The Bittermooners

“Have you seen my new soul? I can’t find it anywhere.” The panicking demon ransacked the hell hole, overturning shrunken heads, torture devices and pamphlets for infernal vacations. Hearing the clatter, Lilith groaned.

She hated how forgetful her husband was. To be fair he WAS Apasmara, personification of ignorance. “Entity of annoyance would be more accurate.” Lilith muttered, dabbing more bloodshadow on her eyelids.

“My darling demoness, you sure it isn’t up there?” Apasmara called out from the dungeon. She rolled her eyes and blessed. “Hells bells, I’ve told you it isn’t here!”

Returning to the cracked mirror, Lilith continued to make herself ugly. She planned to be the most hideous succubus at the masquerade ball. Danse Macabre only came once a century, a rare event drawing creatures from every circle.

Last time, even Judas himself made a rare appearance. Now THAT was one hell of a party.

Lilith grimaced happily, reminiscing. During the drunken debaucheries, Apasmara had bumped into her with a sheepish grin. Her wings entangled, she struggled to get free and found herself in his scaly arms.

It was hate at first sight.

Now she barely tolerated his presence. The passionate flames of animosity grew lukewarm since they vowed to despise each other for all eternity. A crash shook the hell hole. Lilith winced at the noise, it sounded like something worthless.

Apasmara stuck his head through the floor, fangs drooping. “I think I lost it.”

Snarling, Lilith threw her spiked hairbrush. “You made a deal for that soul! Now what will you wear to the party?”

Apasmara knew she was dangerously close to throwing another tempest of fury. “Easy, my wicked one. Give me ten minutes.”

Hissing, Lilith asked where he was going.

Apasmara grinned toothily.

“Earth, of course. People sell their souls for anything there.”