Altar of Flesh (Prince of Lust #3)

1. Chapter One

1

CHAPTER ONE

T he two untamed demons left me in a mess of our combined fluids. I do not recall how much time passed. Something as ephemeral as time and how it slipped by felt impossible to comprehend in a place like Hell; things happened, or they didn’t, and I did not grow hungry or particularly tired. The exhaustion that did come was less physical than mental, and even that came in waves. But I found I could not sleep, as if my stamina revitalised itself over time without me needing to do anything.

In this sense, it became difficult to do much except think and, in thinking, fantasise. I recall after a bout of languid, far-away dreaming, where I dreamed in earnest about the demons that had violated me, I finally came back to myself and my body.

Around me, there was only desolation. The mirage of a church in which I had been so thoroughly destroyed had peeled away. The only evidence of what had happened to me was the fluids I laid in and the wounds in my hands and feet—though even these were already beginning to heal. Stickiness clung to my skin, and warmth pooled throughout my body and organs. Never before had such euphoria filled me. It was as if everything in me had come together: no longer was I a lost lamb but a man imbued with purpose.

My body ached in a pleasant way, and distantly, I recall feeling glad I could still feel things such as pain and discomfort, not only during sex but afterwards. Pleasure became all the more beautiful for it.

I looked down at the open wounds in my palms, the stigmata, and pressed my thumbs into the puckered wounds. Stinging pain hissed through my palm, and I pulled my finger away. I tried not to think about Christ. I tried not to compare myself to Him and his holiness, especially when my insides grew hot; this arousal towards pain was a new development.

It was my ego. My ego had poisoned my own well. Something about knowing I could never quite die had encouraged this perverse arousal. I could be pushed to my mortal limits, tested and encouraged along to my breaking point, and it made the promise of pain alluring.

Reborn as I was, having been baptised in milky unholiness, and with Asmodeus on my mind, I pushed myself up. I staggered away from the mess the three of us had made and walked for a long while. Once again, Hell became a nothingness, a desert of structure and direction. But I let my heart lead me, holding my purpose out like a beacon. To be Asmodeus’ pet, its hole to use. A once-priest so enamoured with its sexual power that he had abandoned everything, even his immortal soul, for the promise of Asmodeus’ touch.

I walked with my eyes closed. My bare feet pushed through the sand, my toes parting in the warmth. I opened my mind the same way I had once opened myself during prayer. Before, I’d hoped to be blessed with God’s favour, but now I longed to be spoken to by another. I wanted Asmodeus to choose me, to see my plight as I offered my body to everything in my path. I hoped this would be enough to lead my way.

It was then that some new territory of Hell shivered into existence. The plains of nothingness were swept up in a storm. I had to shield my eyes against the grating sand. My cheeks were whipped raw, but I persevered, pressing forward through the wild winds in the direction I was drawn towards. Time passed before the storm lessened, and as my vision returned, I saw that the desert had transformed. I had wandered onto a rocky outcrop. In the dark distance, structures carved from a black rock loomed above me. A castle-like tower blocked out much light, and like tar, it seemed to drip down to the ground in an overlapping cascade of rough, thin rock. At the base, a sea of black stone rippled with sharp edges and glistening surfaces. I stood in awe, convinced I was before the vast expanse of a city, though unlike any I had ever seen.

I felt as if I had passed through numerous levels or planes of existence; some part of me knew intrinsically I had fallen deeper into Hell and that my fate here had been sealed. If everything before now had been a simple test, then what was next? Could I even comprehend it with my mortal mind?

Human fear bloomed in my chest. I shivered, though I was not cold. Like an animal, I cast my head about, and I felt the emptiness of my flesh—I craved a warm embrace or to be filled. I wanted some creature to come forth and prove to me that I was wanted and worth having. But at that moment, I was suddenly exposed. I feared my humanness would make me akin to a delicacy. I did not know the politics of Hell beyond what I had recently learned. Plenty of lesser demons could want to use me for their own purposes and could keep me from Asmodeus for eternity. And my desire to be at Asmodeus’ side would be so obvious that, caught by the wrong conniving demon, I would be trapped here eternally, with Asmodeus just out of reach. Nothing could tell me if any of these creatures would entertain the bargain I had made with Asmodeus, even if it was the Prince of Lust and a King of Hell.

