She was tall. Not supermodel tall— intimidating tall. Hair the color of a raven’s broken dream, cut into a jagged bob. Skin pale as fresh parchment. Lips that looked like they’d been stained with blackberries. And her eyes… they were the exact shade of a shallow, sun-drenched sea—turquoise, warm, and utterly, terrifyingly human.
Lilith and I live in a renovated firehouse in Hoboken. It has a portal to Hell in the basement (great for storage, terrible for humidity). She still works for her dad, but she’s cut back to part-time. I still review fidget spinners, but now my audience is 40% demons, 20% bored angels, and 60% humans who just want to see if I survive the week.
I held up the empty spring roll wrapper. “She liked my snack?”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I whispered back. She was tall
“You’re the only one here not pretending,” she said. Her voice was a low, gravelly purr, like a vintage motorcycle engine. “No aura of desperation. No pleas to Asmodeus for a promotion. Just… calm. Stupid, blissful calm.”
Except for the tiny, delicate horns curving back from her temples. They were obsidian, flecked with gold.
Do not, under any circumstances, tell a pregnant demon princess that she is “glowing.” She will set your eyebrows on fire. I learned this the hard way. Twice. Skin pale as fresh parchment
BeelzeBubba (a pen name)
Look, I’m not going to write the smut. This is a romantic comedy, not a Penthouse letter. But suffice to say, there was fire. There was fog. At one point, gravity reversed for about ten seconds, and I have a scar on my left buttock shaped like a pentagram.
Never have a baby shower in Pandemonium. The gift registry included a crib made of petrified fear, a onesie stitched from the wings of fallen angels, and a pacifier that doubled as a soul-trapping device. My mom showed up. She brought a hand-knitted blanket and asked Lilith if she was “getting enough iron.” Lilith cried for six hours. They’re now best friends. Lilith and I live in a renovated firehouse in Hoboken
The next nine months—or ‘infernal trimesters,’ which are roughly 117 days each—were a waking nightmare.
Lilith craved things. Not pickles and ice cream. She craved the sound of a liar confessing, the last breath of a dying star, and, bizarrely, Cool Ranch Doritos. I spent three weeks negotiating with a goblin merchant in the Night Market of Dis to get a bag that wasn’t cursed. It was cursed. My tongue turned purple for a month.
“Lilith,” I said, pulling her close. “The only thing I regret is that I didn’t have a better spring roll to offer you.”