get close to a dying soul without making them scream bloody murder.

The Hell Portal dropped her onto a quiet, twisting road lined with pine trees. Night was thick around her, and the scent of blood was fresh in the air.

She didn’t need to look far. A mangled car was half-wrapped around a tree. No other vehicles. Hit-and-run, probably.

She scowled. “Fucking human coward.”

Her Reaper senses kicked in—a soul was nearby. Scared. Flickering.

Then she heard it: someone groaning, dragging another body out of the wreckage.

Chiara moved closer so she could get a better view. A young man’s body slumped against the cold earth, his soul wavering faintly above him. The woman who’d pulled him free knelt beside him, breathing hard, blood trickling down her forehead.

She stepped forward. A branch snapped underfoot.

The woman’s head jerked up, but Chiara didn’t stop. Humans couldn’t see demons unless they were summoners, psychics, or—

“Please!” the woman screamed, making direct eye contact with Chiara. “Please help! My brother’s dying! I don’t know what to do!”

Chiara froze.

Oh.

Well.

Shit.