Demon Queened Ch. 02

"What?" The rabbit girl looked at me, at last. "Right - sorry about that. Got so distracted by your idiot sycophant of a friend there, that I-"

The rabbit cut off her speech, mid sentence. That was no surprise to me, considering I was lifting her by the collar. My dominant hand was still occupied by Abigail's grip, and I could not cast any spells while maintaining my illusion, so neither a slap nor a splash of water had been feasible. Instead, I had simply grabbed her with my left hand and dragged her toward me. Since I was slightly taller than the rabbit girl, we'd ended up with me lifting her in the process, something I hadn't intended to do. It was possible that I was quite a bit stronger than I'd thought I was.

Not that I cared at that moment. The bitch had just spoken ill of the closest thing I had to a friend.

"You may speak ill of me all you wish," I told her, my voice soft as a whisper but hard as steel. "The queen, the country, even Luci herself - all these are fair game before my eyes. But if you dare to speak another ill word about my companion you will find yourself wishing for the safety of the dungeons. And I don't just mean in my presence - if I so much as hear a whisper of a redheaded rabbit girl talking ill of a succubus, I will personally hunt you down. Understood?"

The rabbit girl nodded, fearfully. I let her go.

"Good. Now go."

She scurried away without even looking back at me, leaving me with a sense of deep self-satisfaction. That only lasted a moment, though; then I saw the shock on Abigail's face, and a rush of embarrassment consumed me as I realized just what I had done.

"I... Perhaps I went a touch far," I muttered, not able to meet her eyes. Truthfully, I hadn't known I had that in me. While I had always had a temper, as Devilla, I had always been a calm and well tempered individual as Jacob. Since my memories of being Jacob had tempered my personality so considerably, I had assumed that my fits of anger were all but gone. Apparently all that had shifted was the trigger.

"W-We should get going," Abigail told me. She was smiling, but it was obviously strained. "People are staring."

"...So they are." Indeed, several sets of eyes had locked on me during that little show and the area around me had grown quite quiet. The moment I noticed the staring crowd, however, everyone scattered and noise returned to our part of the ninety fifth floor.

"Come on," Abigail said, tugging lightly at my hand. "We're almost there."

"Almost there" turned out to be quite accurate. A mere moment later Abigail and I had come to a stop again.

"Home sweet home," Abigail told me. She was indicating a tall building, built of red brick. It was maybe five stories tall, which certainly made it one of the tallest buildings in the area. There was a flower shop on one side, and another apartment building on the other. A brothel by the name of "Demon's Desire" was situated across the street from it. In other words, it seemed like a rather nice neighborhood. I was pleased to know that I paid Abigail well enough to live there.

"Shall we go inside?" I suggested. "It would be good to begin cooking soon; I am quite famished." Indeed, with everything that had been happening, I'd skipped both last night's dinner and that day's breakfast.

"I don't know what you're expecting, but this is going to be a pretty simple breakfast," Abigail warned me, frowning. "I'm talking eggs and porridge. Maybe a ration of salted pork. Nothing fancy."

"Just the porridge will be fine, this time," I told her, honestly. "I do not wish to use up all your supplies." Actually, I'd be satisfied just knowing what sort of stoves they used, and how to utilize them. If they had an oven, I'd ask about that, too. I rather doubted they would, though.

"..." For some reason, Abigail was giving me a strange look. It seemed as if she had something to say, so I raised an eyebrow to indicate that she should get on with it. "This time?" she asked me. "Don't tell me you're planning to do this again?"

"Of course I am," I told her, blinking in surprise. "One does not learn how to cook in a single lesson, after all."

Abigail stared at me for another long moment, and then let out a long sigh. Still holding my hand in one of hers, she used the other to turn the knob and then proceeded to drag me inside. It was even darker within the apartment building than it was "outside" but, as I had predicted, the absence of light did absolutely nothing to impede my vision. Abigail didn't seem particularly bothered by it, either, leading me past several doors before stopping at a door just in front of the stairwell.

