Chapter 53: At Your Expense

"Try not to take it too personally, dearie."​

"...really, someone get our guest a bucket, and maybe something to drink?"

This is the first time in years you've dealt with a headache without Ray there to at least reassure you. You settle on clutching onto your skull with one hand, biting hard onto the other, and trying to silence yourself. Trying to calm down. Trying to think of anything other than the demon's form, your friend's faces, and what you're getting yourself into.

There's the sound of a few demons scrambling to set something down next to you.

Ofelia is shouting.

Please stop shouting.

She's seething now about some sort of arrangement. There's arguing. There's a commotion, and you're entirely certain that you're missing something critical. Celegwen or the succubus— it's hard to discern which— one of them is upset.

Everything is moving so quickly. Everything is happening so fast. Are they already gone? Why is this happening? Why is Mercy working through me this way? What have I done wrong? Have I not done everything to serve Her? Is this punishment for my sins? Is this a trick? A ploy? Mercy, this headache—

There's something being shoved into your hands. It feels like a glass.

There's a voice. The high pitch catches you off guard. It's the imp that was talking to Ofelia earlier. "Hey, dearie? Take this. It's on the house. Remi's escorting your friends out personally. She'll be back soon— and if you want to keep up, you're going to need whatever help you can get, right?"

You don't feel anyone on you or around you. There's only mixed voices in the background, the lights coming back up, and the cold glass in your hands. It has a stem, though it doesn't feel like what the champagne was being served in.

It's at least something to hold onto.

Remigius seems to be announcing something to the other demons within the domain, but it's a blur of noise and agony. The pain lancing your head is almost enough to overwhelm the partially healed wounds adorning your back, arms and legs, but not by much.

The blend of nausea, ecstasy and torment is rapidly becoming unbearable. You need relief from these sensations immediately.

The fear of Remigius doing something else to torment you stays your hand, though you're desperate for relief. You lower the glass, keep your other palm to your forehead, and dare to whisper, "what's your name?"

"Lilya. Everyone calls me Lil."

"Lil. Your master would be very upset if you spoiled her fun."

"You're absolutely right, dearie."

"There isn't anything in this drink, is there?"

"Of course. It's all fruity. She suspected you'd like it."

You would— but that's besides the point. "Lil."

"Yessir?"

"Are aphrodisiacs fruity?"

"This one is."

You cough— scrambling to set the drink down— but the pain lancing your temples is so intense that it's difficult to see.

Feeling around with your free hand to find a nearby surface, you carefully set the glass aside. The imp obliviously continues. "There's a few other things. A minor enchantment to keep you awake for awhile, herbs and a few spices for the pain. A little extra I threw in for the injury and for healing. It's nothing crazy, dearie. Only a cocktail. Can't have you fading on her, now can we?"

"...is there anything you can give me that isn't laced with quite so much?"

"Pardon me, dearie?"

"Something for the pain. Not— pleasure."

"Remigius was very clear regarding your treatment during our stay, dearie. You know how it is. Is there anything else I can get for you while you're waiting? Some ice? A robe? We can get you cleaned up, if you'd like."

You're suddenly aware that you look like a shadow of the man that entered the building. Mercy's healing was substantially slower than usual. Through the haze of the agony coursing through your skull, you don't dare press on the variety of tender bruises, lacerations, and unhealed injuries for closer examination. It's sufficient to know that there's more than a few holes in the back and shoulders of your shirt. The sleeve that the succubi's whip shredded is entirely gone, and your lap is speckled with white gold and silver from the succubus grinding on you for more than a few minutes. The worst of it is from the acid that hit your back, which has become so painful that the relief all along your skin feels cold.

With a shiver— and no small measure of embarrassment— you at least fix the button that Remigius unfastened, try to fix your hair, and replace your hand to your temples.

Would Yech still think me cleaner than this demon if he saw me right now?

To your unending horror, the music is starting back up again. There's no doubt that your headache is here to stay with it.

Music

Clutching at your head, you try to compose yourself. It's hard to say if you're dreading or longing for what your host has in store for you, but you'd rather take it on with as many of your senses intact as possible.

I'm not paranoid. Right? This has been an absolute nightmare, and Remigius has given me no reason to trust her. I need to look out for myself. Using some caution has already saved me from what could have been a disaster. I need to stay alert.

"You can take the drink. I'll take some ice. Some bandages, and something decent to wear would also be appreciated."

The imp giggles. "Define decent?"

Mercy, grant me your compassion.

"I would like my skin covered. All of it. With cloth. I can make an illustration, if you'd like—"

"I was just teasin', dearie." The imp leaves the glass on the counter.

