Chapter 24: Where’s The King?
The club was a living, breathing entity tonight, its pulse thrumming in time with the bassline that shook the walls. Shadows writhed like serpents, twisting and curling around the bodies of the damned who danced with reckless abandon. Dante leaned against the bar, his fingers drumming absently against the polished wood. His eyes scanned the room, but his mind was elsewhere—somewhere dark, somewhere bloody. The taste of heartbreak was still fresh on his tongue, bitter and unrelenting. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He’d just been here, drowning in the noise, trying to outrun the silence.
And then the air shifted.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t something you could miss. The temperature dropped, the music faltered, and the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath. Dante didn’t need to turn around to know who had walked in. He could feel it—the weight of that presence, the sheer, unbridled power that radiated like a black hole. He took a long swig of his whiskey, the burn doing fuck-all to steady him, and finally turned.
Lucifer stood in the doorway, his silhouette cutting through the haze like a blade. He was dressed in black, his tailored suit clinging to his frame like a second skin. His eyes—those fucking eyes—locked onto Dante’s, and for a moment, the world stopped. The Devil didn’t belong here. Not in this place. Not in this moment. But here he was, stepping into the chaos like he owned it. Maybe he did.
“Dante,” Lucifer said, his voice smooth as silk but laced with something darker. “We need to talk.”
Dante arched a brow, his expression carefully neutral. “Talk? That’s new. Usually, you just show up and start breaking shit.”
Lucifer smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be civil. Don’t make me regret it.”
Dante set his glass down with a deliberate clink and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want, old man?”
Lucifer stepped closer, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. “I need you to kill someone for me.”
Dante snorted. “Yeah? And why the fuck would I do that?”
“No strings. No ties. Just kill someone for me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Dante studied his father’s face, searching for the catch, the lie, the hidden agenda. But there was nothing. Just that cold, calculating stare that had haunted him for centuries.
“Who?” Dante asked finally, his voice low.
“Abaddon.”
The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Abaddon. The Destroyer. One of the few beings in existence who could rival Lucifer’s power. Dante’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not,” Lucifer said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “She’s become a problem. A liability. And I need her dealt with.”
Dante laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed through the room. “So you’re outsourcing your dirty work now? What’s next? You gonna ask me to mow your fucking lawn too?”
Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his calm facade. “I’m not asking, Dante. I’m telling you. Do this, and we’re square.”
“Square?” Dante repeated, his voice rising. “You think one job is gonna make up for centuries of your bullshit? Fuck you.”
Lucifer stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “You’ll do it. Because deep down, you’re still my son. And you know what happens when you defy me.”
Dante’s chest heaved, his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to scream. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, a single, curt motion. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Lucifer’s smirk returned, triumphant. “Good. I’ll be in touch.”
And just like that, he was gone, the air rushing back into the room as the music resumed. Dante stood there for a moment, his mind racing. Abaddon. Fucking Abaddon. He didn’t need to ask why. He didn’t care. All he cared about was the rage boiling in his veins, the need to destroy, to hurt, to make someone else feel the way he felt.
He turned on his heel and headed for the back room, his movements sharp and purposeful. He didn’t stop until he was standing in front of the door to the dungeon, the place where he kept the worst of the worst. He threw it open and stepped inside, the smell of blood and sulfur hitting him like a wall.
The dungeon air clung thick and metallic, tasting of rust and despair. Dante inhaled deeply, letting the familiar stench coil in his lungs – a balm sharper than bourbon. His boots echoed on the damp stone floor, passing cells where muffled whimpers died instantly at his shadow. He didn’t need maps or trackers. Abaddon’s presence pulsed like a rotten toothache deep within the city’s underbelly, a discordant note in Hell’s ambient hum. He followed the psychic resonance, a trail of spilled power leading him straight to a derelict slaughterhouse near the docks.
Inside, the cavernous space reeked of old blood and decayed meat. Moonlight sliced through broken skylights, illuminating swirling dust motes and the lone figure standing amidst rusted chains hanging from the ceiling. Abaddon. Tall, whipcord lean, her obsidian armor seemed to drink the weak light. Her eyes, pits of swirling void, snapped open as he stepped from the deeper shadows near the entrance. "Morningstar," she hissed, her voice like grinding stones. "Come crawling back to Daddy's lap?"
Dante didn't speak. He moved. A blur of black silk and ink, crossing the vast concrete floor in a heartbeat. His fist, wreathed in crackling crimson energy, slammed towards her jaw. She blocked, her armored forearm meeting his fist with a bone-jarring crack that echoed like gunfire. Sparks flew. She staggered back, surprise flickering in those void eyes. "Still got some bite, princeling?" she spat, regaining her footing, shadows coalescing around her clawed hands.