"Just a moment," Abigail said, "I'll unlock it." Despite saying this, she did not reach into her dress for a key, but simply closed her eyes and grabbed hold of the handle. Since any halfway decent magic user could shift the inner mechanism of a lock, most demon's didn't bother with physical keys or even keyholes, preferring instead to use a combination style locking mechanism, with the dial hidden inside the knob to prevent others from seeing anything. Indeed, a moment after Abigail grabbed the knob there was a soft "click," and Abigail was able to push the door open.

"Abigail?" called a voice. "Is that you?"

"M-Mom?!" Abigail called back. Her cheeks had grown pale, and her eyes were wide as dinner plates. "Wh-what are you doing up this early?"

"Oh, I had a late night at the brothel, dear," the voice replied. "I was planning to make myself something to eat and head to bed, actually. But what are you doing here? Don't you have work, today? You didn't get fired, did you, dear?" The owner of the voice came into view with that question, stepping out of what I assumed to be the kitchen and peering curiously at us. She had long, wavy brown hair cascading down to her waist and pitch black eyes. She was well endowed, much more so than Abigail, with breasts you could bury your face in. Probably a D-36, about, if I had to guess? Her ass was pretty big, too, more than big enough to fill the average person's palms. She was wearing a backless red halter top, and a black skirt. She looked to be in her late twenties, or maybe early thirties, but judging by her conversation with Abigail I doubted that either was actually the case. Judging by the black leathery wings that stretched out behind her, she was a lesser succubus like Abigail. That meant her lifespan was almost as long as... Well, mine, I supposed.

"I didn't get fired, Mom," Abigail promised, scowling a little. "I... I got told the queen didn't need me today. And then I ran into my friend Eena, who'd. Been uh. Begging me for lessons on how to cook. So we came back here to make some porridge, and-"

"Porridge?" Abigail's mother asked. "You're going to teach your friend how to cook porridge? I can't imagine she doesn't know at least that - wouldn't you be better off teaching her something like your onion soup?"

"We're going to start with porridge, mom," Abigail insisted. "Trust me, Eena will have a hard enough time with that."

"Really now?" The mother's eyes were on me, now. Just like when her daughter stared, her eyes seemed to see straight into my soul. "You can't even cook porridge?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs...?"

"Bevola," she told me with a smile. "Just Bevola. I don't have anything so fancy as a last name, I'm afraid. And I'm not married, besides."

"Bevola, then," I said, wondering whether I should drop into a curtsy. It was technically a big deal for the queen to even so much as lower her head, but I was pretending to be a commoner right then. She might think me rude if I didn't... Then again, the disguise had mostly been for the sake of getting through the city. It was probably best to at least let my host know of my true identity. "I fear I must apologize, though, for a small deception. You see, I'm actually-"

"Very hungry!" Abigail interrupted, digging her nails lightly into my palm. "She's incredibly hungry, and she's been trying to hide it 'cause... You know. Rude, much? But I guess I've kept her waiting long enough. Porridge time, right Eena?"

"...Yes." I nodded, slowly, understanding what she wanted from me. I could even guess why she wanted it. Meeting that rabbit girl had driven home how people saw me. Including Abigail, no matter how much I wished that wasn't the case.

"I will make delicious porridge," I vowed, turning my attention back to Bevola. "So may I ask that you please wait for sustenance until you can consume it alongside us?"

"My, someone's quite the flirt," Bevola teased, letting out a high pitched giggle. "And such formal language, too. Did you pick that up working as a maid? Or perhaps my girl made friends with the daughter of a general, or some such?"

"Today I am simply Eena," I replied, sidestepping the question with a small smile. "A simple girl, with a simple wish: to learn how to cook. Since your daughter is being kind enough to teach me, the least I can do is feed you after, yes?"

"Well don't go burning the porridge, in that case, you hear?" Bevola responded. "I'm hoping to eat something delicious, today, after that little speech of yours."

"You have my word." I bowed my head, ever so slightly, trying to strike a balance between who I was and who I was pretending to be. "Now - I believe the kitchen is this way?" I started walking toward the room Bevola had left behind. Abigail, still holding my hand, had little choice but to follow. Once we were in the kitchen, however, I grabbed her wrist and forcefully took my hand from hers. It had started to feel rather less like the hand of friendship, and more like a parent's grip of restraint on a wild child.