Your vision is hazy, and your frustration is making it impossible to concentrate, but it's easy enough to tell that she's lingering. "Lil?"

"Yessir?"

"Before you go— what can you tell me about Remigius?"

"I'm so glad you asked." The imp takes hold of the smaller chair Ofelia had been sitting in, slides it over, and sits a safe distance away from you. You appreciate someone respecting your physical space for what feels like the first time in ages, but her words are unnerving nonetheless. "She presides over all of the succubi and incubi within this domain, and all who serve under them. The master is very sociable— as I'm sure you're aware."

You cringe, trying to ignore the scrutiny of the demons around you. Though your vision is a blur, you can still hear their murmurings. Most of them are talking about the show that Remigius put on at your expense. The incubus from the corner is even loudly complaining about Celegwen's absence, and arguing with another demon as to whether or not Remigius' impersonation of her is an improvement or not over the elf's usual appearance.

Mercy, may she find it in her heart to forgive me.

Lil continues, unfazed by the growing chatter. "The master is of enough influence to command the attention of every other demon here. She only answers to Mother Idonea... and, I suppose, to you."

Alarm shoots through your spine like a hot poker. Your vision clears. "I'm sorry— what was that?"

"I know you heard me. The girl's got enough problems as it is, but she's been asked to not harm you on top of it all. It's very difficult for someone of her leanings to not feed, you know."

You take a very deep breath, murmur a swift prayer to Mercy, and try to not snap. "What would you call everything she did to me, then?"

"Foreplay, sweetheart."

"...may the Goddess take her Mercy on you and every demon that disgraces this fallen—"

"Try not to take it too personally, dearie. I'm just doing my job, and she's just a handful. I'm sure you'll be alright, though." The imp leans in, looking around the room to ensure no one is paying any attention to her. They don't seem to be, as she fishes something out of her blouse.

The demon takes one of your hands, feigning as if she was looking over the lacerations and wounds. Her ornate servant's attire is actually quite flattering on her small and curvaceous frame. Her small horns, blue skin and rows of fangs would be endearing— if they didn't smell so heavily of perfume and blood.

You don't shy away as she palms something into your hand. It feels like two small keys.

Lilya gives you a wink. "Try not to worry! She usually doesn't kill the ones she wants to keep around— and you're definitely her type."

I need to make this up to Yech somehow.

"Sit tight. I'll be right back."

You slip the keys as discreetly as you can into your left pants pocket.

Though it feels like your head throbs with every beat of the incessant music pulsing throughout the lounge, you lean back in your chair. By the time Lil gets back, you've assessed your wounds to the best of your ability, and gathered yourself enough mentally to have slightly relieved your pain.

The imp leaves a black and gold smoking jacket on the chair next to you (at your request), along with a matching pair of pants. You make quick work of thanking Lilya for the bandages, ice and herbs. The snickers and jibes of multiple demons about modesty are ignored.

You would set to dressing your wounds, but there are several problems with this: Despite everything, you're terribly modest. The majority of your wounds will take some time to dress and treat. The worst of them are on your back, making them difficult to reach or see. You have no mirror, no tools, and there's a commotion coming from backstage.

The lights are up, and it sounds like Remigius is heading back. You can hear her long before you see her. The demon's voice— with its uncanny resonance and divinity— seems to have been maintained throughout her venture to escort your friends out of her domain.

The sound of the succubus rapidly approaching from backstage carries over the building music. Her cries for you, for her beloved public, and for several things too indecent for you to internalize are difficult to miss.

The majority of the demons around you take their seats once again. Lilya bows slightly to you before disappearing from sight. You gather your things, shove them into your bag, and hiss as the skin along your back tenses.

Trying to favor your less-damaged-shoulder, you at least get to wipe your bleeding hands onto a few bandages, and shakily get to your feet. The only way you won over Yech was through asserting yourself. There's nothing this demon could do to you— nothing she can see, nothing she can say— that could be worse than the humiliation and fear she subjected your friends to.

There's nothing she could do to you that you wouldn't willingly do to yourself.

The multitude of demons around the lounge seem to have a fair amount of respect for you as you walk up to meet the succubus.

You are not afraid.

The curtains part, and Remigius— still in a twisted amalgamation of Mercy and Celegwen— strikes a pose. She's stunning. Her silver hair hangs behind her head, dripping with pearls as she arches her back. A slender hand reaches out to you with immaculate temptation.

The crowd around you breaks out into hysteria as you stride up to the stage, and permit yourself to be grabbed firmly by your collar.

The curtain closes.