Walk, I commanded myself. Remember your duty.

A lifelong servant’s natural inclination to order is to obey. I had been in service to the church since I was a boy, and all defiance had long ago been trained out of me. My body understood what to do by the order of my own mind, and I disengaged the human emotion, leaving it trailing behind in the sand to walk further into Hell. If I faced those pitfalls, I would deal with them as they came.

As I walked, the landscape changed ever so slightly. Everything still glowed a deep red, like the sunset had been sliced open and the very core of the sun had bled across the land. The outcrop sloped downwards, and as I slid over rock and landed on a path beneath, I realised I would be walking into the depths of this crowded onyx city. Though perhaps the word ‘city’ conjures the wrong image: there was little noise and bustle. I heard nothing in the way of animals or music. The most I could hear was an ambient drone, a sad noise dipping toward mourning. The closer I got, the less certain I became of the structures I had seen. From afar, what had appeared as a municipality made of an intricate web of stone might have merely been just that—stone without structure or meaning behind it. A random assortment or a natural occurrence. The light hitting at odd angles, or my human prejudice carving meaning out of nothing. And I believe this new world heard me, for my sight blurred, and I became so uncertain about what lay ahead of me that I had to stop walking altogether. All clarity darkened, a vignette in my eyes that tunnelled my focus. With the intensity of the black stone ahead, I suddenly could see no light.

No , I thought and stopped walking. No, I do not like this.

It was such an innocuous, human thought. It seemed smaller than the actual feeling enveloping me. I do not like this —I can almost laugh now, even though, at that moment, a great terror gripped my heart. I think what happened was this: my body became aware of its nature, its mortality, its life. It felt as if I wasn’t meant to be there, and I cast my mind back desperately to the ritual I had committed to enter here. I had killed myself, had I not? I had stabbed myself with eager willingness—but perhaps what was happening was a delayed reaction. A spirit who could still feel his flesh. A spirit who was using it eagerly. I thought: well, then what is happening to me is to be expected. Despite everything, I was still human; I wanted clarity or certainty in a place that lacked either. The sudden fear that I wasn’t actually dead engulfed me, and it felt worse than believing I had truly succumbed in that Cave of the Sibyl. My body was lying in my own blood and that of Bishop Favio—and my body was also here, experiencing pleasure it had never encountered in life.

I hadn’t realised I had sat down until I heard the voices. When I peeled my head off from my knees, my location had shifted once again. Slumped in the dirt, back pressed against rock, and with only the great looming tower of black rock to orient myself, I had moved far to the east, so that the tower now sat to my left.

“What. . .” I wheezed.

Ahead of me was a worse sight. In a field of strange, prickly red flowers, several figures danced and whooped. They were dressed in cream-coloured sacks and were barefoot. Their faces were off-centre and drooping as if half melted. My chest seized at the sight of them, and I pressed back into the rock, unsure of myself or their friendliness. Their uncanny nature had me shivering—I knew they weren’t human, though they seemed akin to my form. Two legs, two arms, a head of hair, though theirs ran in wet, stringy clumps from their scalp. Demons, or spirits and the like. Captivated, I ended up watching their work, which seemed to be little more than dancing and celebrating. They paid me no mind. Momentarily ghost-like, I could view all the secrets of their ceremony.

I did not question how I had moved. Distantly, I knew my human nature would be a bane here—I felt certain I would one day go insane if I could not reconcile my mortal mind with the impossibility of all I had experienced. But for now, I pushed upright, weight drooping as I clung to the rock for purchase.

