Chapter 8: The Discovery of Succubi
Nora woke to an empty bed. The silk sheets were still warm where Azazel had been lying, and the indent of his body remained pressed into the mattress beside her. She reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing the place where his chest had been, and felt the lingering ghost of his heat.
The bond hummed beneath her skin, quiet but insistent, like a second heartbeat.
She sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist. The chamber was bathed in that strange, perpetual twilight that seemed to define this realm—not quite night, not quite dawn. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, and somewhere in the distance she heard the low rumble of voices, the clang of metal, the sounds of a kingdom waking to its duties.
Azazel was already working. Of course he was. King of the Seven Circles didn't rule itself, and he'd probably been gone for hours while she slept like she hadn't a care in the world.
Not that she'd been sleeping peacefully. Her dreams had been filled with whispers—fragments of conversations in languages she didn't recognize, faces she couldn't quite make out, the sensation of being watched by something vast and patient and hungry.
Nora swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Her body ached in ways that made her cheeks flush, memories of the night before flooding back with embarrassing clarity. She wrapped herself in a silk robe that had been draped over a nearby chair—Azazel's, judging by the scent of him that clung to the fabric—and padded barefoot across the warm stone floor.
The suite was enormous. She'd noticed that before, in a haze of desire and exhaustion, but now she took it in properly: the high vaulted ceilings, the tapestries depicting scenes she couldn't quite parse, the windows that looked out onto... nothing. Just an endless expanse of swirling darkness, punctuated by pinpricks of light that might have been stars or might have been something else entirely.
She found a door that led to an adjoining chamber. Inside was a bathing pool, steam rising from its surface, fresh clothes laid out nearby. Someone had been here. Someone had prepared for her.
Nora hesitated, then shrugged. When in Rome—or, apparently, when in the seat of demonic power. She shed the robe and slipped into the water, letting the heat soak into her tired muscles.
Her mind wandered as she bathed, circling back to the conversation in the library—no, wait. There hadn't been a library conversation. She'd been thinking about... what? The mate bond. Azazel's confession. The Sins and their whispers of a Queen of Lust.
Lust had been kind to her. Nora remembered the demon vividly: opulently beautiful, radiating a warmth that felt almost maternal, guiding her through the initial chaos of arriving in this realm. It didn't match the image she'd built in her head of a Sin. Where was the malice? The hunger? The ruthless ambition?
Something didn't add up.
She dressed quickly in the clothes that had been left for her—simple black trousers, a loose-fitting tunic that felt impossibly soft, boots that molded to her feet like they'd been made for her. Everything fit perfectly. Everything felt like it had been chosen specifically for her.
Because it had been. Because she was important here. Because she was meant to be queen.
The thought made her stomach clench with something between excitement and terror.
She needed answers. She needed to understand what she was, what she was becoming, what role she was supposed to fill. And if Azazel was busy ruling his kingdom, well, she was perfectly capable of finding her own way around.
And where there were answers, there was usually a library.
---
Nora wandered through the citadel's winding corridors, her footsteps echoing on the black marble floors. The architecture was magnificent in a way that defied mortal comprehension—soaring arches that seemed to bend light around them, pillars carved with symbols that shifted and writhed when she tried to focus on them, doors that appeared and disappeared based on some logic she couldn't quite grasp.
Passages twisted in ways that shouldn't have been possible. She turned a corner and found herself in a corridor she was certain she'd already walked through. Another turn led her to a balcony overlooking an impossible vista—a city spread out below her, glittering with lights, filled with the distant noise of life.
She stopped, transfixed.
The city was vast, sprawling across terrain that seemed to fold in on itself, buildings rising and falling in impossible angles. She could see figures moving through the streets—demons of all shapes and sizes, going about their day-to-day lives like they were just ordinary people.
Which they were, she supposed. They were people. Just not human.
She'd grown up with stories of demons as mindless monsters, ravening beasts that existed only to torment human souls. But she'd been in this realm for barely a day, and already she'd seen a demoness blush when her companion whispered something sweet in her ear. She'd seen children—actual children—chasing each other through the corridors of the citadel. She'd seen all the messy, complicated, wonderful chaos of life.
These weren't monsters.
They were just... people.
Nora tore herself away from the view and kept walking. She passed a group of demons who fell silent as she approached, their eyes tracking her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. She ducked her head and quickened her pace.
Finally, she found what she was looking for.
The library doors loomed before her, massive constructs of dark wood and iron, carved with scenes of battle and triumph. She pushed them open and stepped inside.
The library was a labyrinth.
Towering oak shelves stretched into darkness above her, their tops lost in shadow. Cobwebs draped the corners, swaying gently as if stirred by a breeze she couldn't feel. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and something darker, something that reminded her of crushed roses left to rot in the sun.
But what struck her most was the whispering.
