A Demon's Name Upon Your Lips, page 1
Contents
title page
legal
dedication
Epigraph
Prelude
Movement First: The Rising Star of Fallmire
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
Movement Second: A Season of Honor
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
Movement Third: Lies of the Heart
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
Movement Fourth: A Fleeting Glimpse of Paradise
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
Movement Fifth: The Single Path Beneath Your Feet
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
Movement Last: The Weight of a Name
XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
Coda
acknowledgements
about the author
content warning
synopsis
A Demon’s Name
Upon Your Lips
A Sapphic Romance of Melodia
By Madeline Konrad
Copyright © 2023 by Madeline Konrad
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Cover by Queen_Zora (instagram).
First edition 2023.
ISBN 979-8-9894759-0-2
contact the author
toot.lgbt/@madikonrad (mastodon)
madi-konrad.tumblr.com (tumblr)
madi.konrad@skiff.com (email)
A comprehensive content warning may be found at the end of this ebook, one page before the synopsis
To Lynette, who loved me first.
And, to Chris. Without them, this novel would not be.
The Lion, the Butcher, the Snake
Had a vengeance they plotted to take
But the Summoner’s daughter
Her vengeance burned hotter
And her Demon, their bodies did break
—Pallian Commonwealth tavern verse
12th century A.C.
(Anno Calamitatis, in the year of the Calamity)
Prelude
It is commonly thought that the deadly court intrigues of the Pallian Monarchy died with that institution. They did not. From the Royal Palace, they merely relocated down the street to the newly-raised Parliament House …
—A History of the New World, vol. 3: The Pallian Isles, by Elias Neumann
A.C. 1286
February, A.C. 1121
(sixteen years previous)
“So, we are agreed?”
It was night. Mute stars shone down from a clear sky as Inquisitor Henry Lindell awaited the answer to his question. Across from him, her eyes still turned towards the stars and the thin crescent of the greater moon, the Marchesa Gianna Forteza lounged upon the divan in sparkling evening wear, wineglass—as always—not far from her lips. She had the curious skill to always appear completely relaxed, no matter the context.
Of course, Lindell mused, there was no reason to think she wasn’t, in this moment. This was her home.
The steady pounding of the General’s boots behind Lindell betrayed the man’s nervousness; evidently, he felt much more out of place. General Hawthorne was no socialite—far from it. He was at home on the battlefield, not the dinner table. But Lindell wasn’t worried on his account. Out of the three of them, Hawthorne was the most committed to their cause. After all, he was the one to propose it.
Lindell knew the General’s nickname now widely circulated among the country’s papers. If reports from the war were to be believed, General Hawthorne had fully earned the moniker ‘Butcher.’
The Marchesa stretched, then took another sip of her wine. “The plan is good,” she said. “I’d be able to move within the week, if need be.”
“I was thinking two,” Lindell said. “Antonin is expected to make an appearance at the Prime Minister’s spring debutante ball. That should be an appropriate venue, no?”
There was a squeak of boot against wood as Hawthorne turned to Lindell suddenly. He snorted, then said, “I never took you for a theatrical sort, Inquisitor.”
Lindell managed to keep from rolling his eyes. “The larger the audience, the greater the impact.”
“Did you devise that maxim yourself?” the Marchesa said, eyes still on the stars.
He didn’t rise to the bait.
Hawthorne walked between Lindell and the Marchesa, resting his arms on the railing and raising a cigar to his lips. “I’d hate to face you on the field, Inquisitor. You’ve a damn cruel mind for strategy.”
Lindell knew a compliment when he heard it. He bowed his head and said, “Likewise.”
Hawthorne snorted.
“Well, from how I heard it, we have come to agreement,” Lindell said. It was always better to be direct. “I will forward key details to you by letter. I shall endeavor to keep potential incrimination to a minimum, but it goes without saying—burn every letter you receive from me as soon as it is read.”
“I wasn’t born out of sight of the Calamity, you know,” the Marchesa said. She wore her pride on her sleeve; Lindell had heard a story that she once galloped into battle at the head of her famed mercenaries, decades ago. He would not be surprised to discover such a rumor was true.
Lindell looked to Hawthorne. The General met his steady gaze, and then gave a slight nod.
“Very well.” Lindell rose, dusting off his plain shirt and bowing shortly to both of his co-conspirators. “Dare I say, in two weeks time we shall have the head of Antonin Lovelace.”