“It is human,” a voice said, croaking and ancient. I blinked and looked up.

All five figures were suddenly in reaching distance. Five faces—all of them slumped and dripping, skin in pulled layers drooping down—were peering at me. Their eyes were entirely black, both the whites and the iris drowned in ink-like colour. I screamed unashamedly. They moved with speed, cackling and dancing. Their long hair and their bodies looked like facsimiles of women—witches, hags, crones. I felt that’s what they were, or what they were akin to. Four moved away and laughed and danced, but one lingered.

“Eat,” it told me. It knelt down and reached its fingers forward. They were long, spindly things, with more knuckles than any human hand could possibly bear. The skin faded to a mottled grey so that the fingers themselves were shrivelled. The sight of them conjured the thought of mummification, and the nails were overly long and sharp. With odd gentleness, it plucked one of the flowers from the ground and held it out to me.

I—whimpered. It twisted the stem of the flower between forefinger and thumb. The bloom danced, spinning as the crones did. I focused on it.

Stretched red petals bounced with the movement. The flower was unlike any I had seen, appearing elongated and deformed. It had filaments so long they tickled my nose, and with the flower so close to me, it resembled some massive insect, antennas scraping at my lips.

“Eat,” the crone encouraged, and I seemed to have no preservation left in me. I enjoyed doing what I was told. Pathetically, I opened my mouth, and the creature pressed the bloom inside, nodding as I chewed.

Bitter flavour exploded on my tongue. The texture was soft and chewy, and I writhed as that awful, pervasive taste coated the inside of my mouth. I went to spit it out—and the creature was on me. It leapt up and pressed its hand over my mouth. I groaned and thrashed, but it was strong.

“Where art thou going?” the crone rasped. Gently, it scraped its long nails across my cheek and down onto my neck, where it massaged down my throat again and again until I swallowed.

I could feel the chewed flower as it slid down my throat, and I shivered in disgust, aware of its slow movement down my oesophagus. I thrashed again, and this time, the crone above me backed off. The creature, still on all fours, cocked its head and crept backwards until it was some distance from me.

Again, it asked, “Where art thou going?”

I did not know what to tell it. I worried it would keep me here with the rest of its fellows, preventing me from reaching my goal. But it was persistent. When I did not answer immediately, it croaked again, “Where art thou going?” and the rest of its brethren echoed the question whilst they danced and laughed.

I could have said Asmodeus, but I did not wish to reveal every secret of mine. I knew I must find one from each level of the hierarchy before I would come before Asmodeus, so I said, “I must find a President of Hell.”

The dancing stopped. This seemed to give them pause.

“To Malphas thou go,” a crone said. It pointed to its right, to my left—where the tower loomed in that grey distance, the red of the sun glowing violently at its back.

The distance baffled me. I coughed over a piece of that flower and sat up straighter. “How?” and then, immediately, “Will you take me?”

“We are not permitted to go there,” the crone in front of me said.

I blinked and felt somehow more in tune with my flesh. Frowning, I pressed a hand against my stomach and shook my head—which caused no nausea and no confusion. As I peeled my palm away, I saw with great delight that the wound on it had completely healed. Stigmata free, my flesh reborn. The same went for my feet, which had only the bloody smear of the old wound to prove there had ever been one.

The crone nodded at me as if to say, “Yes, I helped you,” and I did not know what to do with that knowledge. I had only my body to offer to thank it, and as much as I had told myself I did not mind what fucked me, these creatures disturbed me so wholly I wanted to rescind that statement.

“What did you feed me?” I whispered.

The crone pointed to another of the flowers it had pressed into my mouth. “Something of this plane, for thou to grow accustomed.”

“Walk this road and call out to Malphas,” another crone said. “Then they will come for thou.”

They watched me with equal parts interest and neutrality. I felt I’d had enough of this place and pushed up finally.

“Thank you,” I said, “for the flower.”

And I was told, “Thou may not like what thou wilt become during thy stay here.”