Books. The books were whispering.
She could hear them, just at the edge of her hearing, voices rustling like dry leaves. They spoke in languages she didn't recognize, but the cadence was unmistakable—conversations, arguments, confessions, all happening in a constant susurrus of sound.
A single candle burned on a reading desk near the entrance. This was apparently not a busy place. She walked the rows, letting her fingers ghost across spines.
"You."
The voice made her jump. She spun around, heart racing, and found herself face to face with an ancient demon—crone, she guessed, though demon biology was still outside her area of expertise. The woman had skin like cracked leather, deep red and woven with gold, and eyes that flickered with the same molten light as Azazel's.
"The queen," the crone said, her voice dry as old bone. "I wondered when you'd find your way here. The King said you were a bookworm."
"Did he now?" Nora tilted her head. "And you are?"
"Archivist. Librarian. Keeper of secrets." The crone smiled, revealing teeth that had been filed to points. "Whatever you need to call me, the books will answer."
"I need to understand what I am."
The crone studied her for a long moment, then gestured with one gnarled hand. "This way."
---
The crone led her deep into the stacks, past shelves sagging under the weight of tomes so old they seemed to breathe. The whispering grew louder, more insistent, and Nora felt something brush against her ankle. She looked down to find a thin volume pressing itself against her leg, its pages fluttering like beckoning fingers.
"Seems some of them already know you," the crone observed. "They can sense what you carry."
Nora bent down and picked up the volume. The leather binding was soft with age, and the title had been worn away. She opened it carefully, expecting ancient parchment and faded ink.
The pages were blank.
"Not for you," the crone said, taking it from her hands and returning it to the shelf. "Some secrets aren't ready to be read."
"What do you mean?"
"The books choose their readers, Queen. You don't choose them." The crone paused, amber eyes gleaming with amusement. "But if it's knowledge you're after, I have a feeling they'll be forthcoming."
They reached a reading alcove, tucked away from the main stacks. A heavy tome sat on the desk, its cover dark and unadorned. The crone gestured toward it.
"This one's been waiting for you for a long time."
Nora sat down and opened the book. The pages were covered in elegant script, the ink still dark and legible despite its age. She read:
On the Nature of Demonkind
Demons are not a singular species, though the mortal realms tend to treat them as such. They are as varied as the creatures of the physical world, thriving in environments suited to their particular natures, taking forms both familiar and strange.
The Sins—the seven Arch Demons who rule at the right hand of the Demon King—are the most powerful of their kind. They embody the very essence of the sin they represent, drawing power from its presence in the world. As the King rules the Seven Circles as a whole, so each Sin rules their respective domain, and the bond between King and Sin is both sacred and necessary.
When the King is complete, the Seven Circles flourish. When the King is incomplete...
The passage ended there, the handwriting trailing off as if the author had been interrupted.
Incomplete. Like Azazel, before her.
Nora turned the page and found a section on succubi. She read greedily, absorbing every detail. Succubi were rare—far rarer than the demon lords who styled themselves as such. They were creatures of desire, capable of stirring passions that bordered on madness. They could bend other demons to their will with a word, a look, a breath. Their power wasn't physical. It was deeper. Primordial.
And Arch Succubi were believed to be extinct.
Nora felt the words hit her like a physical blow. She traced the passage with her finger, her heart pounding.
The Arch Succubi were the original bloodline, drawn from the raw fabric of desire itself. They were created to serve at the side of the Demon King, the only beings whose power could match his without challenging him. But their pride was their undoing, and they were all but annihilated in the wars that followed.
Except one.
She turned the page so fast she almost tore it. More text, but this was written in a different hand—older, more careful, as if the author had been afraid of being overheard.
Sealed. Hidden. The last of her line, bound within a vessel of mortal flesh. The King searches for her even now, though he knows not what he seeks. She is the key to his completion. She is the instrument of his unmaking.
She is the Queen of Lust, and she does not yet know her own name.
Nora closed the book with a snap.
Her hands were shaking. She sat back in the chair, staring at the dark cover, her mind racing. Sealed. Hidden. A vessel of mortal flesh. She'd been born Nora Blackwood, witch, bookshop owner. She'd grown up with magic, yes, but normal magic. Kitchen magic. Life magic.
But her mother had always been strange.
She remembered her mother now, in fragments: a woman with silver eyes like her own, who spoke of things she shouldn't know, who had distant smiles and secrets she took to her grave. A woman who had never quite fit in anywhere, even among her own kind.
A woman who, Nora now realized, had probably known exactly what her daughter was.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. The crone was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't matter. She needed to find Azazel. She needed to tell him what she'd read. She'd always assumed her father's absence was what made her soul feel hollow, aching with loneliness she couldn't name. But maybe it was something else that was missing.
She was halfway to the doors when she heard it. A voice beneath all the others, clearer than the rest.