Movement First:
The Rising Star of Fallmire
… In figure, Antonin was a tall and slight man, his height only subtly lengthened by the application of the hangman’s rope. It is strange to note, but the Author believes it must be said, that Antonin’s trade-mark look of eternal surprise still rests upon his face. It will doubtless do so until his body returns to the dust. It is an expression enough to force the sympathetic to question whether Lovelace truly was deceived by his fellows as he claimed … Now, only the dead god may know the truth …
—The Black Harbor Times, Morning Issue
March 25, A.C. 1121
I
May, A.C. 1044
(ninety-three years previous)
The castle was burning.
The succubus Lucia coughed, shouldered her way beneath the fallen timbers of the dining room, and cursed her luck.
“Fucking Dralkian mercenaries,” she said, and then, “What kind of sick mind fills a pie with fucking gunpowder?”
Blood soaked the carpet. Lucia tried not to pay much mind to the broken bodies strewn across the room. They included her summoner, a wisp of a man whose upper half now lay beneath another burning timber. He wasn’t moving, and she could sense none of the burning lust within him that had filled his living days.
He was dead.
“The kind of mind trained to kill demons.” The voice slithered through the recently shattered dining room window. Lucia couldn’t see its owner.
Well, he had her there. Despite her predicament, she was impressed by the raw audacity of the plan. It was a feeling that dueled against her frustration at another demonic contract ended before it could be fulfilled. What, was this the third time in a row? Rotten luck.
She rushed towards the shattered window and grabbed a small poker from the ground, thrown there from the blast and still glowing a faint red. It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do at the moment.
Reaching out through her demonic senses, she felt the hot red anger thrumming through her attacker and she stoked his fear in response, desperate to drown the fire of his emotion with frozen, chattering cowardice. He was no mere mercenary, no. He was an Inquisitor. She doubted her demonic powers would be effective. But she would try.
The weight of the poker was satisfying in her hand. She stumbled as another timber collapsed beside her, trailing red hot sparks.
He was outside, training a musket upon her as she struggled to make it to the window.
“You can’t kill me, idiot!” she called out. At least she had enough run-up to jump dramatically through the window, glass shattering outwards as she landed on the green. The cool air of the night was a welcome relief.
She charged the inquisitor. He raised his musket, but she ducked under the bayonet and swatted his face with the steel rod. There was a satisfying thwack as it branded his face.
The man cursed and stumbled back. Lucia advanced. She wouldn’t have much time left in this world—not with her contract having failed so spectacularly—but she’d be able to vent her frustration.
T
She felt it before she heard it: a syllable of power dripped from his mouth to bind her. Her legs locked up, and she fell onto the grass as her true name emerged from his lips. A spike of fear, an emotion she encountered so rarely these days, shot through her gut.
Pain lanced through her form as the inquisitor continued to utter her name and bind pain within her being.
She had been a fool. But how in the world had he discovered her true name—discovered what she had only revealed to … ?
By the dead god. She failed to stifle a groan of pain as the man continued to torture her. The milliner’s face rose before her mind’s eye, and if she could spit right now, she would. Idiot, foolish girl, that milliner. Lucia’s body seized up as the inquisitor continued his work.
Never trust a mortal. Truly, she should have never told a soul, mortal or profane. No matter how pretty that soul was.
And then, all at once, the pain ceased. Lucia blinked open her eyes, and saw a long splinter of smoldering wood impaling the man through his gut. Blood bubbled at his lips as he slumped to the ground.
She stood, picked up the bayonet and leaned on it, then finished the job by sticking it through his throat.
“Asshole,” she grumbled. She looked around at this royal mess. The castle was truly an inferno, now.
She would almost miss this place.
A whirl of motion, a flash of pain blooming across her forehead—stars, redness—and then …
Darkness. One all too familiar.
The Abyssal Dream yawned all around her. All sensation drained from her as her demonic spirit was wrested from the body that had been conjured for it.
Silence reigned. All was still, except for the demon’s whirling mind, which settled upon one singular emotion:
Fuck.
***
If she had a body right then, she would have let out a long, frustrated sigh through her nose. As it was, her soul floated in nothingness, a warm soup of darkness that was the demon’s waystop between mortality and death.
She’d actually been killed, or her mortal body had. That inquisitor, damned by the dead god, had taken her out. He’d won.
He’d won, and what made it worse, it was right when her demonic contract was about to be completed. Which meant no payout for her, no rush of power enlarging her spirit, nothing. All that work, and she was no more powerful than before.
That’s … what? The third failed contract in a row? I’m getting bad at this.