They clashed again, a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. Dante ducked a swipe meant to disembowel, feeling the wind of it ruffle his hair. He drove a knee into her gut, the impact shuddering through her armor. She gasped, doubling over. He seized her horned helmet, wrenching her head sideways. Her snarl was cut short as his forehead smashed into her temple. A sickening thud. Her eyes rolled back. The swirling void dimmed. She crumpled, a heap of dark metal and limp limbs on the filthy concrete. Dante stood over her, breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. He stared down at her unconscious form, the rage a living thing coiling tighter in his chest. Too easy. He needed more.
Abaddon groaned, consciousness returning like shards of broken glass grinding in her skull. Cold stone pressed against her cheek. Chains bit deep into her wrists and ankles, the heavy links bolted directly into the bedrock floor. The air here was different – colder, drier, thick with ancient dust and the faint, lingering scent of ozone and expensive cologne. She knew this place. Dante’s old chambers, deep beneath the Inferno Club. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced her fog. She struggled against the chains, the metal shrieking against stone. Futile. Immobilized. Utterly vulnerable.
The heavy oak door groaned open. Dante stood silhouetted in the doorway, holding a long, thin case. He stepped inside, the door thudding shut behind him. The only light came from a single, flickering sconce, casting monstrous, dancing shadows. He placed the case on a scarred oak table with deliberate care. Opened it. Inside, nestled in black velvet, gleamed instruments of exquisite cruelty: scalpels sharper than thought, bone saws, hooked probes, vials of liquids that shimmered with unnatural light. He selected a scalpel, its blade catching the firelight like a sliver of ice.
"Comfortable?" Dante’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual Detroit rasp. It was the sound of glaciers shifting.
Abaddon spat blood onto the stone floor. "Fuck you, Morningstar. Lucifer send his lapdog?"
Dante didn’t react to the insult. He moved closer, his boots silent on the stone. He crouched beside her, the scalpel held loosely. "He asked. I agreed." His eyes, grey and utterly lifeless, scanned her face. "But this?" He gestured vaguely with the blade. "This is just for me."
Before she could retort, the scalpel flashed. Not deep. A precise, shallow slice along her collarbone, parting skin like silk. Blood welled, dark and viscous. Abaddon hissed, jerking against her bonds. Dante watched the blood bead, his expression unchanged. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he murmured, almost conversational. "That little sting?" He traced the blade lower, along the curve of her breastplate seam, finding the softer flesh beneath armor plating. Another slice, parallel to the first. Deeper this time. Abaddon gritted her teeth, a low growl rumbling in her chest.
He worked methodically. Scalpel cuts became intricate patterns on her exposed skin – arms, thighs, stomach. Each incision deliberate, calculated to maximize pain without immediate incapacitation. He used hooked probes to lift flaps of skin, exposing raw muscle beneath. He dripped a vial of liquid onto an open wound – something that burned like hellfire and froze like the void simultaneously. Abaddon screamed then, a raw, tearing sound that echoed off the stone walls. Dante watched, his face a mask. No satisfaction. No anger. Just... execution.
He moved to her wings – magnificent, leathery appendages now pinned awkwardly beneath her. He didn't sever them. Not yet. He used the bone saw, slowly, agonizingly slowly, scoring the thick tendons at the joint. The grating sound filled the chamber. Abaddon thrashed wildly, screaming curses, promises of vengeance, pleas that dissolved into wordless shrieks. Sweat and blood slicked her skin. The stench of fear, pain, and burnt flesh thickened the air.
Dante paused, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, smearing Abaddon’s blood across his tattooed forearm. He looked down at her ruined form. The intricate carvings on her skin wept crimson. Her wings hung limp, tendons shredded. Her breath came in ragged, wet gasps. Her eyes, wide with terror and agony, met his. He saw no reflection of himself in those void depths. Only the abyss he carried inside.
He picked up another tool – a heavy, blunt-ended poker glowing white-hot from the nearby brazier. He held it inches from her face, feeling the blistering heat radiate onto her skin. "He said he loved me," Dante said, his voice still that terrifying monotone. The first flicker of something – raw, bleeding hurt – surfaced in his dead eyes. "He looked me in the eye and said it. Right after I fucked him raw on my bar." He pressed the glowing tip against the delicate skin of her inner thigh. The sizzle was obscenely loud. Abaddon convulsed, a guttural, choking sound escaping her as her flesh blackened and smoked. "Then he crawled off," Dante continued, leaning closer, his breath hot on her ear, "still dripping my come, straight into that little fuckers' arms." He twisted the poker. Her scream shattered into silence, her body going rigid then limp. "He let that feathered fuck touch him." Dante’s voice cracked, finally, a fissure in the ice. "He let him inside."
He withdrew the poker. The smell of charred flesh was overwhelming. He stared at the ruin he’d made of Abaddon. Her chest barely rose and fell. Her eyes stared blankly at the vaulted ceiling. The intricate torture felt hollow now. Empty. The rage had burned itself out, leaving only the vast, echoing void Dabi had carved. The pain remained, a constant throb beneath the numbness. He dropped the poker onto the stone floor with a clang that echoed in the sudden, heavy silence.
