The Dark Blooded Duchess. Ep1
A sharp knife

There’s a particular smell that hell is infamous for.

No, it isn’t the soot or the reek of flesh searing, bones melting, and organs charring. Nor is it the smell of anguish that spreads like some sort of nuclear virus.

The smell that only true Hellions and their inmates know is that of souls disintegrating into thin, or rather, thick air, and there is nothing else like it, for better or worse. `It is the smell of life, indefinitely being extinguished. Crushed. Destroyed. The kind of death where there is no coming back from. Except as one of us- demons.

For the umpteenth time this week, I cannot shake the feeling that I’m being watched. As a practicing witch, I’ve learned to trust my instincts above all and I know that whoever, whatever is watching me, reeks of bloodlust and malevolent desire. Other than that, I have no way to divine what they’re up to, I’ve tried.

Luckily there’s not much time left for them to do anything about it.

I shift (teleport) to my workroom which houses my magical equipment, books, ingredients, and most importantly, my new body. It’s concealed and protected by spellwork, of course. Using my magical sight, I check that it’s still there. It is, laying on the thick stone table top like the most patient vessel in hell.

Having kept things in my workroom in a fiercely meticulous fashion, I feared packing ahead of time would be a sure sign that I plan to flee. So I left it for the last possible minute and instead, I gathered little drops of preparation in the proverbial bucket and waited patiently to reach the falls. The exact moment that everything fell into place. This moment.

There is a large mirror with jagged edges that I use for scrying on one of the straightest surfaces I could create in here. This time though, I simply take in my reflection.

I’m tall for a demon, like half-giant tall, with a humanoid figure, which is common for royal demons but coveted by those who aren’t. The majority of my scales are smooth and blend together, resembling human skin. As for the large, shimmery black scales, they curve down my stomach and cover my privates (like that skimpy underwear the humans like), as well as on my outer thighs, legs, forearms, hands, and part of my breasts.

My elvin ears stick out from my, long dark hair, I flick an ear with my finger and enjoy the tickly sensation one last time.

I would miss this form.

‘Dutchess?’ A raspy voice addresses me from the doorway. Zagan, a tsegoyan demon with 6 more arms and four more eyes than humanoid forms, and nasty, leathery skin is holding 3 piles of clothes in his claw-like hands ‘I have the garments you requested, may I?’

‘Right on time’ I say formally ’do come in

He seems to juggle his arms as he moves around but really it is just my mind that’s completely muddled by how so many limbs move. He checks that he doesn’t knock anything over, and headed to the large workbench, which is currently secretly occupied.

‘On the altar’ I say, he nods obediently.

The altar is much smaller and he has to stack the third lot of clothes in the center on top of the bottom two so that he doesn’t knock any of my ceremonial items over. Once he’s sure they won’t fall over he stands back formally with the middle four arms behind his back.

‘Why don’t you show me what you made?’

‘Gladly’ he says, unfolding the first garment. It’s a pair of pants that looks ridiculously small to me now. But the measurements are for my new body, not my demon one.

He holds up garment after garment, all while he folds the previous one and stacks it in one of his hands.

I’m getting dizzy. One of my shadows says in my head.

Is he hypnotizing us? My second shadow says.

Is it working? I ask, amused.

Little bit. Replies the shadow.

I admit it is difficult to focus, but I urge my brain to do just that.

His work is exquisite - from pants to dresses, shirts, jackets and various accessories( that I meticulously designed myself) alike, all in varying shades of something called hell fabric. (I try not to think about what that’s made of.)

The tiny boots he made, are of a much thicker type of fabric, for durability I suppose.

‘Marvelous’ I say ‘You’ve outdone yourself.’

His face contorts into something that I think is supposed to be a smile, he bows his head ‘I’m most grateful for the praise, but if-’ he clears his throat (it sounds like swarming insects)

‘Yes?’ I walk up to him, slowly enough that he does not see what I take from the adjacent shelf.

‘If I could make a small request.’

‘Name it’ I say moving closer to him.

‘If Duchess could perhaps not tell anyone I laid eyes on you this day?’ his voice shakes ever so slightly.

‘O, because of the no-sight right?’ I ask, bending down to face him.

‘Yes, Duchess.’

I use my magical sight to locate his chakras, bred demons generally only have two or three - Crown, Sacral, and Solar (if they’re lucky). Made demons, derived from human souls, have only one.

Zagan has two. I have seven.

'Oh Zagan. You needn’t worry about any of that' I say.

I plunge my dagger into his dog-shaped skull, right between his eyes and into his crown chakra. Thick black blood squelches down my hands and I fight the urge to yurk.

‘I regret this’ I say, seeing the shock in his eyes ‘but it is the only way.’

His soul siphons into my dagger whilst his body dries, flakes, and rapidly crumbles to dust. Plenty of dust in hell so it should be easy enough to get rid of it.

His soul, however, I deposit into a hollow, spelled dragon egg. The murky brown essence flows from the tip of the knife and disappears into the scaled egg, which I carefully place into a box.

‘Don’t you worry Zagan’ I say to the box ‘I will protect you’

Sure hope you never have to protect me. Says my shadow.

I don’t need to. I counter You’re automatically protected because you’re me.

Annoyance flits through the bond that my twin shadows and I share.

I roll my eyes. I mean, you’re welcome.

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