I looked over the puppy playroom where this year’s litter of hellhounds played. Their mother, Berenice, lazed happily at my feet. I’m sure she’s happy for a break from her broad. This time, it was a large litter; I don’t know if I will risk subjecting her to that again. She had done well anyway, with three healthy litters in her lifetime to help preserve the species. Two of her children were even part of the rewilding program that one of the other kennel club members started.

  Berenice was the finest example of the breed to come out of my kennels. Her fur was black as void, and her eyes the bright, fiery blue that symbolized power in the hellish dimension. My father was the only demon with such eyes as the King. Still, amongst the other creatures of hell, it worked more like silverbacks amongst gorillas.

  This litter was even more unique, though. My niece would be picking her very own hellhound from amongst these pups. She had shown a love for the breed since she could toddler, and it warmed my heart to see the next generation taking an interest. To the average, ordinary demon, keeping hellhounds was akin to maintaining tigers in the human world. And I wouldn’t act like it didn’t come with its dangers, but hellhounds were loyal and intelligent creatures. They were much more like elephants. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you; they won’t. Treat them with the respect and decency you would any other intelligent creature.

  I helped rear every hound in my kennel over the last six hundred years; they knew and trusted me. It took time, and it took effort. Most people, demon or human, didn’t have the patience. But I think little Josephina does, and I was excited to nurture that skill here. Even if it did mean an unfortunate amount of time with my brother.

  I reached down and scratched Berenice between the ears. Josephina will pick her pup, and then a few were earmarked for other breeding and rewilding programs. That would leave the rest to stay at the kennel, destined to become spoiled and run around the fields on my estate. “They’re in good hands, girl. Have some you time.” I ordered her. “I’ll be back later. I have an appointment.”

  Berenice gave a soft arf in acknowledgment, stood up, and went to curl up in her bed. I stopped in with the kennel hands to speak shop, then back into my manor. It was standard architecture for hell, carved with shiny black stone with tall, peaked towers. The towers were opened at the top to encourage airflow during the day to cool it, while the black stone absorbed heat to keep the incredibly chilly, hellish nights out.

  There weren’t many perks that came with being a prince of hell. In fact, it was mostly downsides. One of the benefits was the easy access to fae teleporting magic. Mine was in the form of a room of doors, each one able to magically be configured to a location I needed. I walked up to the one with a map of the Mediterranean. I pricked my finger and pressed the pin into a small town near Florence.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  The clock above the door snapped to the local time. Just after nine in the morning. Just enough time to make it to the gallery without spending too much time in Florence. It was nothing but a city of bad memories.

  ~*~

  It was a self-portrait. I recognized it as soon as I came across the image online. Chiara preferred other subjects, perhaps because her talents could not capture her perfection. I remembered watching her paint this one in the late summer, the year before her…death. I snuck into her studio every day to watch her squeeze in the last bit of painting she could before the sunlight died. This one was covered with the soft orange of the late afternoon sun. It was a casual portrait, her blond hair in loose curls around her round face. She was smiling. My heart ached for that smile.

  “Signore?” The art dealer was a small, mousey man. I didn’t give him a last name. The check I sent with my appointment request was enough for him to clear the small gallery. It was more than this place probably made in a year. “I was shocked to hear someone so interested in this piece.”

  “I’m incredibly fond of the artist.”

  “The artist is unknown.”

  “The artist’s name was Chiara di Salvini. She was born just outside of Florence in [DOB].” I hummed as I pulled out a wad of cash. “How much do you want for it?”

  “I’m sorry, signore?”

  I dropped the stack into his hand. He struggled to hold it. “It’s three hundred grand, USD. Is that enough? I can get more.”

  “N…no, signore, it’s perfect.” The man looked around nervously. “Petro! Come quickly, pack the unknown-“

  “The Di Salvini.” I corrected. The little man looked at me.

  “Yes, of course. Come pack up the Di Salvini, Petro.”

  ~*~

  "6 Bricks of Brimstone, 8 bundles of Dried Blood Nettle, and finally, three pounds of locus flowers." I listed off as I laid each ingredient on the picnic bench on Fuller Farmhouse porch.

  "Were these named to sound like plants that grow in hell?"

  "When you have a theme, why not run with it?" I asked with a shrug.

  Beatrix nodded. She looked amazing in the setting sun. Her hair was messily held up with a clip, rainbows from a suncatcher dancing off her brown skin. She was dressed casually, in sweatpants and a tank top. There was a little bit of paint on her elbow. I didn't know she painted, but I knew the marks of an artist at work. Bossy, loyal, artistic. I had a type, and that type always was ridiculously inappropriate.

  "I'll charge these all to your account. I arranged the special orders to be delivered as well." I smiled softly. I should go before the lighting makes me say something stupid. Then she turned to look at me with those big brown eyes, and the light hit them just right, and all I could do was stare.

  She looked puzzled. I could hear the blood rushing to her face as it reddened. Her heart skipped a beat. "Is there something wrong?"

  I swallowed, almost painfully. I didn't realize how dry my throat had gone. "Paint on your arm."

  She examined her arm until she found the spot. "Oh, thank you, Prince Ashpar." She smiled again.

  "No problem. Good night, Ms. Fuller." I rushed away so quickly that I almost didn't hear her own goodnight.