Anarkhos is a hellhound. Hound’s are ferociously loyal, accomplished, though unacknowledged, abstract reasoners and prowl a sticky middle-ground between dead and alive. Their IC recycled from the dead, without passing the filter of resurrection, they are grey-gods. Anarkhos is about the size of a leopard. His skull is a disconcerting mix between dog and wolf. The most intelligent and absolutely unruly of Cerberus’ many litter, Hades prevented his breeding. Or so Hades knows. Hades branded the hound Anarkhos, or anarchy, announcing a warning to the damned that he walked untamed. Proof of the hounds sensibility, Anarkhos vanished from history. Romantics prosed he awaited a kindred with which he would walk in companionship as opposed to servitude.

The romantics were right. For over two decades Morax watched Anne veiled in thin ribbons of chilly fog from his estate's stronghold towers wondering perhaps if it were the devil for his soul. In a way it was. The evening he gave up, the breaking point when it had become that his only pleasure was the end of his day and he despised the breaking morning, he opened the gates and allowed Anarkhos entry. Long before he opened them to Gremory.

Anne's muscular frame restlessly stalked the small space and occasionally with a nasty, crooked smirk of fangs Anne would lunge a foot forward with a theatrical growl to jolt their prisoner playfully and spark appreciative, lopsided grins from Marc.

Marc was Morax's mortal name, or, Morax was Marc's demonic agnomen depending on which direction one views the man-monster dichotomy. Mortal he'd had the heavy set brow, jawline and profuse hairiness of a well testosteron seasoned wildling best trotted backwards at risk of berserker. Well aged, like a vinegary wine, before reaching damnation the thin skin of his eyelids was folded into hoods and smudged with broken capillaries. He had a large, and with a certain shrugging pride, repeatedly broken nose and his cheeks sank, concaving beneath his cheekbones. Salt and pepper bristles dropped into jowls and his skin had a sun-touched grittiness which gave the impression a densely compacted sediment of four hundred years worth of up swept earth was residing in his pores.

The thing most notable about Marc's appearance though was that he was rather large. In fact, this is the first thing you will notice about the larger percentile of male demons of higher noble families, for the following reason.

Once damned, son and therefore specie of Gremory, Marc, like Gremory, was magnified an additional third the size of the average human. This enlargement is at cause of House Gusoyn of Lucifer who were, and are, time-space independent genetic architects and who operate to make humanity’s thought-up prototypes reasonable.

The Darwinian Oath states that damned species must have a specialisation which allows them to thrive in obtaining their food source. Marc and Gremory’s specie, and several hundred like them, eat humans. Much easier to design than demons which consume fuzzy, theoretical substances such as anxiety or digitalised bank balances. Superpowers are always an option but requires a lot of genetic recoding and pose an economic risk to witches and so are used sparingly. The simplest way was to up, and insert a few new varieties of growth factor hormones during transition.

House Gusoyn is composed exclusively of rather stunted republican males and entirely failed to write anything practical in for the females of the specie. This led to several gender uprisings resulting in over one hundred and fifty check boxes for gender identity on standardised application forms, the stake burning of House Gusoyn, the unsuccessful prohibiting of the colours pink and blue at the turn of the twenty third century and the establishment of Haagentii Foods Inc.

Cotton rolled at his upper arms, sinewy muscle, clothed in crepe paper wrinkled skin, visibly rose and tensed as by fist-deep grappling Marc freed his subject's denser, encapsulated body of muscle. Clean cut rings above the heel. At the center back of the calves, up the thighs, meeting where on a human or most damned there may have been an anus.

Absently rolling a thin cigar bare trapped between his teeth, dusting the smooth expanse of trembling shoulder blade with clumpy grey ash, he mused dotingly that the incisions were in line up with where a woman's suspender seam should rest.

By an unconscious awareness of the technicalities of his own set up he clocked his position and his gaze dropped to a free-standing shaving mirror he'd propped several inches from his subject's head. He'd hung a beaded rosary of a plastic amber against it's fingerprint marred surface so the crucifix lay where his own eyes would be reflected for his subject.

