In the beginning, I'd wanted something a tad too idealistic: to usurp the throne and make Hell a better place. Funny, I know, but the more I'd learned about this plane, about freewill, the more I'd hated the iron fist my father used to control his spawn and their ilk. Two years later, however, and my attempts to raise an army had been crushed.
These humans weren't mindless peons of the 'other side'. Sure, they were weaker and more easily swayed than any demon or angel I'd met, but to turn them into some magical zombie army to fight and do my bidding? I couldn't do it.
The begging always got to me. Begging for life from the lowest of the low – beggers, prostitutes, drug dealers, runaways – I couldn't understand it. I was going to give them purpose. How could they possibly want this existence instead? It took me a year to realize that it, along with everything else, was their choice. Minions may have wanted to choose, but that wasn't a viable option. I couldn't look at them the same anymore, and I wouldn't murder them either.
Word of my existence on this plane moved fast, and the big bad guys here found me. Offered me a job. Seemed I wasn't the only non-human walking around free. And while I had only killed a half dozen people, these other planar denizens, well, they weren't executing any sort of restraint.
So I became a mercenary, an assassin. Faster and stronger than just about anything out there, my name drifted to darker circles and light. I did not lack for employment, and after the heads, my clients didn't care what I did with the bodies.
Nothing makes a better mindless soldier than the undead.
And nothing builds them faster than blood magic.
The pain had been temporary, an explosion of liquid fire, but ash turned to mud, and in my hands, the mud took form. Higher and higher, I piled my special clay. A pinch here, a curve there, separate and smooth, and voila, an imp! Darkness reborn.
I leaned back and admired my handiwork. "Not bad." Crossing my arms, I spat upon the sculpture. "Speak."
"Master..." The word slipped from its mouth, a small grating noise like sandpaper against steel.
"You are mine."
"Yes," it hissed.
"You belong to me."
"Yes."
"It needs wings." I looked over my shoulder, and Alida sat on the island, legs swinging slowly over the edge. "And you need more practice with binding."
I ignored the jab. "You should be sleeping."
"Sleep is a crutch." She smiled, but it was forced, disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.
Something small and wet touched my hand. I glanced down. The imp licked me again. "I need to finish this, Alida. You know what'll happen if I don't."
"You aren't happy to see me?"
I cringed at the uncertainty in her voice. What had happened while I was in exile to make my sister so weak? I sighed. Ritual just wasn't going to happen now. I stroked the imp's back, and it squealed, then exploded in a puff of dust. "I'm always happy to see you. It's been two years."
"Twenty," she corrected.
"Two," I repeated, "here on Earth."
Her violet eyes narrowed. "Twenty, trying to live under Father's anger and expectations."
What was I supposed to do? Apologize again for a lifetime of sibling rivalry and estranged relations with our father? I buried my head in my hands. "I can't change that. I can't make that pain go away, but we can't talk about this now." I stood up and stared at the mess at my feet. "Dawn's coming, and we need to not be here."
"You're just like him."
I looked up at her and shook my head. "I'm nothing like him."
She shrugged. "Murder, imps, death...explain how you're not like Father."
A familiar grate started in my head. "I don't have time for this, Alida."
She slid off the island. "I'm sorry, Nat. I'm just..." She shook her head and walked over to me. "It's been a long day."
I sighed as I pulled her against me, my arms wrapping gently over her back. She started to cry, tears burning through my shirt. Her shoulders trembled and shook, and she slid her arms around my waist. I could feel her marks burn along my skin, but I just held on to my little sister.