Son of the Devil - Book I of The Higher Order

Chapter One: Home Sweet Hell

Annoyed, I turned to the source of that godawful noise. "You can see that I'm already awake, you have eyes, why do you insist on irritating me so?" Azazel, a Soldier of Hell who doubled as my servant, had the duty of waking me every morning. She disliked the task, finding it tedious, it didn't help that she'd rather serve my brother, who was first born and had far more accomplishments even though he wasn't Crown Prince. Her little rebellion was to wake me from the doorframe using such an awful noise, close enough to hear, not close enough to kill.

I've already been awake for the past two hours anyway, so I didn't see why she had to make such a noise right now—unless it was to annoy me, because, in all fairness, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was. Despite being Crown Prince of Hell, she didn't respect me, or like me, or tolerate my behavior even though I could easily have her flogged for disobeying my wishes. She feared my father and that was the only reason that she served me.

Messed up? Trust me, I know. She worked for me and I could—though tempting, I can't say I ever would—have her beaten to death on a whim and yet she was more afraid of my father, and more loyal to my brother. Which I actually didn't mind, I didn't like that people were afraid of me because of their nasty little reputations. It wasn't fair. Not in the slightest.

I would never be able to make a name for myself here with my father's name and my brother's reputation hanging over my head like the blade of a guillotine just waiting to descend. An idea had been slowly forming in my mind on how I could prove myself to not just my father or the courts, but the people of Hell, today it would be realized. Azazel interrupted my thought process with a cough hidden behind her hand, "Your father requests that you wear something more formal before the event begins."

Damn, I thought, that meant that he was coming to watch my initiation. "Did my father have anything specific in mind?"

"Red and black." Azazel answered with an annoyed look. Of course, they were his colors after all. I rolled my eyes as I went to my closet and rifled around in there for something appropriate, as usual, it was a mess in there but it was an organized type of mess. Just how I like it.

Finally, I found something that my father would probably approve of, even though he'd never say it. He didn't give out compliments easily, or really at all. He was my disapproving parent who thought if I was left on my own I would destroy the entire kingdom. Like, really dad? I thought, I was several thousand centuries old, I could take care of myself.

I donned a modern red silk dress shirt and a tight-fitting black overcoat from the 16th century that went down to my knees with beautiful bright red diamond stitched patterns. The only reason I had such intricately designed clothing at all was because that was what was expected by my father—he could be a bit of an ass. Who am I kidding trying to be polite? He got his reputation for a reason, most of it was true, except the goat thing, that was a prank and it somehow stuck around through the centuries—and yes, I take full credit for it.

I added my bejeweled belt with my crimson ceremonial sword and dagger sheaths to the ensemble. I smoothed a wrinkle in my coat, running my fingers through the soft material. Contrary to popular opinion, Hell was actually quite cold, torturously so. Go figure.

Plucking my ceremonial sword from the wrack of weapons on the wall, I easily slung it into its sheath at my left hip. I gripped it with my left hand, feeling the unfamiliar contours of its silver handle beneath my palm. This wasn't a weapon that ever saw battle, it was made for the purpose of looking good with its owner, not for practical use, which made it useless to me. I grabbed my dagger and admired it, I kept the black iron blade sharp enough to cut bone and the red handle was a familiar comfort to me. Now, this weapon had saved my life many times, it had been designed for battle and it was my most priceless possession.

I sheathed the dagger and was two steps out the door when Azazel said, "You're forgetting something." Damn, she always knew, I thought. I hated the last piece of my formal outfit, absolutely loathed it, the rest I could tolerate but that stupid trinket I would easily leave behind in a heartbeat.

"Right, sorry." I sighed, crossing the room to my desk and pulling out the box that lay coated with dust because I refused to touch it unless necessary. I opened the ornate mahogany box and glared at the simple red iron circlet. It had a black insignia on it, the symbol of hell. It was a coiled serpent, it's mouth open, fangs glistening as it prepared to strike. There was a small drop of ruby blood encased in an unbreakable form of glass fixed where it's eye was supposed to be. I fingered it uneasily and propped it atop my head. I felt it's unnatural power rush through me and immediately wanted to wrench the damned thing off.

I turned to the mirror and flinched away once I caught sight of my face. That circlet wouldn't allow anyone to see me as I wished to be seen, as a normal guy with normal responsibilities, only as I was, and I was a monster who was destined to rule Hell.

I turned to Azazel, "Happy?" I snarled. She shrank away, my true face always had this effect on others, it didn't matter their station, I looked too much like my father. When I couldn't hide my face, my anger tended to flame up at unexpected times and could often lead to an accidental release of raw power. I put on my royal expression and marched past Azazel coldly. My father had taught me long ago that emotions were weapons against you and in order to rule they had to be taken from the equation.

An entourage of guards descended upon me as I exited the royal palace. They all wore the traditional black armored uniform with weapons hanging from every inch of their body. Their goal was to protect me, from myself and others, just in case something happened. We marched through the citadel and into the city proper, easily finding our way to the center of the capital where the arena stood, casting a shadow on everything but the royal palace itself.

It was meant to be a frightening sight, but I'd grown up with it so it was more imposing than anything else. Not to mention that my father spent more time there than anywhere else, which immediately made it my least favorite place to be, even though I spent several hours a day there for training.

The arena was five stories high in order for the entire capital and maybe even the kingdom to be part of the audience. Usually the arena was reserved for special occasions, the Prince of Hell's initiation into the Crimson Guard was one of them. There were maybe two Crimson Guard members still alive, they initiated one person every five centuries, and because it was so rare there was a huge competition for them to decide who was worthy of becoming a member. And there was only one way to figure out who was most worthy.

We arrived at the private entrance and I left the guards at the door. The only people allowed back here were those with explicit permission from my father, the Crimson Guard members, or the participants of the tournament. I wished that my father hadn't been waiting for me when I walked into the large locker-room-like area, it was a human thing. I abruptly pulled off the crown nestled atop my head.

My father was a large man, currently in his human-ish form he was six feet eleven inches tall and his biceps were five inches thick around. He could look anyway he wished, some of the perks of being the King of Hell and all that but he preferred a type. That type being large, muscular, and menacing. He had black hair and red eyes, a trait he had passed down to me, though his hair was always slicked in a pompadour-like style and his eyes were completely red whereas mine were just red in the iris.

He waited for me to speak first. "Greetings, Your Majesty." I said, bowing my head.

"Son . . . good luck in the tournament." He said, though it clearly pained him. Against my better judgement, my chest swelled with pride and I nodded my acceptance. "Win at all costs, even if it means that . . ." he said, pointing at my now human looking face.

I nodded, refusing to meet his eyes, "Yes, my King." Then, with that, my father, the oh so terrifying King of Hell walked past me, giving his son, his prince, the cold shoulder. It was utterly obvious that he didn't expect me to win the tournament. I was grateful that I had been the first competitor to arrive. He had always believed that I was weak, maybe he was right, but I blatantly refused to believe that. I certainly couldn't have my competition thinking the same way my father did. I had to be strong, it was what a ruler was, and I was the heir to the King of Hell, I would succeed him and I was worthy. I would prove it to him, one way or another.