He plucked the cigar from his unshaven mouth and blew a chastising stream of smoke to strike, puff and disperse where a pair of rust coloured eyes reflected in the aluminum encircled glass.

“I was considering how we might use our time t'gether t’ broaden your existing range of experience. I’ve never asked, but, I can' imagine many archangels, have experience with the dildo”

He turned to pick something from a metal tray behind him “T’ clarify, this point is an adaptation, fuckery, impalement, not normally so keenly twinned. That” a hollow, metallic knock echoed around the cement walls “is copper. Heat conduction. Plus as a toy I think it makes it rather handsome and look, angel, it even expands. Mechanically correct although not normally at those angles."

Aye, but how he chose to entertain himself in his personal time on an unofficial killing with no record was his choice. 'Sides, twas handsome, he liked copper.

"Theory over. We'd've had an anatomical barrier to slice our way through before the practical” the young boy, a traitor to the seraphim and a weak link in house Agares cried silently up at Marc who smiled charmingly down and clapped the boy on the shoulder "But I have 'ne the appetite 't deflower ye, son."

Marc's iphone let out a piercing electronic double beep in the otherwise relaxed hush on the instrument table on the bed's other side. The boy dropped Marc's eyes and began jerking mainically to look wide-eyed at the phone's lit LCD surface like a lobotomised and tortured animal. With a metallic clatter designed to tear the startled scream from the lad, Marc knocked back from the table, circled it, snatched a squat tumbler of several fingers of scotch and plucked his phone.

New Message: Lewis

News articles popped onto the screen each head bumping the last as their semi-translucent buffering throbbers clock-worked excitedly.

Gremory & Morax. Its another Girl! The Sentry. Twenty first of October.

My Witch, says Lucifer, at Pandemonium. The Omen. Twenty first of October.

Debut Bedlam. Nobel Descendants Called. The Sovereign. Twenty first of October.

EXCLUSIVE FOOTAGE: Morax's Cub. She's a WRECK! D!Online.da/d_news

A Royal Baby! Who is Faith? PopSulphur.com.da/celebrity

Faith HUMILIATES Morax. Communion Chaos EXPOSED. BlazeMagazine.co.da/News

New Message: Lewis

We've got spawn!

A sharp, shattering of glass reverberated around the cold room.

"Hm" Marc's lips rolled in tightly on a dry smile and he gazed unseeing at the scotch and broken glass in his upturned palm. Faith.

"Fates. Pluck reflexively from favourite nouns" He'd rename her. Find a way to do it which didn't offend 'er. Make her think it was her idea. Faith. Motherfuckers.

Marc propelled his cigar bud to the floor grinding it into the concrete with his boot heel. Lucifer. The fucking press had seen her before he had. Lucifer'd leaked to 'em for the sheer celebrity of spotlighting the last called nobel of his association and one of Houses Gremory and Morax no less. Lucifer'd bate revolution and anarchy from the outrage over Verrine and Mammon by feeding the salivating dogs' pathetic celebrity culture junkie.

For him. She was for him. The fuckers weren't worthy of her. The surreal slap to the moment of his woman finally live and ripe for him flashed in Marc's mind followed by a certain wrath. Tabloids. Fucking tabloids. Her image in rags. He'd lock 'er away. It'd spike the beggars more. Demand her that calibre of queen until she embodied it enough to demand it herself. Demonstrate her complete singularity to the shit-streaked throngs. She'll ney be your whore, Lucifer.

Mm, aye. Lucifer. Never did 'av a witch before. Catherine's the most independently powerful witch known and she tapped no higher than Beelzebub, though her house, House Gremory, was of Astaroth, deity of the witches. Marc moved a coarse finger back and forth over his lips feeling a zap of excitement up his spine.

What would that be like? If the kid had his temper she'd be a pistol.

A full, genuine smile cracked the doughy, slack and stubble coated skin over his jaw. Aye.