"So this is where the magic happens?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. It was indeed the kitchen we had entered, so far as I could tell. There were cupboards and cabinets on one wall, alongside counters and drawers. A basin was set into the counter. It had a drain, but no faucet, leading me to wonder where the water was coming from. There was a metal contraption in the corner that I assumed to be the stove. It was a square thing, standing on four thin legs, with a flat top and a door in front.

"Magic?" Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "It's. Where we do the cooking? I mean, I guess you're technically doing magic right now, but usually it's more about. Like. Chopping and heating things?"

"...Of course. How silly of me." I didn't feel like explaining the saying, so I simply let it go. "You said you would teach me how to make porridge, yes?"

"That's right," Abigail confirmed, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out a large iron pot. "It's pretty simple, actually." She moved to open a drawer, pulling out a long metal ladle. "You really need only one ingredient."

"One?" I asked, honestly confused. Oats, of course, were the main ingredient of porridge. Water, however, was undoubtedly essential as well. I still wasn't sure where she was going to get it, either.

"All you need to do is take a pot, like this one..." Abigail placed the black pot on the stovetop, and smacked it lightly with the spoon. "Then you grab some oats..." She moved to a cabinet, pulling out a big burlap sack. It seemed to be something of a struggle for her to lift, so I bent down and casually picked it up.

"How much do I add?" I questioned her, moving over to the pot.

"For three people? About four cups should be more than enough. ...Though I guess you don't know how much a cup is, just eying it, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. "I think I can manage..." And in went the oats. It wasn't a precise measurement, of course, but it seemed close enough. "Now what? You said that was the only ingredient, yes? You can't mean to say that you simply cook it like this...?"

"It'll burn in an instant if you try," Abigail promised me, a faint smile on her lips. "I meant it's the only ingredient you need to have on hand. We conjure the water." Saying so, Abigail held the palm of her hand out toward the pot. In response, a ball of water appeared, growing steadily bigger. When she had what I thought was close to a cup's worth, she let the water drop into the pot, where it landed with a resounding splash.

"There," Abigail said, with a smug smile on her lips, "...We're gonna need to do that about nine more times, but since there's really only so much water in the air it takes a bit of time to gather it all."

Gather water from the air? Was she referring to moisture in the atmosphere? It was true that you'd find a bit of it, there, but the tower didn't feel particularly humid so I couldn't imagine there was too much of it. If I waited for her to make another nine cups like that, it was going to take a while... Then what if I used a different method?

"May I try filling it?" I asked her, stepping forward. I dropped the illusion I was wearing without asking for her response; I could always put it back.

"Huh? Uh. Sure. But it'll still take a bit - like I said, there's only so much water in the air..."

"Yes, that's true," I admitted, unperturbed. It was indeed a fact that one would find only so much moisture in the local atmosphere. But why did I have to restrict myself to what was local? Letting my power flow out of the room, and into the apartment as a whole, I drew water toward myself. Slowly, a ball of it began to form, growing bigger and bigger. When it was the required size, I let it drop into the container with a loud splash.

"How did you...?"

"Demon queen secret," I replied, trying not to laugh. I'd really only used brute force to solve the problem, in the end, but I saw no reason to clue Abigail in on a feat she wouldn't be able to repeat.

"Right... The Rite of Insight. I guess it really did give you the wisdom of your ancestors, didn't it?" Abigail nodded to herself, seeming convinced. "Alright, well. Now that we have the water, we just need to set the fire..." She opened the door I'd noticed on the stove, revealing an empty space where wood would no doubt go. "There's wood under that cabinet," she said, indicating one near me. "Can you get some for me?"

"Of course," I readily agreed, bending down to the cupboard and peering inside. There were four logs inside, and I grabbed the smallest one. "Though... wouldn't it be better to simply create a magical flame for the duration of your cooking? It wouldn't burn wood, and you would have better control of the temperature."

"Most people don't have enough magic power to cook an entire meal with it, Eena," Abigail pointed out, sounding exasperated. "I don't think I'd even be able to keep up an illusion spell like you were, earlier. And you should conserve whatever you have left for the road back." She reached for the wood, as she spoke, but I pulled it back and tossed it back into the cupboard.

"Nonsense," I told her. "I'm sure wood is expensive - and you are not giving my magic capacity the credit it is due, besides. Tell me when to stop growing the flame."

