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As the procession continues, I witness a succession of souls exchanging their eternal essence for fleeting desires—wealth, power, fame. Each transaction leaves a hollow ache in my heart, a deepening realization of the lengths to which mortals will go in pursuit of their desires.
But the next petitioner leaves the deepest impression on me—a frail old man, his eyes brimming with sorrow. "I seek happiness," he murmurs, his voice tinged with longing. "I lost my dear wife six months ago. Grant me true joy and contentment by bringing her back to me, and I willingly surrender my soul."
My heart thumps loudly in my ears as I wait for Mammon's reply. The weight of the old man's words hangs heavy in the air. For a moment, a flicker of sympathy softens Mammon's features, betraying a depth of understanding that transcends his demonic nature.
"Happiness cannot be bought or traded," Mammon replies, his voice tinged with a rare hint of compassion. "And your wife cannot be resurrected, even if I agreed, because her soul did not pass through this Hell realm. She is in her rightful place." He points a taloned finger toward Heaven.
The old man's shoulders slump in resignation, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"Trading your soul will not bring back what you have lost," Mammon continues, his tone gentle yet firm. "What you seek cannot be found in this realm, only within yourself."
The old man's gaze hardens, his voice trembling with bitterness. "You are a demon. What do you know of honor?"
Mammon's gaze meets the old man's unflinchingly. "More than you may realize," he replies quietly. "I need to understand the depths of mortal desires to understand the consequences of sacrificing one's soul. Happiness is finite, which is why it must be treasured. Your happiness now lies in the enduring strength of your memories of your beloved wife until you, too, join her in your rightful place."
With those words, Mammon's resolve remains unshaken, a testament to the enigmatic depths of his nature—a demon bound by duty yet touched by a glimmer of understanding for the frailty of human desires.
My throat tightens. My husband is a demon who has spent a millennium listening to and studying humans—could it be that some of their humanity has rubbed off on him without his knowledge?
Knowing Mammon will not change his mind, the elderly man departs, leaving behind a sense of melancholy that lingers in the air.
Hours pass as I sit quietly, watching people appear and disappear, having relinquished their souls. My heart is heavy with conflicting emotions. I'm fascinated and repelled at the stark contrast between human desires and the profound emptiness that accompanies the pursuit of greed. As I observe them barter their essence for fleeting reward, I understand why Mammon wanted me to see this.
Sometimes, the light spills into the dark, and vice versa. It's the perfect metaphor for us, for our relationship. My demon husband is a part of the darkness, but it doesn't mean he's without light. I've lived in the light, but it doesn't stop me from being drawn to his darkness.
Ying and yang. Life and death. Heaven and Hell. One cannot exist without the other. The universe requires balance. The question is, can Mammon and I be part of that balance?
Chapter Seven
Penelope
I stir as I'm lowered gently to a soft mattress. I blink my eyes open, and Mammon comes into focus.
"Did I fall asleep?" I ask drowsily.
"Yes," Mammon replies, rubbing his thumb against my cheek before sucking it into his mouth. "Mmm, hellfire hotcakes. My favorite."
I wrinkle my brow. "What are hellfire hotcakes, and why are they on my face?"
"Fluffy pancakes infused with fiery spices from the depths of the underworld, topped with a drizzle of lava syrup. And you face planted the refreshment table when you fell asleep. It's my fault. I didn't account for how the atmosphere of The Below would affect you. You'll feel tired and lightheaded for a few days until you acclimate."
"Where are we?" I ask, turning my head on the pillow.
"In our bedroom in The Below."
"Looks like a negative of our house in The Above," I murmur, taking in the dark woods and heavy drapes, a contrast to our bright, ultra-modern home in the mortal realm.
"Everything is the same apart from the decor," Mammon murmurs as he straightens. "Go back to sleep. I'll return when it's time for dinner."
I snag his taloned hand as he moves away. "How do you do it?"
Mammon pauses, fixing me with his scarlet gaze. He knows what I'm asking. "It's what I was created for. It's all I've known."
"Created by whom?"
"Lucifer."
"You're as much a prisoner as I was," I say softly. "Is that why you give them a chance to change their minds? To realize their mistake?"
