The Hellhound Duke [Part1/2]

Chapter 1

Asa

In the past few decades, Ester and I have grown to prefer dining alone, as opposed to the lavish, press-ridden banquets that most other Royals in Purgatorio flock to. That's not to say that we, of all people, don't like the press, but it gives us some time to sit together and organize our thoughts in quiet, to figure out what things to sign today, stamp tomorrow, and set down in the future. I've come to deeply enjoy these moments of peace away from my work, as sparse as they've become in recent years.

That doesn't mean I don't like my job, or even other people; three centuries of discourse can easily over-season a social palate and food is something I've tried not to taint with the salt and spice of politics. It's an uphill battle, though. Despite my best efforts, I don't always win in the end. Especially when the politics are about me, and she isn't hungry for my excuses.

"You have sauce on your muzzle," she says, her mustard-colored eyes quickly scanning the pages of the magazine. Her thin, feathery elbows rest on the round glass table, her stout black beak buried in the ink.

The signature swirling letters of the 'Purgatorio Press' insignia at the top are dark red against white and the brown subheadings around it are too small to read from where I sit. The massive black headline is enough for me to guess at what they're saying, though: 'Unprecedented! Royal Council Rules 9-8-1 In Favor of Brighton Act'

Aside from the faint whirring of the ceiling fan above slowly moving the heavy air around the dining room, it's dead quiet. You could cut the tension with a butcher knife.

"Thanks, dear," I reply, lifting the red silken napkin to my face and dabbing the black fur around my thin lips. After the dust settled from the meeting at the royal council earlier today, I'm surprised she's sitting at the same table as me. "What's the latest gossip?"

"Every creature in the Underworld's talking about the bill, Asa," she roars, hardly letting me finish my sentence. The short white feathers around her neck shake in anger as she folds the magazine over and tosses it in my tortellini. "I still can't believe they passed the damn thing. Tenor didn't even know what it was for when it was brought forward. Satan should've overruled it."

"We can appeal it tomorrow. I've already scheduled it," I remind, lifting the sauce-covered magazine. A pasta shell falls back onto the ceramic plate as I splay open the pages.

The first few articles are pure slander; 'How could such a hot coalfur be such a lukewarm politician?' Yikes. I make a mental note to consult Tenor about his journalists' language. "It's not the first time something like this has happened. Besides, everyone knows he's never cared about politics."

"He's a Duke," she leans over and takes the paper back, setting it on the floor. "It's his job, dammit. And it's a stepping stone to a whole lot of other trouble, especially for your people."

I frown, sitting back in my chair and resting my hands in my lap. "You know I hate it when you say things like that. 'My people'. Implying that I make all the decisions and their local councils don't do anything."

"If you talked to the public more and left the mansion once in a while, maybe you'd have a majority there."

"We haven't had the local majority in decades, Ester," I remind her, knowing I don't have to. If anything, she's more in touch with that side of the coin than I am nowadays. "Lucifer's made sure of that. Even if I did, half the royal council is against us. I'm far too busy and have far too much dignity to start bribing and asking for favors."

"You don't have to do everything, you know," she says, sipping her now-cold espresso. "Hand over the restaurants to someone else like I did with my duties instead of trying to run the whole circus yourself. Become more of a political figurehead instead, like Tenor or Lucifer. You can still work, darling."