Penemue

Apparently, "head minions" as Samael had introduced me to his colleagues, now that I was held guard in Hell and Samael decided that "because you're a lazy teen, filled with estrogen, and only care about birds or whatever, and freckle pens-

"My freckles are natural."

"I am going to employ you at minimum wage so you understand the value of money, Zoomer. Get the hell off TikTok." And teen Zoomers were good for one thing: serving girls.

"You're the one who watched gag videos on TikTok all morning, Boomer!"

"I'M GEN X, SWEETHEART."

"I doubt it, stupid demon.

I fumed in the smoky drawing room Samael and I had arrived at an hour before. Samael ignored me, grinning at some witticism his stuffy chauvinist colleague said as I held his stupid, asinine tray of French Riveria wine and stinky cheese. The only reason I did so was because Samael had promised me a salary – and cheddar, lots of it.

Samael had been meandering like a river as he lead me on a tour of Hell's offices, and I was enslaved as the wine and cheese girl. He reached for another cheddar cube - my cheese - and his fingers carelessly traced my breasts.

"Whoops," he said, smirking.

I was on the verge of smashing the goddamn tray over his head. Stupid Satan. I wanted to strangle him with his inky, snaky black hair.

His blue eyes flashed silver, and he winked at me like a horny wolf.

"Blech!"

"You like my tongue."

"UGH. The things you say. Are you deaf."

"Only blind, stupid mortal."

After saving my life and escorting me out of his mansion, he'd allowed me to see nothing, blinding me with his stupid cloak and whisking me off through a dank-smelling area in the basement that bustled with eerie sounds.

Voices raised in argument had echoed above, alongside laughs and the possible beep of a coffee machine. The dank cave smell had given way to an overpowering musky scent as he carried me in his arms. The air choked with tobacco and leather. For all I knew, Hell was an endless bureaucracy with surreal film noir board rooms.

Demon lords lounged in armchairs, smoking cigars as they pored over coffee stained papers. Ignoring the occasional horn and fang, they looked sinister, but mostly human. Not so different from the lawyers and corporate lackeys of D.C. Some were chimeras of man and beast, other demons were things I had no name for. It reminded me of last year's Halloween in Hell.

Their raucous laughter and husky voices fell silent when Samael entered. The room was of dark wood, with burgundy fabrics and imposing shelves lined with books that belonged in museums. It was 'off' in a way that could best be described as Dali's canvases left to drip.

"Welcome to the Judgment Department," Samael said coolly. "I haven't been here in a century."

A coffee-skinned demon brushed back his braids. Ram's horns crowned his head, and his hands were stained with ink. "Samael?" he asked cautiously. "Well, if it isn't the Flood. My good fellow." The bespectacled man rose, tall and willowy. He nodded his horned head low, looking like some Somalian god of the hunt.

Samael did the same. "Penemue. It's been decades." Samael surveyed the room. "How's the load? What generation are you on?"

"We're cross-referencing Baby Boomers at the moment."

"The verdict?"

"Over-indulgence is the general sin. That, and psychedelic drug use."

Samael frowned. "I thought we culled those during the 60s."

Penemue shook his head, smile ruthless. "No, some lived on. And now it is my great pleasure to make sense of their tie-dyed Woodstock capitalist legacy."

Samael snorted. "I loathe hippies. I was always partial to the 'Nam vets. We had some good times together, land mines regardless."

Penemue played with his tie, fingers restless. "Is that all? I tire of useless discussion." He spoke plainly, no insult in his frankness. I reeled mentally: back-talking Samael?

But Corpseboy just laughed. "Right, right. Don't let me distract you."

Penemue gave me a cursory glance. He raised his brows. "Cerberus' lunch? I thought he only ate virgins." He took the last bit of gouda.

Samael thumped me on the back. I winced. "No," he said, eyes keen. "The maggot is my associate. We have an exquisite deal in the mortal world. She works for free."

I narrowed my eyes. Before I could back-talk too, Samael whisked me off through a labyrinth of desks. The men - only men - eyed me oddly. Some with hunger, and not just the digestive kind.

"Penemue's department files souls awaiting judgment," Samael explained in between hellos to associates. I took the chance to get rid of the tray.

"Judgement? Where is the brimstone? The rivers of lava?"

"That's only reserved for the brats."

"Er, right. So how long does judgment take?"

He grinned softly: "It depends on the severity of your sins. The heavier the case, the longer the review. We want to be sure, beyond a doubt, that the ruling is correct."

"Is everyone punished?"

"Only those with egregious sins." We entered a smoky corridor filled with ornate doors. I wondered at the mythical beasts and foliage carved into the wood. "I am the Angel of Severity. I hold dominion over those whose veins run black with sin."

"So then people who have led good, heck, mediocre lives, don't come here?"

"Correct."

"Then what happens after, for them?"

"After what?"

"Well, you."

Samael looked at me cryptically. He smirked. "Ecstasy."

I nearly tripped on my feet. "After death?"

"Le Petit Mort, to be precise. I'm master of all deaths, big and small."

I groaned. He laughed. The corridor ended in an imposing black door. "What was the point of showing me that?" I asked. "But of course you won't give me a straight answer.

"I'm making rounds. It is a duty I've neglected for the past millenia. But your work ethic, Miss O'Connor, inspires me. You try so hard to cause trouble, I would be damned if I didn't measure up. Your existence challenges my manhood." He looked at my slyly, toying with the sleeve of his robe. Serpent cufflinks? Huh. "I won't be outshone by a mortal."