I pictured an ember, floating in the space beneath the stove, and it appeared. Then, ignoring Abigail's slackjaw stare, I began to slowly increase the size of the flames.

"Th-that's enough!" Abigail called, quickly, once I had a ball of flame about twice the size of my fist. "That's more than enough. Do you think you can keep it up for five minutes, or so? We need to let it boil, and then reduce the heat."

"No problem," I promised her, stepping closer to the pot so that I could peer inside. "I'm fairly certain I could keep this up for days." Indeed, despite the last hour's constant expenditure of magic, I couldn't say I felt much of a dent in my magic power. I was either recovering my magic faster than I was using it, or I simply had an unimaginably large capacity. It was quite possibly a bit of both.

"Is everything going alright in there?" came Bevola's familiar voice.

"M-Mom! We're fine! Don't come in!" Abigail called back. She sounded a touch panicked.

"Don't come in? Now you've really got me curious," Bevola teased. I could hear her footsteps coming closer. "You wouldn't happen to be preparing something special for your old mother, would you dear?"

"I told you! I'm just teaching D-Eena how to make porridge!" Abigail insisted. "W-we haven't even gotten it to a boil yet, so there's no point in you coming in! Just take a nap or something!"

"I'll nap when I want to, dear," Bevola said, entering the kitchen. She walked up to the stove, standing besides me and peering curiously at the open door. "Why, you haven't even put the wood in yet, have you?" she accused, frowning. "And you're talking about bringing it to a boil... What's wrong with you?" She moved over to the cupboard, pulling out a small log and carrying it back to the stove. This she dropped inside, and lit with a spell of her own. "There. Now it should start cooking properly," she declared, closing the oven door.

"Honestly, my dear," she added. Looking at me, "you should have had me teach you instead."

"Maybe you can teach me my next recipe," I said, with a faint smile on my lips. I had of course dropped the fire spell in order to restore the illusion from before.

"You drop by sometime when Abigail isn't here, and I just might," Bevola promised, trudging back out of the kitchen. "Now get along you two! I look forward to the food you cook."

"A-Alright mom," Abigail agreed. She waited until her mother had left the kitchen before sneaking a glance at me. "Thanks. For the quick thinking."

"It's hardly a problem," I replied, cooly. "Though with the wood already burning, I'm afraid there's not much I can do to put it out other than drenching it with water. If you're alright with it, I'll simply concentrate on managing the size of the fire."

"That's fine."

I gave a small nod, and opened the door to the stove again so that I could focus on managing the flames. For a few moments, other than the sound of the crackling fire, the room was silent.

"...Your mother doesn't like me, does she?" I phrased it as a question, but I was fairly certain I was right.

"Huh?" Abigail blinked, surprised. "No, she likes you fine. I mean, she's been practically flirting with you since you got here, y'know?"

"The real me," I corrected. "She does not like Queen Devilla. Does she?"

"Oh." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Abigail looked at everything in the room except me. Then her eyes met mine and she spoke. "My other mother was a soldier, in your mom's army. She died when I was a baby - fighting in the war."

"And your mother blames me?"

"No. But..." Abigail let out a long, slow sigh. "She does think you've wasted mother's sacrifice."

"I see," So that's how it was. I couldn't precisely say that Bevola was wrong. It was almost certainly my fault that demonkind hadn't made any progress since the last war.

Without anything to say, on either side, an uncomfortable silence settled on the room. I did nothing but stare at the fire, keeping it controlled, while Abigail nervously poked the toe of one foot at the floor and glanced over her shoulder occasionally to see if her mother was coming back.

"Alright," Abigail said, at last. "The water's started to boil, so you should lower the heat down to about a fifth of where it's at right now, and then start stirring the porridge."

"You want me to be the one stirring it?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn't as if I particularly minded; I simply thought that I'd tease her a little, to lighten the mood.

"Hey, you wanted to learn how to cook , right? You put in the oats, and most of the water, plus you're controlling the flame. If you do the stirring, I'll be willing to publicly state that you know how to make porridge."

"And what would the tower think if they found that their powerful and bratty queen knew how to cook a commoner's meal?" I demanded, placing my hands on my hips.