Jahima was starting to get suspicious.

  Ever since she took in Luka, who shone like the sun and smiled like he had no idea he was in the dregs of Hell (which he probably didn't), Jahima had been impressed. She refused to admit that, of course, but she had to admit that it was useful having a young boy like him around the house. He'd clean the house every morning: fluffing up the pillows, scrubbing and mopping and dusting away the cobwebs but letting the spiders hop onto his palm before leaving them outside on the dying grass. He'd cook the most delicious meals Jahima had every tasted—spicy rice with the most incredible curries, boiled potatoes with juicy, delicious chicken. Jahima didn't even know potatoes could be boiled so perfectly.

  And yet he did all of this without complaint. Not even a sigh of protest when she'd order him to make her some coffee (black, because Hell didn't have the energy or the tastebuds for something sweeter), do her laundry. Once she even watched him water the dying grass. Not that it grew—the conditions in Hell were far too harsh for the plant—but he did it anyways, humming that stupidly sweet song with his stupidly wonderful voice.

  There were rules, of course. Luka was not allowed to leave the house. Was not allowed to open the door for anyone except Jahima. Was not allowed to speak too loud or communicate with anyone who wasn't Jahima. And he followed all these rules perfectly. Jahima wondered if he was used to solitude—surely not, though, with beauty to rival the angels up in Heaven and a smile that lit up her shabby old cottage.

  And it was on one of these fine days that Jahima was conveniently in the market, conveniently buying fresh veggies for Luka to magic into something delicious when the market hushed. It was so convenient, just like in a movie or a book where the main character or one of the side characters is in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. This was one of those times.

  "Why not hit the bar first? They have wonderful dancers, if I do say so myself." a handsome, dark-skinned man chuckled.

  "... Sure. Why not."

  Jahima nearly dropped her bags. Was that... Prince Djoser? Son of Satan? Leader of Hell's First Legion, the Legion that had come so close to infiltrating the gates of Heaven?

  And yet it was him, in the flesh and bone, right down to the very scar across his eye. Djoser was walking down the street with his dark skinned friend, as though he'd be able to walk through these streets without attracting stares. Like he was another common demon. Djoser looked like he'd be anywhere else in the world, but still he followed his dark-skinned friend through the winding cobblestone streets.

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  "Come on, Djoser, lighten up! The Winter's Ball is the occasion of the decade!" the handsome man scolded his friend. If Jahima was 30 years younger and a lot more stupid, she was sure she would've taken a chance at flirting with the golden-eyed man.

  "Why should I, Sipho? The Winter's Ball comes around. I have no companion. The rumours start, then they go away." Djoser merely rolled his eyes, pausing to clinically examine beads the claimed to ward off holy spirits, while the man behind the stall looked like he would faint.

  "Yes, but the King did insist! And besides, you have the best wingman in the kingdom! I know the best places to go—the pretty ones, the smart ones, the smart and pretty ones—"

  "But what makes you think you know who I'd like?" Djoser easily interrupted.

  Jahima didn't realise she was following the pair until she nearly tripped over a loose branch that had fallen from one of the many dead trees. She immediately busied herself by examining pure gold watches and ignoring the preening vendor. She could feel Sipho's eyes on her back, flicking towards her for a moment, then away again, dismissing her just on stereotype. After all, what would an old woman do to a powerful demon like Sipho, let alone the close companion of the prince?

  Sipho paused before responding. "I'm know you'd prefer someone shorter than you, but only slightly so that in certain moments you could be assertive with your height." Sipho paused, for thought or dramatic effect Jahima couldn't tell. "But in all honesty everyone's a full head shorter than you. You're built like a Yeti—OI!"

  Jahima fought a snicker, knowing that Prince Djoser had probably thunked his companion on the head with his fist. She turned subtly, angling herself towards the pair but still next to the vendor with the gold watches.

  "Someone who is innocent. You wouldn't find that very often here in hell, but there is a minority of people who... are not as educated as you and I."

  Jahima could see Djoser raising an eyebrow. Was he... impressed?

  "Someone unusual, not only in the looks department, but personality-wise too. Smart, but not on the usual matters. Who finds joy in little things, not large, grand efforts. Who would see you as a proper demon; not a prince, not a rich bastard living in Satan's castle."

  "Correct."

  Jahima could have exploded right there and then, because nothing could stop the small smile on Djoser's lips. He looked like a lovestruck idiot, not a prince who supposedly had a heart of ice.

  "There we go. See? You have to trust your best friend. And who knows - I bet you we'll find someone to fit your requirements, you picky—OW!"

  Jahima snorted before disappearing into an alleyway, already forming a plan.

  She didn't notice Sipho's golden eyes trained on her back. Nor did she notice his small, satisfied smile.