I spent more time walking and navigating along the road, which became little more than a tiny path on a standalone ridge. The cliff fell away until I was walking on top of a thin road on a sharp slope. To my right, nothing but opaque foggy clouds and the cries of the damned. To the left, that sleek black city, though it now appeared so deep and impossible to reach that I did not dare step off the path.

In the distance, the path curved, but the light and the fog made it impossible to see its end. So I walked, and I called out the name Malphas as I had been told, though the name felt unfamiliar to me. I did not know to whom—or what—I called.

“Malphas!” I cried out. My voice was wicked away from me by the expanse and the wind. The sounds of the damned drowned out my plead, and I tried to cry out with desire and joy more so than fear, as if I could lace my words with heat and the demon would hear me over tortured screams. “Malphas, I call to you! I summon you! I want you!” I cried.

But it wasn’t wholly true. I wanted Asmodeus. I wanted to see the true form of the Prince of Lust, to revel in the horror of its demonic flesh, to be rendered its whore. And so when I next called to Malphas, I said, “I am Asmodeus’ creature! But for this moment, I could be yours!”

As I said it, I was engulfed in cloud and fog. It dispersed slowly, and when it did, I could see that the path had abruptly stopped.

I halted before I cautiously crept closer to the edge. Stone crunched beneath my feet, and pebbles cascaded over the side. Nothing sat at the bottom of it except a descent into the depths of Hell, a pit of nothingness as far as my human eyes could ascertain. I glanced up. In the distance, covered by low-hanging clouds, the tower stood ominous and groaning. The wind whistled across the structure, whipping its fa?ade, and the sound that echoed out sounded bat-like—a screeching that had me shivering.

I remembered my nakedness as Adam and Eve had, and the cold pelted down upon me. Shivering, I gripped myself and said, “Malphas, President of Hell! Hear my plea!”

Again, that screeching sounded and delayed the wind struck me. I almost lost my footing and slid in the grainy dirt.

I looked up at the tower. “Malphas!” I cried again, and then, from the shadowy distance, something emerged.

It took time for me to comprehend them. They appeared to be little more than amorphous blobs bobbing on the horizon. But as they got closer, they resolved.

Four creatures howled in mid-air, their stout bodies held aloft by leathery wings. Their back legs were goat-like, and their were arms small and useless. They had wild grins on their faces as they flew towards me, and I thought: these are imps.

I’ll admit to being afraid. In the end, all I really wanted was a desperate, filling fuck. I would offer myself to Malphas gladly—but I did not want to be touched by these strange creatures. As they resolved and I saw what lay between their legs—thick members that leaked and twitched—my mind and my body revolted against one another. What happened in my stomach seemed to happen at the sight of any cock; an opening in the pit of my core, and my morals and my standards were gone. Clouded by arousal and desire, I was only half committed to running. But run I did. I turned with a gasp. Across that thin and dangerous path, feet slapping against the warm stone, I ran until my lungs burned.

But they were quicker than I could ever be. I heard their wings beating, the wind pounding in my ears, and as I half-turned to see my assailants, one dashed out at me.

The first one grabbed at my arm and lifted it high. The socket ached as it pulled against my shoulder, and I screamed, scrabbling to get away. Alone, the creature was strong enough to heft me just slightly off the ground. Its hands and feet were without claws, but the pressure of its grip still made my body ache; all my weight hung from my shoulder, and I feared it would pop out. When the other three joined the first imp in carrying me, I became weightless. They lifted me, and my feet kicked for purchase, meeting nothing but sharp, cool air. Every beat of their wings bobbed us closer to the tower, and I hoped this was a greeting party of sorts—that Malphas had heard me.

“Where are you taking me?” I shouted, but they did not reply to me. I was unsure if they could even speak. For minutes, I let myself be carried, arms outstretched in a pose echoing crucifixion, and when I asked again, “Where are you taking me?” one imp screeched in annoyance and walloped me on the head.