“Scrimshaw,” I said, clearing my throat to draw his attention. He already had chocolate and melted marshmallows gumming up his lips. I must have lucked out in assuming that he would have a good time with an offering of s’mores.
“Hnnngh,” Scrimshaw said.
It was interesting how Scrimshaw always prioritized getting down and dirty with the piles of food we offered him before he bothered acknowledging anyone else’s presence. Did he do it just to make us uncomfortable on purpose? Or maybe all demons were like that. Both Mammon and Belphegor certainly seemed to enjoy making me squirm and keeping me on my toes.
Sterling held his cigarette between his teeth and clapped his hands sharply. “Come on, sweetheart, we haven’t got all night.”
Scrimshaw stumbled around in the flames for a moment. Fire never injured him, I noticed, something about his demon blood or his coppery skin, which made making s’mores a decidedly more intimate affair between him and the flames. This was a guy who could sit on the inside of a pizza oven, or watch croissants blossom in all their perfect layers, up, close, and personal. But the idea of imps going around molesting baked goods and sitting with their bare asses on cookie sheets made me deeply uncomfortable, so I squatted in the dirt, putting myself level with Scrimshaw.
“Hey. I wish we had the time, buddy, but we don’t. We need your help to check on Belphegor. It’s been days, and there’s been no news about the sword we need. Do we have to go all the way back to the Philippines just to find her?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, already internally groaning at the idea of running off on another fetch quest. And the pay-off for it was dying, too, or at least going into some weird kind of suspended animation, if Hecate’s vague explanation was to be believed. Kind of a rip-off.
Scrimshaw burped, then scratched his belly, leaving little streaks of softened marshmallow. “Won’t be necessary, and would be useless too, in fact. Like I said, Belphegor doesn’t like to keep a tether. There’s a good chance she isn’t there anymore.”
Asher nodded. “She did say that she was on vacation, whatever that means to a demon prince.”
Scrimshaw cocked his finger at Asher. “Exactly. So it’s really more a question of tracking Belphegor down. Which – you’re in luck – I’m happy to do for you boys, because your offerings have been absolutely top notch, lately. Just the best.” He kissed his fingers, the world’s tiniest, nakedest chef.
He waddled out of the campfire, his tiny feet burning the grass where he stepped, then flapped his arms at us.
“Shoo,” he added for emphasis. I wasn’t sure what we were clearing the way for, exactly, but the distance Scrimshaw was trying to put between us and the fire got me more than a little worried. Was it supposed to be a blast area?
I nudged Asher. “Get ready,” I muttered. “And pass it along. Like, just in case.” He nodded at me, as did Gil. Sterling lit another cigarette, and Mason carried on moping, though I did notice that he’d come a little closer to the fire, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“Oh, great prince Belphegor,” Scrimshaw called out, his voice deeper, larger, like he was speaking through a different mouth. “Heed the call of your most worthless servant. Almighty laziest, the most slothful among us, monarch of couch potatoes, arbiter of hell’s most comfortable king-sized bed. Hear me!”
Asher elbowed me. “Is that for real? There’s a perfect bed in one of the hells? Huh. Maybe downstairs isn’t so bad after all.”
“Shush,” I said, as the campfires ran the gamut of the visible spectrum, shifting into impossible colors. They rose higher, and higher, until the flames were as tall as a man. And out of the flames, that was exactly what appeared: a man.
I scratched my head again, blinking the blinding flash of the fire out of my eyes as I tried to refocus on the stranger’s face. He had to have been about Asher’s age, no older than twenty, and though his face bore similarities to the Belphegor we saw on Calaguas Island, this was clearly a different person.
Scrimshaw threw himself to the ground, his palms pressing into the grass. “My prince,” he said, his voice quavering with mock reverence. “Welcome. Thank you for hearing my plea.”
The man grunted, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, which had its hood pulled up and its elbows patched over with mismatched fabric. There were rips in his skinny jeans, too, and his canvas shoes had clearly seen better days.
“Uh, Scrimshaw,” I whispered. “We were hoping for an audience with Belphegor, not her skater boy assistant.”
But the boy heard me, loud and clear. He rounded on me, eyes flashing with malice and the deep, venomous annoyance of a mall teenager. “Where have you been, buddy? How many entities have you communed with all this time? We can assume any form we want, and you’re crazy if you think I’m wearing that bikini body out on a chilly night like this. Don’t be so stupid.”
I lifted my hands up, a quiet, wordless attempt at pacification. “Okay, man. I’m sorry.”
The boy pulled down the hood of his jacket, flipped his messy hair to the side, then pointedly rolled his eyes away from me.
“Ugh. So annoying.”
Okay, so that was Belphegor. That was definitely Belphegor.
Chapter 24
“Sorry,” I mumbled, scratching my head for the umpteenth time that night. “I guess I didn’t recognize you.”
“Just as well,” Belphegor said, his lip turned up. “I put a lot of effort into crafting each and every one of my incarnations. You should see the one I use to drive people insane.”
From somewhere near my feet, Scrimshaw shuddered.
Belphegor tossed his hair again, reaching inside one of his pockets for a smartphone, bathing his face in its soft, blue light. The demon prince-boy was every bit the picture of a brat, and I thought back again to how sloth could have so very many manifestations, just like the other deadly sins. In this skin, Belphegor was basically the consummate college slacker. I searched his clothes with my gaze, looking for the telltale bulge of a glass bong, or at least a baggie of marijuana.