4

     When he sat inside the n*die bar, the hunger he felt wasnʼt satiated. No...it was there.

    Numb and depraved and filthy as it was.

    Seating himself in a red-leather booth just in view of an elaborately cheap stage, the music blared through the speakers and the lecherous women let out grins that only Lucifer himself could match. The heat inside the broken down warehouse was caged and then men that flashed these women cheeky smiles were thirsty. He smelled the arousal on their persons, and as he watched these humans – reduced to slobbering dogs desperate to quench a god-ridden thirst – he wept for humanity. 1000s of years of grueling work and history snuffed out like the flame of a candle because people were h*rny.

    Pathetic.

    "LADIES-AND-GENTLEMEN – DAEMONA KILLS!" an announcer screeched.

    Macbeth smirked.

    The fun was just getting started.

    "DAEMONA KILLS,"  the announcer repeated.

    Decarabia, Daemonaʼs birthname, was – by definition – a fallen angel who appeared as a star in a pentacle. In some religions, she the angel that fell from grace, a demonic marquess. A noblewoman of Hell. She was said to be the fallen angel that commanded legions upon legions of the damned in pursuit of protecting Hellʼs garnished prince, Lucifer, Godʼs most beautiful.

    If there was one thing humans got right, it was certainly Decarabiaʼs legacy.    

    Because every time he watched her move on that stage, he realized...

    There were no angels here. 

    And that was how he liked it. 

    She was to smirk at the audience, and when she got down in the way Macbeth was all-too-familiar with, she got down low.

    Decarabia churned her p*nty-clad body onto the platform, and the mahogany of the bar radiated on her pale skin. Her n*pples were clamped in a shiny silver hue, greedy eyes making her moves more sinful, more exposing, more revealing in the dim lighting – and as she shimmied to the front of the stage, she stomped her high heels and swirled her hips. There was a slight tinge of smoke in the air and the lights were like balls of fire.

    She spotted him with a sense of surprise.

    When she stared at him, ​the song pulsed through her, seared through her, and the adrenaline raged on...with anger.

    The feeling was mutual.

    As Decarabia watched the audience, tentatively, a fox emasculating hunger – her tongue coating her lips in gritty, fierce saliva. She teased herself, knowing he was watching, her hands hovering over her crotch while she palmed her breast slightly. Currency ravished her, men worshipped her, the music ebbed passed her fingertips like ink, and the work she put in grew more enthralling. Entrancing. 

    Her muscles rippled against her skin as she swirled, dancing shyly but provocatively. She danced like she was made of liquid s*x, and as Macbeth watched her graceful arches – his jaw hardened, his eyes grew dark and hooded, his mind numbed.

     The music pulsed through his ears again, the vinyl and leather draping the inside of the nudie bar. Macbeth faded with the color and the sound. Fresh from the dead, but slowly rotting. Blood splashed him in arcs, Picasso arcs, Mervyn Peake arcs, and he felt like he was buried in a graveyard. Sentenced to die again.

         And hell, he liked the disease.

    Smacking down a twenty on the stage, Macbeth curled his lips into a wry smile, staring up at Decarabia with hungry, sinful eyes. 

    He cleared his throat, staring directly at her. 

    "Miss me, love?"