She simmered in anger for an age. Time did not really have any meaning here. Minutes might have passed since her body was killed … or decades. But she could not hold onto her anger forever, no matter how hard she wished to. It dissipated into the void that surrounded her after a while, after several heartbeats that might have been centuries.
It wasn’t fair, but there you go. The life of a demon was far from fair. She’d do better next time.
Time, in its turn … passed.
***
February, A.C. 1137
(present day)
Time … passed …
And then it didn’t.
Lucia felt a summoning, a small tug upon her soul.
Another was summoning her. They did not bind her by her true name—thank the dead god—so she had the ability to answer the summons willingly as she chose. Her mind quested down the line of the summoning, sensing the person who was calling out for her.
Each summoner was different, and this one … ooh.
Lucia couldn’t say why, but this person smelled intriguing. It wasn’t a literal smell, but she had no other way to describe it. It was sharp, a blade of focused emotion. It was the dead god’s fury itself.
Whatever contract they offered would be brimming with power. Enough power to make up for three failed contracts, certainly.
She quickly made her decision; not that quickness had any meaning here, admittedly. And, as she did, she made a promise to herself. By the fucking dead god, this will not be like the last time. Or the time before that, or the time before that …
She sped along the connection, ready to re-enter the human world, the terrible, wonderful realm which mortals named Melodia. That’s where all the fun was to be had, after all.
The raw matter of her body phased into existence, and she began to shape it to her liking. She wondered again at the summoner’s ritual: it seemed oddly detached from this process, letting her take the reins. Almost deliberately so, which was unusual—especially for a succubus. She sculpted her body quickly, wondering once again how to fit all the little organs in, the stomach, intestines, kidneys, and … that other thing, the small organ tucked beneath the liver, whatever it was called. Anyways, those she crammed together viselike, forming the drying hip bones as a basket around her sloppy work. It would have to do, since even—
Appendix. It was called an appendix.
She half wanted to leave the damn thing out entirely. It would certainly make fitting everything else in down there more convenient. And did she really need it?
Then, with a snap, her immortal spirit lashed itself fully to her nascent body. Like a bucket of cold water, her creation splashed over her, then solidified quickly into a truly mortal form. And this time, a thick black dress materialized around it.
Lucia’s summoners remembered to clothe her … oh, maybe half the time. If she was being generous.
She alighted on the stone floor and looked around. Now this was a proper dungeon. Torches guttered along the walls, and she could feel the place’s moist dampness settle against her skin beneath the thick dress. She was grateful for the garment; it warded off the underground cold. A dripping noise echoed through the space, completing the pitch-perfect ambiance.
Outside, the sound of rain fell like a blanket, with the din of a busy city street nestled beneath it.
Not a lot of people managed even half of this. Lucia was suitably impressed. The only thing missing would have been the squeak of rats, though the succubus couldn’t honestly say she minded.
“Truly excellent,” she said, the words slipping out before she realized she had a voice again.
The summoner snorted. The intriguing smell of fury Lucia had sensed originated in a tall, broad-shouldered woman, eyes flat and steel gray. Her dark hair was cut short in a military style, and indeed, her dress was probably some kind of understated military uniform. Brass buttons marched down her chest in two regiments on black cloth, above pants of the same material. She wore brown, sensible boots, and held a truly ancient grimoire open in her left hand. The woman’s eyes moved over Lucia’s form, calculating, assessing. Her left hand rested on a short cane that came to her hip.
Lucia side-eyed the grimoire. Some things never change.
Finally, the woman spoke. “Have you a name, demon?” Her voice was soft, though unyielding.
“Have you?” Lucia’s voice tasted the air again and found it sweet.
“Yes,” the woman said, and she walked around the inscribed summoning circle, her eyes never leaving Lucia’s.
The succubus waited for her to elaborate, but then quickly got bored of the staring contest. “What year is it? I’m sorry, you never can tell how long it’s been between summonings. A thousand aeons and you’d think the Abyssal Dream might get a proper calendar,” she raised her hands in exasperation, “but no.”
The woman’s eyes raised, intrigued and bemused. “It’s eleven thirty-seven, in the year of the Calamity, if that means anything to you.”
Lucia shrugged. Almost a century had passed, it seemed. Cool.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” said the succubus, gesturing to the torches, the stonework. “Really makes a demon feel appreciated, you know?”
She could feel the woman’s brow furrow, her step pause. “Thank you,” she said. “Or rather, thank this suite’s previous owner. This was all him.”
“He has good taste. Or had? Whatever. Tell me, what is your darkest desire, mortal?” She wagged her eyebrows.