He stood over her broken body for a long moment, the flickering sconce casting long, wavering shadows. No remorse touched him. Only the cold, hard certainty of his own desolation. He turned away, leaving Abaddon bleeding and broken on the cold stone floor of his past. He walked out of the chamber, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a final, resonant thud, sealing the horror within. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by Abaddon’s shallow, wet breaths and the slow drip of her blood onto ancient stone. Dante walked down the dark corridor, the taste of ashes in his mouth, the phantom scent of burnt flesh clinging to him. The job was done. The emptiness remained.
The heavy oak door groaned shut behind Dante, muffling Abaddon’s ragged, wet gasps. The silence of the corridor felt thick, viscous, compared to the chamber’s raw symphony of pain. The coppery tang of her blood coated his nostrils, his throat, a layer beneath the stink of charred flesh and his own stale sweat. It clung to his silk shirt, a dark, damp patch on his chest. He leaned his forehead against the cold stone wall, the intricate tattoos on his back stark against the pale silk. The rage that had fueled the meticulous carving, the calculated agony he’d inflicted, was spent. Utterly. Leaving only the vast, echoing chasm Dabi had punched through him, deeper and more profound than any wound he’d ever dealt.
He pushed off the wall. The walk back through the twisting, torch-lit passages beneath the Inferno felt endless. His boots scuffed on stone, the sound too loud in his own skull. The lingering scent of sulfur from the club above began to seep in, mixing unpleasantly with the blood. He ascended a narrow, spiraling staircase, emerging into the relative brightness of the club’s back hallway, the muffled thump of the bass vibrating the floorboards. The bartender, polishing glasses, looked up. His eyes widened, flicking to the dark stain on Dante’s shirt, the flecks of crimson on his hands. He quickly looked down, busying himself with a bottle. Dante walked past without a word.
He found his father exactly where he’d appeared: a dark pillar of stillness against the chaotic swirl of the main floor. Lucifer stood near the same spot by the bar, nursing a glass of something amber that seemed to absorb the pulsing lights. He didn’t turn as Dante approached, but Dante felt the weight of his attention shift. Dante stopped beside him, close enough to be heard over the din without raising his voice. He didn’t look at Lucifer. He stared out at the writhing mass of damned souls, their laughter tinny and forced.
“It’s done,” Dante said. The words scraped out, his voice rough, stripped of inflection, of everything. Detroit grit worn down to bedrock.
Lucifer took a slow sip. He didn’t ask for details. He didn’t need to. His power, vast and ancient, would have brushed against the raw, broken energy radiating from the depths below the moment Dante emerged. He set the glass down with a soft click. “Show me.”
No question. A command. Dante turned, leading the way back through the hidden door, down the spiral stairs, along the torch-lit corridor. The silence deepened as they neared the chamber. Only the faint, wet rattle of Abaddon’s breathing penetrated the heavy oak. Dante pushed the door open, stepping aside.
Lucifer moved past him, his tailored silhouette sharp against the flickering sconce light. He surveyed the scene without visible reaction. Abaddon lay where Dante had left her, a ruin of blood and scorched flesh, wings mangled and useless, skin flayed in intricate, weeping patterns. The stench hit afresh – blood, burnt meat, fear, and the acrid tang of the chemical Dante had used. Lucifer’s gaze traveled slowly, clinically, over every incision, every exposed muscle glistening darkly, the blackened patch on her inner thigh. He noted the shredded wing tendons, the slack angle of her head. His expression remained impassive, a mask of cold assessment. He lingered only a moment longer.
He turned. His dark eyes met Dante’s. In them, Dante saw no approval, no disgust. Only the ancient, fathomless void. “We’re even,” Lucifer stated. The words were flat, final. A transaction closed in a ledger older than time.
Dante didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. The hollowness within yawned wider, threatening to swallow the last vestiges of anything resembling feeling. The debt was paid. The violence had changed nothing. Solved nothing. Filled nothing. He turned away from his father, away from the broken thing on the floor, away from the stench of his own actions layered over the agony of his betrayal.
He walked out of the chamber, leaving Lucifer standing over the wreckage. He didn’t close the door this time. Let the Devil deal with his own mess. Back through the corridor. Up the stairs. The club’s noise slammed into him like a physical blow as he re-entered the hallway. He ignored the bartender’s sideways glance. He moved through the pulsing dark of the main floor like a ghost, the damned instinctively parting before him, their eyes sliding away from the blood on his clothes, the utter desolation carved into his features. He pushed through the heavy main doors, stepping into the sulfur-tinged night air of the city street. He didn’t look back. He just walked, dissolving into the shadows between the streetlights, the vast, echoing silence inside him louder than any scream.