"Little queen."
She stopped. Turned. There, on a shelf she could have sworn she'd passed a moment before, sat a small volume bound in what appeared to be black velvet. It wasn't dusty. It didn't look old.
It looked like it had been waiting for her.
She approached it cautiously, her eyes wary. The book didn't move, didn't whisper. It just sat there, silent and patient. She reached out and picked it up. The cover was cool beneath her fingers, and she didn't open it. She wasn't sure she wanted to.
But she was here to learn, wasn't she?
Nora took a breath and opened the book. The pages were thick, cream-colored, filled with handwriting that looked almost familiar. She read, her lips moving silently, heart thumping against her ribs.
To my daughter
If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm sorry. I've been sorry since the moment I brought you into this world, wrapped in a mortal shell that could never fully contain what you are.
Everything in her went cold.
I've written this in the hope that you'll understand why I did what I did. Why I sealed away your power, why I hid you among the humans, why I let you believe you were just another witch with a talent for divination.
Nora's hands trembled. She kept reading.
You are not a witch. Not truly. Witchcraft was a guise I used to keep you safe. You are the last Arch Succubus, the destined Queen of Lust, and there are those who would kill you simply for existing.
But when you read this, you'll have found your way to the Seven Circles. Which means you've found your way to him. And that means you're already becoming what I tried to keep you from.
I'm sorry, my darling. I did what I thought was best. I hope one day you can forgive me.
Her mother's name was signed at the bottom. Nora stared at it through blurry eyes, reading and rereading that final line. It wasn't the words of a stranger. It was the woman who had kissed her scraped elbows and sang her to sleep, who had taught her that home was a place you could carry inside you.
And she'd kept this secret from Nora for over three hundred years.
She turned the page, expecting more. But the rest of the book was blank.
A door slammed somewhere in the depths of the library, startling her. She heard footsteps—sharp, hurried, coming toward her. She stuffed her mother's volume into her tunic, her heart hammering.
"Queen Nora."
The crone appeared out of the shadows, but she wasn't alone. Behind her stood a figure that made every instinct in Nora's body scream. Pale, almost iridescent skin, eyes that shifted between every color she'd ever seen, and a smile that was sharp enough to cut—Lust herself, opulently beautiful. She'd been kind earlier. She had. But now, standing in the dim light of the library, her kindness looked terrifying.
"Lust," Nora said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "An unexpected pleasure."
"No need for pleasantries, my queen." Lust walked past Nora, trailing a delicate finger along the spines of the books. Several seemed to shrink away from her touch. "I was nearby and sensed your fear. I thought I should check on you."
"I'm fine."
"Oh, I doubt that." Lust's smile deepened. "You've been reading forbidden texts. Touching the history of your own blood. Secrets best left buried, little queen. There are reasons we don't speak of the Arch Succubi."
Nora forced herself to meet those shifting eyes. "My mother wrote me a letter."
Lust's expression didn't change, but the air in the room seemed to get colder. "Did she."
"In this very library." Nora held her ground. "I want to know how it got here, and I want to know what you know."
Lust was silent for a moment, studying her like a fascinating insect. When she spoke again, her voice was different—less honeyed, more raw. "Your mother was a friend of mine. A long time ago. Before you were ever conceived."
"She sealed away what I am."
"She tried to keep you alive." Lust looked away, a strange emotion flickering through her eyes. "I was the one who brought you to the library. I was the one who made sure the letter was found."
Nora blinked. "You... what?"
Lust laughed, but there was no humor in it. "My queen, this world is full of enemies. You have precious few friends. I intend to be one of them, even if it costs me everything."
A cold pit opened in Nora's stomach. "You're the one who sent for Azazel."
"I told him you'd arrived. I told him you were ready." Lust's gaze bore into her. "I've been watching you for centuries, waiting for you to walk into this realm. And now that you have—" She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "—you need to know that not all the Sins share my hope."
Nora held her breath.
"Pride rules his domain alongside the King. Envy covets what he lacks." Lust closed her eyes, a sadness behind them. "And Wrath moves in silence, waiting for the moment to strike. I can feel the hunger there, and your presence has stirred their ambitions."
"Azazel keeps them in line," Nora said. But even as she spoke, the words felt hollow.
"He keeps the realm in line," Lust corrected gently. "His control extends far. But you're new. Untested. And your arrival has unsettled the delicate balance that kept the other Sins satisfied."
Nora took a shaky breath. The letter was heavy against her chest. "What do you suggest, then?"
Lust looked at her with something almost like pity. "I suggest you learn everything you can. And pray that Azazel is strong enough to keep you alive long enough to become the queen I know you can be."
The candle on the reading desk guttered and went out. A whisper ran through the books—a thousand voices tangled together. And Nora felt, for the first time, the weight of what she had walked into.